WITH BEATSON'S HORSE.
[Sidenote: _The Crimea._]
The Crimean War is an affair of the last generation; thirty years'
distance has given it a certain perspective, and assigned its proper
rank and place in the panorama of the nineteenth century. Estimates
of its importance, of course, vary; while one man would vindicate its
_péripéties_ on the plea of being the first genuine attempt to develop
the European Concert, to create an International tribunal for the
discouragement of the modern revival of _La Force prime le droit_,
and for the protection of the weak minority, others, like myself,
look upon it as an unmitigated evil to England. It showed up all her
characteristic unreadiness, all her defects of organization. It proved
that she could not _then_ produce a single great _sailor_ or _soldier_.
It washed her dirty linen in public, to the disgust and contempt of
Europe; and, lastly, it taught her the wholly novel and unpleasant
lesson of "playing second fiddle" (as the phrase is) to France.
Considered with regard to her foreign affairs, this disastrous blunder
lost us for ever the affection of Russia, our oldest and often our only
friend amongst the continentals of Europe. It barred the inevitable
growth of the northern Colossus in a southern direction, and encouraged
her mighty spread to the south-east, India-wards, at the same time
doubling her extent by the absorption of Turcomania.
The causes which led to the war are manifold enough. Some are trivial
enough, like the indiscreet revelation of Czar Nicholas' private talk,
talk anent the "Sick Man," by the undiplomatic indiscretion of the
diplomatist, Sir Hamilton Seymour. Others are vital, especially the
weariness caused by a long sleep of peace which made England, at once
the most unmilitary and the most fighting of peoples, "spoil for a
row." The belief in the wretched Turk's power of recuperation and even
of progress had been diffused by such authorities as Lords Palmerston
and Stratford de Redcliffe, and, _en route_ to the war, I often
heard, to my disgust, British officers exclaim, "If there ever be a
justifiable campaign (in support of the unspeakable Turk!) it is this."
Outside England, the main moving cause was our acute ally Louis
Napoleon, whose ambition was to figure arm-in-arm in the field with
the nation which annihilated his uncle. But he modestly proposed
that France should supply the army, England the navy, an arrangement
against which, even now, little can be said. Here, however, our jaunty
statesman stepped in; Cupidon (Lord Palmerston), the man with the straw
in his mouth, the persistent "Chaffer" of wiser men that appreciated
the importance of the Fenian movement, the opposer of the Suez
Canal,[1] the Minister who died one day and was forgotten the next,
refused to give up the wreath of glory; and, upon the principle that
one Englishman can fight three Frenchmen, sent an utterly inadequate
force and enabled the French to "revenge Waterloo." French diplomatists
were heavily backed against English; a nervous desire to preserve the
_entente cordiale_ made English Generals and Admirals (as at Alma and
the bombardment of Sebastopol) put up with the jockeying and bullying
measures of French officers. And the alliance ended not an hour too
soon.
After French successes and our failures the _piou-piou_ would cry
aloud, "Malakoff--yes, yes; Redan--no, no;" whereto Tommy Atkins
replied with a growl, "Waterloo, ye beggars!" And the English medal
distributed to the _troupier_ was pleasantly known as the "Médaille de
Sauvetage." At the end of the disastrous year '56 England had come up
smiling, after many a knock-down blow, and was ready to go in and win.
But Louis Napoleon had obtained all _he_ wanted, the war was becoming
irksome to _his_ fickle lieges; so an untimely peace was patched up,
and England was left to pay the piper by the ever-increasing danger to
India.
After the disastrous skirmish with the Somali at Berberah, it is no
wonder that I returned to England on sick certificate, wounded and
sorely discomfited. The Crimean War seemed to me some opportunity
of recovering my spirits, and, as soon as my health permitted, I
applied myself to the ungrateful task of volunteering. London then
was in the liveliest state of excitement about the Crimean bungles,
and the ladies pitilessly cut every officer who shirked his duty. So
I read my paper about Harar before the Royal Geographical Society,
and had the pleasure of being assured by an ancient gentleman, who
had never _smelt_ Africa, that when approaching the town Harar I had
crossed a large and rapid river. It was in vain for me to reject this
information. Every one seemed to think he must be right.[2]
Having obtained a few letters of introduction, and remembering that
I had served under General James Simpson, at Sakhar, in Sind, I
farewelled my friends, and my next step was to hurry through France,
and to embark at Marseille on board one of the Messageries Impériales,
bound for Constantinople. Very imperial was the demeanour of her
officers. They took command of the passengers in most absolute style,
and soundly wigged an Englishman, a Colonel, for opening a port, and
shipping a sea. I was ashamed of my fellow-countryman's tameness, and
yet I knew him to be a brave man. The ship's surgeon was Dr. Nicora,
who afterwards became a friend of ours at Damascus, where he died
attached to the French sanitary establishment; he talked much, and
could not conceal his Anglophobia and hatred of the English. The only
pleasant Frenchman on board was General MacMahon, then fresh from his
Algerian campaign, and newly transferred to the Crimea, where his
fortunes began.
It was a spring voyage on summer seas, and in due time we stared at
the Golden Horn, and lodged ourselves at Missiri's Hôtel. The owner,
who had been a dragoman to Eöthen, presumed upon his reputation, and
made his house unpleasant. His wine, called "Tenedos," was atrocious,
his cookery third rate, and his prices first rate. He sternly forbade
"gambling," as he called card-playing, in his house, private as well
as public; and we had periodically to kick downstairs the impudent
dragomans who brought us his insolent messages. However, he had
some excuse. Society at Missiri's was decidedly mixed; "bahaduring"
was the rule, and the extra military swagger of the juveniles,
assistant-surgeons, commissariats, and such genus, booted to the
crupper, was a caution to veterans.
At Stamboul, I met Fred Wingfield, who was bound to Balaclava, as
assistant under the unfortunate Mr. Commissary-General Filder, and had
to congratulate myself upon my good fortune. We steamed together over
the inhospitable Euxine, which showed me the reason for its sombre name.
The waters are in parts abnormally sweet, and they appear veiled in a
dark vapour. Utterly unknown the blues, amethyst and turquoise, of that
sea of beauty, the Mediterranean; the same is the case with the smaller
Palus Meotis--Azoff. After the normal three days we sighted the Tauric
Chersonese, the land of the Cimmerians and Scythians, the colony of the
Greek, the conquest of Janghiz and the Khans of Turkey, and finally
annexed by Russia after the wars, in which Charles XII. had taught the
Slav to fight. We then made Balaclava (Balik-liwa, "Fish town"), with
its dwarf fjord, dug out of dove-coloured limestones, and forming a
little port stuffed to repletion with every manner of craft.
But it had greatly improved since October 17, 1854, when we first
occupied it and formally opened the absurdly so-called siege, in which
we were as often the besieged as the besiegers. Under a prodigiously
fierce-looking provost-marshal, whose every look meant "cat," some
cleanliness and discipline had been introduced amongst the suttlers and
scoundrels who populated the townlet. Store-ships no longer crept in,
reported cargoes which were worth their weight of gold to miserables,
living
"On coffee raw and potted cat,"
and crept out again without breaking bulk. A decent road had been run
through Kadikeui (Kazi's village) to camp and to the front, and men no
longer sank ankle-deep in dust, or calf-deep in mud. In tact, England
was, in the parlance of the "ring," getting her second wind, and was
settling down to her work!
The unfortunate Lord Raglan, with his _courage antique_, his
old-fashioned excess of courtesy, and his nervous dread of prejudicing
the _entente cordiale_ (!) between England and France, had lately died.
He was in one point exactly the man _not_ wanted. At his age and with
one arm and many infirmities, he could not come up to the idea of Sir
Charles Napier's model officer under the same circumstances, "eternally
on horseback, with a sword in his hand, eating, sleeping, and drinking
in the saddle."
But with more energy and fitness for command he might have deputed
others to take his place. A good ordinary man, placed by the folly of
his aristocratic friends in extraordinary circumstances, he was fated,
temporarily, to ruin the prestige of England. He began by allowing
himself to be ignobly tricked by that shallow intriguer, Maréchal de
Saint Arnaud (_alias_ Leroy). At Alma he was persuaded to take the
worst and the most perilous position; his delicacy in not disturbing
the last hours of his fellow Commander-in-Chief prevented his capturing
the northern forts of Sebastopol, which Todleben openly declared were
to be stormed by a _coup de main_; and allowed Louis Napoleon, in
the _Moniteur_, to blame England only for the _lâches_ of the French,
after the "last of European battles fought on the old lines," etc. At
Inkermann, where the Guards defended themselves, like prehistoric men,
with stones, Lord Raglan allowed his whole army to be surprised by the
Russians, and to be saved by General Bosquet, with a host of Zouaves,
Chasseurs, and Algerian rifles. No wonder that a Russian general
declared, "The French saved the English at Inkermann as the Prussians
did at Waterloo, and all Europe believed that France would conquer both
Russia and England, the first by arms and the second by contrast." The
"thin red line" of Balaclava allowed some national chauvinism, but that
was all to be said in its favour, except that the gallantry of the men
was to be equalled only by the incompetency of their Chiefs.
I passed a week with Wingfield and other friends, in and about
Balaclava, in frequent visits to the front and camp. A favourite
excursion from the latter was to the Monastery of St. George, classic
ground where Iphigenia was saved from sacrifice. There was a noble view
from this place, a foreground of goodly garden, a deep ravine clad with
glorious trees, a system of cliffs and needles studding a sandy beach,
and a lovely stretch of sparkling sea. No wonder that it had been
chosen by a hermit, whose little hut of unhewn blocks lay hard by; he
was a man upwards of sixty apparently, unknown to any one, and was fed
by the black-robed monks. At Kadikeui also I made the acquaintance of
good Mrs. Seacole, Jamaican by origin, who did so much for the comfort
of invalids, and whom we afterwards met with lively pleasure at Panámá.
The British cavalry officers in the Crimea were still violently excited
by reports that Lord Cardigan was about returning to command; and I
heard more than one say, "We will not serve under him." And after
a long experience of different opinions on the spot, I came to the
following conclusion:--The unhappy charge of the "Six Hundred" was
directly caused by my old friend, Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars. An
admirable officer and swordsman, bred in the gallant Austrian Cavalry
of that day, he held, and advocated through life, the theory that
mounted troops were an overmatch for infantry, and wanted only good
leading to break squares and so forth. He was burning also to see the
Lights outrival the Heavies, who, under General Scarlett, had charged
down upon Russians said to be four times their number. Lord Lucan
received an order to take a Russian 12-gun battery on the Causeway
Heights, from General Liprandi, and he sent a verbal message by Nolan
(General Airey's aide-de-camp) to his brother-in-law, Lord Cardigan,
there being bad blood between the two.
Nolan, who was no friend to the hero of the Black Bottle, delivered
the order disagreeably, and when Lord Cardigan showed some hesitation,
roughly cut short the colloquy with, "You have your commands, my Lord,"
and prepared, as is the custom, to join in the charge. Hardly did it
begin, than he was struck by a shot in the breast, and, as he did not
fall at once, some asked Lord Cardigan where he was, and the reply
came, "I saw him go off howling to the rear." During the fatal charge
Lord Cardigan lost his head, and had that _moment de peur_ to which
the best soldiers are at times subject. He had been a fire-eater with
the "Saw-handles," and the world expected too much of him; again, a
man of ordinary pluck, he was placed in extraordinary circumstances,
and how few there are who are _born_ physically fearless. I can count
those known to me on the fingers of my right hand. Believing that his
force was literally mown down, he forgot his duty as a Commanding
Officer, and instead of rallying the fugitives, he thought only of
_sauve qui peut_. Galloping wildly to the rear, he rushed up to many
a spectator, amongst others to my old Commander, General Beatson,
nervously exclaiming, "You saw me at the guns?" and almost without
awaiting a reply, rode on. Presently returning to England, he had not
the sound sense and good taste to keep himself in the background; but
received a kind of "ovation," as they call it, the ladies trying to
secure hairs from his charger's tail by way of keepsake. Of course he
never showed his face in the Crimea again. The tale of this ill-fated
and unprofessional charge has now changed complexion. It is held up
as a _beau fait d'armes_, despite the best bit of military criticism
that ever fell from soldier's lips: "_c'est beau, mais ce n'est pas la
guerre_," the words of General Bosquet, who saved the poor remnants of
the Lights.
At head-quarters I called upon the Commander-in-Chief, General Simpson,
whom years before I had found in charge of Sakhar, Upper Sind, held by
all as wellnigh superannuated. He was supposed to be one of Lever's
heroes, the gigantic Englishman who, during the occupation of Paris,
broke the jaw of the duelling French officer, and spat down his throat.
But age had told upon him, mentally as well as bodily, and he became
a mere plaything in the hands of the French, especially of General
Pélissier, the typical Algerian officer, who well knew when to browbeat
and when to cajole. "Jimmy Simpson," as the poor old incapable was
called, could do nothing for me, so I wrote officially at once to
General Beatson, whom I had met at Boulogne, volunteering for the
Irregular Cavalry then known as "Beatson's Horse," and I was delighted
when my name appeared in orders. Returning to Constantinople, I called
upon the Embassy, then in summer quarters at Therapia, where they had
spent an anxious time. The gallant Vukados, Russianized in Boutákoff,
a Greek, who, in the nineteenth century, belonged to the heroic days
of Thermopylæ and Marathon, and who was actually cheered by his
enemies, with the little merchant-brig the _Wladimir_, alias _Arciduca
Giovanni_, had shown himself a master-breaker-of-blockades, and might
readily have taken into his head to pay the Ambassador a visit.
I looked forward to a welcome and found one; a man who had married
my aunt, Robert Bagshaw, of Dovercourt, M.P., and quondam Calcutta
merchant, who had saved from impending bankruptcy the house of
Alexander and Co., to which Lady Stratford belonged.
Nothing quainter than the contrast between that highly respectable
middle-class British peer and the extreme wildness of his surroundings.
There were but two exceptions to the general rule of eccentricity--one,
Lord Napier and Ettrick with his charming wife, and the other, Odo
(popularly called "O don't!") Russell, who died as Lord Ampthill,
Ambassador to Berlin. It was, by-the-by, no bad idea to appoint this
high-bred and average talented English gentleman to the Court of Prince
Bismarck, who disliked and despised nothing more thoroughly than the
pert little political, the "Foreign Office pet" of modern days.
Foremost on the roll stood Alison, who died Minister at Teheran.
He was in character much more a Greek than an Englishman, with a
peculiar _finesse_, not to put too fine a point upon it, which made
him highly qualified to deal with a certain type of Orientals. He knew
Romaic perfectly, Turkish well, Persian a little, and a smattering of
Arabic; so that, most unlike the average order of ignorant secretaries
and attachés, he was able to do good work. He seemed to affect
eccentricity, went out walking with a rough coat with a stick torn
from a tree, whence his cognomen "The Bear with the Ragged Staff," and
at his breakfasts visitors were unpleasantly astonished by a weight
suddenly mounting their shoulders in the shape of a bear-cub with cold
muzzle and ugly claws. He managed to hold his own with his testy and
rageous old Chief, and the following legend was told of him:--"Damn
your eyes, Mr. Alison, why was not that despatch sent?" "Damn your
Excellency's eyes, it went this morning." Miladi also seemed to regard
his comical figure with much favour. At Teheran he did little good,
having become unhappily addicted to "tossing the elbow," which in an
evil hour was reported home by my late friend Edward Eastwick; and
he married a wealthy Levantine widow, who predeceased him. On this
occasion he behaved uncommonly well, by returning all her large fortune
to her family.
Next to him in office, and far higher in public esteem, ranked Percy
Smythe, who succeeded his brother as Lord Strangford. Always of the
weakest possible constitution, and so purblind that when reading he
drew the paper across his nose, he fulfilled my idea of the typical
linguist in the highest sense of the word; in fact, I never saw his
equal except, perhaps, Professor Palmer, who was murdered by Arábi's
orders almost within sight of Suez. Strangford seemed to take in a
language through every pore, and to have time for all its niceties and
eccentricities: for instance, he could speak Persian like a Shirázi,
and also with the hideous drawl of a Hindostani. Yet his health sent
him to bed every night immediately after dinner, for which he was more
than once taken severely to task by Lady Stratford. He dressed in the
seediest of black frock-coats, and was once mightily offended by a
Turkish officer, who, overhearing us talking in Persian about "Tasáwaf"
(Sufi-ism), joined in the conversation. He treated me with great regard
because I was in the gorgeous Bashi-Bazouk uniform, blazing with gold,
but looked upon Lord Strangford with such contempt that the latter
exclaimed, "Hang the fellow! Can't he see that I am a gentleman?" I
then told him that an Eastern judges _entirely_ by dress, and that,
as I was gorgeous, I was supposed to be the swell, and that, as his
coat was very shabby, he was taken for a poor interpreter, probably my
dragoman, and induced him to change for the future.
Some years afterwards, when he came to the title, he married Emily
Beaufort, the result of reviewing her book "Syrian Shrines," etc. The
choice was a mistake; she was far too like him in body and mind, with
a strong dash of Israelitish blood, to be a success matrimonially
speaking. Had he taken to wife a comely "crummy" little girl with
blue eyes, barley-sugar hair, and the rest to match, he might have
lived much longer. But the lady was an overmatch for him. When she
was a little tot of twelve I saw her at the head of her father's, the
hydrographer's table, laying down the law of professional matters to
grey-headed Admirals. The last of the Staff was General Mansfield,
an ill-conditioned and aggressive man, who held General Beatson in
especial dislike for "prostitution of military rank." I have the most
unpleasant remembrance of him; he afterwards became Commander-in-Chief
of the Army in India, and his conduct in the "Affair of the Pickles"
ought to have caused the recall of "Lord Sandhurst."
The Ambassador, whose name was at that time in every mouth, was as
remarkable in appearance as in character and career. When near sixty
years of age he had still the clear-cut features and handsome face
of his cousin, whom he loved to call the "Great Canning," and under
whom, he, like Lord Palmerston, had began official life as private
secretary. One of the cleanest and smoothest shaven of old men, he had
a complexion white and red as a Westphalia ham, and his silver locks
gave him a venerable and pleasing appearance; whilst his chin, that
most characteristic feature, showed, in repose, manliness, and his
"Kaiser-blue" eye was that of the traditional Madonna, only at excited
moments the former tilted up with an expression of reckless obstinacy,
and the latter flashed fire like an enraged feline's. The everyday look
of the face was diplomatic, an icy impassibility (evidently put on, and
made natural by long habit); but it changed to the scowl of a Medusa in
fits of rage, and in joyous hours, such as sitting at dinner near the
beautiful Lady George Paget--whose like I never saw--it was harmonious
and genial as a day in spring.
Such was the personal appearance of the man who, together with the
Emperor Nicholas, one equally, if not more remarkable, both in body and
in mind, set the whole Western World in a blaze. I heard the origin
of the blood-feud minutely told by the late Lord Clanricarde, one of
the most charming _raconteurs_ and original conversationalists ever
met at a London dinner-table. Mr. Stratford Canning became, in early
manhood, _Chargé d'affaires_ at Constantinople, and took a prominent
part in the Treaty of Bucharest, which the Czar found, to speak mildly,
unpalatable. However, some years after, when the Embassy at St.
Petersburg fell vacant, the Emperor refused to receive this _personâ
ingrata_, and aroused susceptibilities which engendered a life-long
hatred and a lust for revenge. Lastly, after the affair of 1848, the
"Eltchi" persuaded his unhappy tool, the feeble-minded Sultan, Abd
Al-Majid, whom he scolded and abused like a naughty schoolboy, now by
threats then by promises, to refuse giving up the far-famed Hungarian
refugees. This again became well known to all the world, and thus
a private and personal pique between two elderly gentlemen of high
degree, involved half Europe in hideous war, and was one of the worst
disasters ever known to English history, by showing the world how
England could truckle to France, and allow her to play the leading part.
Lord Stratford had, as often happens to shrewder men, completely
mistaken his vocation. He told me more than once that his inclination
was wholly to the life of a _littérateur_, and he showed himself unfit
for taking any, save the humblest, _rôle_ among the third-rates. He
had lived his life in the East without learning a word of Turkish,
Persian, or Arabic.
He wrote "poetry," and, amid the jeers of his staff, he affixed to a
rustic seat near Therapia, where once Lady Stratford had sat, a copy of
verses beginning--
"A wife, a mother to her children dear,"
with rhyme "rested here," and reason to match. After his final return
home he printed a little volume of antiquated "verse or _worse_" with
all the mediocrity which the gods and the columns disallow, and which
would hardly have found admittance to the poet's corner of a country
paper. His last performance in this line was a booklet entitled, "Why
I am a Christian" (he of all men!), which provoked a shout of laughter
amongst his friends. They owned that, mentally, he was a fair modern
Achilles--
"Impiger, iracundus, inexorabilis acer;"
but of his "Christianity," the popular saying was, "He is a Christian,
and he never forgives." His characteristic was vindictiveness; he could
not forget (and here he was right), but also he could not forgive (and
here he was wrong). One instance: he tried to hunt out of the service
Grenville Murray, whose "Roving Englishman" probably owed much of its
charm to Dickens's staff in _Household Words_. Yet Murray, despite
all his faults, was a capable man, and a Government more elastic and
far-seeing and less "respectable" than that of England, would have
greatly profited by his services. Lord Stratford could not endure
badinage, he had no sense for and of humour; witness the scene between
him and Louis Napoleon's Ambassador, General Baraguay d'Hilliers,
recorded by Mr. Consul Skene in his "Personal Reminiscences." He
abhorred difference of opinion, and was furious with me for assuring
him that "Habash" and "Abyssinia" are by no means equivalent and
synonymous terms; he had been enlightening the "Porte" with information
that Turkey had never held a foot of ground in "Habash," when the
Turk, as my visit to Harar showed, had been an occupant, well hated,
as he was well known. And when in a rage he was not pleasant; his eyes
flashed fury, his venerable locks seemed to rise like the quills of
a fretful porcupine, he would rush round the room like a lean maniac
using frightful language--in fact, "langwidge," as the sailor hath
it--with his old dressing-gown working hard to keep pace with him,
and when the fit was at its worst, he would shake his fist in the
offender's face.
The famous Ambassador struck me as a weak, stiff-necked, and violent
old man, whose strength physically was in his obstinate chin,
together with a "pursed-up mouth and beak in a pet," and morally in
an exaggerated "respectability," iron-bound prejudices, and profound
self-esteem. He had also a firm respect for rank and the divine right
of Kings; witness his rage, when the young naval lieutenant, Prince of
Leiningen, was ordered by a superior officer to "swab decks." He lived
long enough to repent the last step of his official life. After peace
was concluded, a visit to the Crimea greatly disgusted him. With a kind
of bastard repentance, he quoted John Bright and the Peace Party in his
sorrow at having brought about a Campaign whose horrors contrasted so
miserably with its promised advantages.
In the next Russian-Turkish War he remembered that some ten thousand
English lives and £80,000,000 had been sacrificed to humble Russia,
whose genius and heroism had raised her so high in the opinion of
Europe, only to serve the selfish ends of Louis Napoleon, to set up
Turkey and the Sultan ("Humpty-dumpty," who refused to be set up),
and to humour the grudges of two rancorous old men. So he carefully
preached non-intervention to England. He took his seat in the House of
Lords, but spoke little, and when he spoke he mostly broke down. Of
his literary failures I have already spoken. Yet this was the "Great
Eltchi" of Eöthen, a man who gained a prodigious name in Europe,
chiefly by living out of it.
After seeing all that was to be seen at Therapia and Constantinople, I
embarked on an Austrian Lloyd steamer, and ran down to the Dardanelles,
then the head-quarters of the Bashi-Bazouks. The little town shared in
the factitious importance of Gallipoli, and other places more or less
useful during the war; it had two Pashas, Civil and Military, with a
large body of Nizam or Regulars, whilst the hillsides to the north were
dotted with the white tents of the Irregulars. General Beatson had
secured fair quarters near the old windmills, and there had established
himself with his wife and daughters. I at once recognized my old
Boulogne friend, although slightly disguised by uniform. He looked like
a man of fifty-five, with bluff face and burly figure, and probably
grey hair became him better than black. He always rode English chargers
of good blood, and altogether his presence was highly effective.
There had been much silly laughing at Constantinople, especially
amongst the grinning idiot tribe, about his gold coat, which was said
to stand upright by force of embroidery. But here he was perfectly
right, and his critics perfectly wrong. He had learnt by many
years' service to recognize the importance of show and splendour
when dealing with Easterns. And no one had criticised the splendid
Skinner or General Jacob of the Sind Horse, for wearing a silver
helmet and a diamond-studded sabretache. General Beatson had served
thirty-five years in the Bengal army, and was one of the few amongst
his contemporaries who had campaigned in Europe during the long peace
which followed the long war. In his subaltern days he had volunteered
into the Spanish Legion, under the Commander, General Sir de Lacy
Evans. After some hard fighting there, and seeing not a few adventures,
he had returned to India. When the Crimean War broke out he went to
Head-quarters at once, and, for the mere fun of the thing, joined in
the Heavy Cavalry charge.
In October, 1854, the Duke of Newcastle, then Minister of War,
addressed him officially, directing him to organize a Corps of
Bashi-Bazouks, not exceeding in number four thousand, who were to
be independent of the Turkish Contingent, consisting of twenty-five
thousand Regulars under General Vivian. So, unfortunately for himself,
he had made the Dardanelles his Head-quarters, and there he seemed to
be settled with his wife and family. Mrs. Beatson was a quiet-looking
little woman, who was reputed to rule her spouse with a rod of iron in
a velvet case; and the two daughters were charming girls who seemed
to have been born on horseback, and who delighted in setting their
terriers at timid aides-de-camp, and teaching their skittish little
Turkish nags to lash out at them when within kicking distance. General
Beatson at once introduced me to his Staff and officers, amongst whom
I found some most companionable comrades. There were two ex-Guardsmen,
poor Charles Wemyss, who died years after, chronically impecunious,
in London, and Major Lennox-Berkeley, who is still living. Of the
Home army were Lieut.-Colonel Morgan, ex-cavalry man, and Major
Synge. The Indian army had contributed Brigadier-General De Renzi,
Brett, Hayman, Money, Grierson, and others. Sankey, whom I had known
in Egypt, and whose family I had met at Malta, had been gazetted as
lieutenant-colonel. There was also poor Blakeley of the Gun, who
afterwards died so unhappily of yellow fever at Chorillos, in Perú.
But there were unfortunately black sheep among the number.
Lieut.-Colonel Fardella had only the disadvantage of being a Sicilian,
but Lieut.-Colonel Giraud, the head interpreter, was a Smyrniote and
a Levantine of the very worst description, and, worse still, there
was a Lieut.-Colonel O'Reilly, whose antecedents and subsequents were
equally bad. He had begun as a lance-corporal in one of her Majesty's
regiments, which he had left under discreditable circumstances. In the
Bashi-Bazouks he joined a faction against General Beatson, and when
the war was over he openly became a Mussulman, and entered the Turkish
service. He left the worst of reputations between Constantinople and
Marocco, and Englishmen had the best reason to be ashamed of him. In
subsequent years to the Massacre of Damascus, the English Government
had chosen out Fuad Pasha, a witty, unscrupulous, and over-clever Turk,
and proposed him as permanent Governor-General of the Holy Land, or
to govern in a semi-independent position, like that of the Khedive of
Egypt.
No choice could be worse, except that of the French, who favoured with
even more inaptitude, by way of a rival candidate, their Algerian
captive, the Emir Abd el Kadir, one of the most high-minded, religious,
and honourable of men, who was utterly unfit to cope with Turkish
roguery and Syrian rascaldom. The project fell through, but till his
last day Fuad Pasha never lost sight of it, and kept up putting in an
appearance, by causing perpetual troubles amongst the Bedawi and the
Druzes.
This man O'Reilly was one of his many tools, and at last, when he had
brought about against the Turkish Government an absurd revolt of naked
Arabs, upon the borders of the Hamah Desert, he was taken prisoner and
carried before Rashíd Pasha, then the Governor-General, and in his
supplications for pardon he had the meanness to kneel down and kiss the
Turk's foot.
But worse still was the position of the affairs which met my eyes
at the Dardanelles. Everything had combined to crush our force of
Irregulars. First, there was the Greek faction, who naturally hated
the English, and adored the Russians, and directed all the national
genius to making the foreigners fail. Their example was followed by the
Jews, many of them wealthy merchants at the Dardanelles, who in those
days, before the Juden-hetze, loved and believed in Russia and had
scanty confidence in England. The two Turkish pashas were exceedingly
displeased to see an _Imperium in Imperio_, and did their best to
breed disturbance between their Regulars and the English Irregulars.
They were stirred up by the German Engineers, who were employed upon
the fortifications of the Dardanelles, and who strongly inoculated
them with the idea that France and England aimed at nothing less than
annexation.
Hence the Pashas not only fomented every disturbance, but they
supplied deserters with passports and safe-conducts. The French played
the friendly-foelike party; the envy, jealousy, and malice of the
_Gr-r-r-ande Nation_ had been stirred to the very depths by the failure
of their Algerine General Yousouf in organizing a corps of Irregulars,
and they saw with displeasure and disgust that an Englishman was going
to succeed. Accordingly Battus, their wretched little French Consul for
the Dardanelles, was directed to pack the local Press at Constantinople
(which was almost wholly in the French interests) with the falsest
and foulest scandals. He had secured the services of the _Journal
de Constantinople_, which General Beatson had with characteristic
carelessness neglected to square, and his cunningly concocted scandals
found their way not only into the Parisian, but even into the London
Press.
But our deadliest enemies were of course those nearest home. Mr.
Calvert was at that time Vice-Consul for the Dardanelles, and he openly
boasted of its having been made by himself so good a thing that he
would not exchange it for a Consulate General. I need not enter into
the subsequent career of this man, who, shortly after the Crimean War,
found his way into a felon's jail at Malta, for insuring a non-existing
ship. He had proposed to General Beatson a contract in the name of
a creature of his own, who was a mere man of straw, and it was at
once refused, because, although Mr. Vice-Consul Calvert might have
gained largely thereby, Her Majesty's Government would have lost in
proportion. This was enough to make a bitter enemy of him, and he was
a manner of Levantine, virulent and scrupulous as he was sharp-witted.
He also had another grievance. In his Consulate he kept a certain
Lieutenant Ogilvie, who years after fought most gallantly in the
Franco-German War, and was looked upon, after he was killed, as a sort
of small national hero.
He and his agents were buying up cattle for the public use, and it
was a facetious saying amongst the "Buzoukers," as the Bashi-Bazouk
officers were called, that they had not left a single three-legged
animal in the country. It is no wonder that the reports of these men
had a considerable effect upon Lord Stratford, who was profoundly
impressed with the opinions of unhappy Lord Raglan, the Commander,
who by weak truckling to the French, a nettle fit only to be grasped,
had more than once placed us in an unworthy position. He was angrily
opposed to the whole scheme; it was contrary to precedent: Irregulars
were unknown at Waterloo, and the idea was offensive, because unknown
to the good old stock and pipe-clay school. Moreover, but for a
Campaign these men are invaluable to act as eyes and feelers for a
regular force. The English soldier, unless he be a poacher--by-the-by,
one of the best of them--cannot see by night; his want of practice
gives him a kind of "noctilypia," and he suffers much from want of
sleep. His Excellency already had his own grievance against General
Beatson, being enormously scandalized by a letter from the Irregular
officer casually proposing to hang the Military Pasha of the
Dardanelles, if he continued to intrigue and report falsely concerning
his force. And I must confess the tone of the General's letter was
peculiar, showing that he was better known to "Captain Sword" than
to "Captain Pen." When he put me in orders as "Chief of the Staff" I
overhauled his books and stood aghast to see the style of his official
despatches. He was presently persuaded, with some difficulty, to let me
mitigate their candour under the plea of copying, but on one occasion
after the copy was ready I happened to look into the envelope, and I
found--
"P.S.--This is official, but I would have your Lordship to know that I
also wear a black coat."
Fancy the effect of a formal challenge to combat, "pistols for two and
coffee for one," upon the rancorous old man of Constantinople, whose
anger burnt like a red-hot fire, and whose revenge was always at a
white heat! I took it out, but my General did not thank me for it.
The result of these scandalous rumours was, that Lord Stratford deemed
fit to send down the Dardanelles (for the purpose of reporting the
facts of the case) a certain Mr. Skene. I have no intention of entering
into the conduct of this official, who had been an officer in the
English army, and who proposed to make himself comfortable in the
Consulate of Aleppo! He has paid the debt of Nature, and I will not
injure his memory. Suffice it to say, that he was known on the spot to
be taking notes, that every malignant won his ear, and that he did not
cease to gratify the Ambassador's prejudices by reporting the worst.
General Beatson was peppery, like most old Indians, and instead of
keeping diplomatically on terms with Mr. Skene, he chose to have a
violent personal quarrel with him. Consequently Mr. Skene returned
to Constantinople, and his place was presently taken by Brigadier T.
G. Neil, who shortly appeared in the same capacity--note-taker. His
offensive presence and bullying manner immediately brought on another
quarrel, especially when he loudly declared that "he represented
Royalty," and that he was a universal unfavourite with Beatson's
Horse. He afterwards served in the Indian Mutiny, and there he ended
well. He made an enormous reputation at home by recklessly daring to
arrest a railway clerk, and he was shot before his incapacity could be
discovered.
I was also struck with consternation at the condition of Beatson's
Horse, better known on the spot as the "Bashi-Bazouks." The correct
term in Turkish is _Bāsh Buzuk_, equivalent to _Tête-pourrie_; it
succeeded the ancient _Dillis_, or madmen, who in the good old times
represented the Osmanli Irregular Cavalry. It was the habit of those
men in early spring, when the fighting season opened, to engage
themselves for a term to plunder and loot all they could (and at this
process they were first-rate hands), and to return home when winter
set in. General Beatson wisely determined that his four thousand
sabres should be wholly unconnected with the twenty-five thousand
men of the Turkish Contingent. He wished to raise them in Syria,
Asia Minor, Bulgaria, and other places, regiment them according to
their nationalities, and to officer them, like Sepoy regiments, with
Englishmen and Subalterns of their own races.
The idea was excellent, but it was badly carried out, mainly by
default of the War Office, which had overmuch to do and could not
be at the trouble of sending out officers. So the men, whose camps
looked soldier-like enough, were left lying on the hillsides, and
Satan found a very fair amount of work for them. This was, however,
chiefly confined to duelling, and other such pastimes. The Arnauts or
Albanians, who generally fight when they are drunk, had a peculiar
style of monomachy. The principals, attended by their seconds and by
all their friends, stood close opposite, each holding a cocked pistol
in their right hand and a glass of _raki_, or spirits of wine, in their
left. The first who drained his draught had the right to fire, and
generally blazed away with fatal effect. It would have been useless
to discourage this practice, but I insisted on fair play. Although
endless outrages were reported at Constantinople, very few really
took place: only one woman was insulted, and robbery with violence
was exceptionally rare. In fact, the _Tête-pourries_ contrasted most
favourably with the unruly French detachments at Gallipoli, and with
the turbulent _infirmiers_ of the Nagara Hospital. With the English
invalids at the Abydos establishment no disputes ever arose.
The exaggerated mutinies were mere sky-larking. After a few days'
grumbling, a knot of "Rotten Heads" would mount their nags with immense
noise and clatter, and, loudly proclaiming that they could stand the
dullness of life no longer, would ride away, hoping only to be soon
caught. But the worst was, I could see no business doing; there were no
morning roll-calls or evening parades, no drilling or disciplining of
men, and the General contented himself with riding twice a day through
the camp, and listening to many grievances. However, as soon as I was
made "Chief of the Staff," I persuaded him that this was not the thing,
and induced him to establish all three, and to add thereto a riding
school for sundry officers of infantry who were not very firm in the
saddle, and also to open a School of Arms for the benefit of _all_
(the last thing a British officer learns is, to use his "silly sword");
and the consequence was, that we soon had a fine body of well-trained
sabres, ready to do anything or to go anywhere.
The _Maître d'armes_ was an Italian from Constantinople, and he began
characteristically by proposing to call out the little Consul Battus,
while another purposed making love to Madame! Alas! it was too late.
On September 12th, a gunboat, dressed in all her colours, steamed at
full speed down the Dardanelles, and caused an immense excitement in
camp. The news flew like wildfire that Sebastopol had been captured.
It proved, to say the least, premature, and the details filled every
Englishman with disgust. I need not describe the grand storming of the
Malakoff, which gave Pélissier his _bâton de Maréchal_, or the gallant
carrying of the Little Redan by Bourbaki. But our failure at the Great
Redan was simply an abomination. Poor old Jemmy Simpson was persuaded
by Pélissier to play the second part, and to attack from the very
same trench as that which sent forth the unsuccessful assault of June
18th. About half the force required was sent, and these were mostly
regiments which had before suffered severely, and the bravest of them
could only stand up to be shot down, instead of sneaking, as not a few
did, in the trenches. Lastly, instead of leading them himself, the
Commander-in-Chief sent General Wyndham, whose gasconade about putting
on his gloves under fire seems to be the only item of this disgraceful
affair which appears known to and remembered by the British public. The
result of our attack was simply a _sauve qui peut_, and (_proh pudor!_)
the Piedmontese General Cialdini was obliged to order up one of his
brigades to save the British.
Continentals attributed this systematic paucity of our troops to the
most urgent emergencies, either to inconsiderate national parsimony,
or to overweening contempt for the enemy. It was nothing of the kind;
it resulted from the normal appointment of thoroughly incapable
Commanders. The private soldier was perfectly right, who volunteered
before Lord Raglan that he and his comrades were perfectly ready to
take Sebastopol by storm, under the Command of their own officers, if
not interfered with by the _Generals_.
I now thought that I saw my way to a grand success, and my failure was
proportionally absurd. This was nothing less than the relief of Kars,
which was doomed to fall by famine, to the Russians. Pélissier and the
Frenchmen were long-sighted enough to know the culminating importance
of this stronghold as a _pierre d'échappe_ in the way of Russia, and
possibly, or rather probably, they had orders from home. However, they
managed to keep Omar Pasha and his Turkish troops in the Crimea, where
this large force were compelled to lie idle, instead of being sent
to attack the Trans-Caucasian provinces, where they might have done
good service. So when Omar Pasha, on the 29th of September, gloriously
defeated the Russians before the walls of Kars, his victory was
useless, and he was compelled to retire. Had the affair been managed
in other ways, England might have struck a vital blow at Russia, by
driving her once more behind the Caucasus, and by putting off for many
a year the threatened advance upon India, which is now one of our
_cauchemars_.
Meanwhile the reports concerning the siege of Kars, whose gallant
garrison was allowed to succumb to famine, cholera, and the Russians,
were becoming a scandal. It was reported that General Williams, who,
with the Hungarian General Metz, was taking a prominent part in the
defence, addressed upwards of eighty officials to Lord Stratford
without receiving a single reply; in fact, as Mr. Skene's book shows,
the great man only turned them into ridicule. However, the "Eltchi"
feared ultimate consequences, and wrote to Lieut.-General (afterwards
Sir) Robert J. Hussey-Vivian, to consult him concerning despatching
on secret errand the Turkish Contingent, consisting, as it may be
remembered, of twenty-five thousand Nizam or Regulars, commanded by a
sufficiency of British officers.
The answer was that _no_ carriage could be procured. Vivian, who was
a natural son of Lord Vivian's, had seen some active service in his
youth, but he was best known as an Adjutant-General of the Madras army,
a man redolent of pipe-clay and red tape, and servilely subject to the
Ambassador. So I felt that the game was in _my_ hands, and proceeded
in glorious elation of spirits to submit my project for the relief of
Kars to his Excellency. We had already 2640 sabres in perfect readiness
to march, and I could have procured _any quantities_ of carriage. The
scene which resulted passes description. He shouted at me in a rage,
"You are the most impudent man in the Bombay Army, Sir!" But I knew
him, and understood him like Alison, and did not mind. It ended with,
"Of course you'll dine with us to-day?"
* * * * *
It was not until some months afterwards that I learnt what my unhappy
plan proposed to do. Kars was doomed to fall as a make-weight for the
capture of half of Sebastopol, and a Captain of Bashi-Bazouks (myself)
had madly attempted to arrest the course of _haute politique_.
The tale of the fall of Kars is pathetic enough. While the British
officers dined with General Mouravieff, the gallant Turkish soldiers
were ordered to _pile_ arms and march off under escort, and, dashing
their muskets to the ground, they cried, "Perish our Wazirs who have
even shamed us with this shame." And the disastrous and dishonourable
result brought about by our political inaptitude has never ceased to
weaken our prestige in Central Asia. Civilized Turks simply declared
that an officer of artillery, sent out as Commissioner by England, had
unwarrantably interfered with the legitimate command of Kars, where
Turkey had a powerful army and an important position; and that by
keeping the soldiers behind walls, when he knew the City could not be
saved, he had lost both Army and City. The criticism was fair and sound.
General (afterwards Sir) W. F. Williams of Kars was at first in huge
indignation, and declared that he would persuade the Government to
impeach Lord Stratford. But on the way he was met by an offer of
the Command at Woolwich, which apparently made him hold his peace.
He was somewhat an exceptional man. For years an instructor of the
Turkish Artillery, then English member of the mixed Commission for
the topography of the Turko-Persian frontier, and finally Queen's
Commissioner with the Turkish army at Kars, he had never learnt a
word of Turkish. Of course he was hustled into the House of Commons.
Whenever a man makes himself known in England that is apparently his
ultimate fate. But he fell flatly, as even Kars did, before the sharp
tongue of Bernal Osborne. During some debate on the Chinese question,
he had assured the House that he was an expert, because he had had much
experience of Turkish matters. "Oh, the fall of Kars!" cried the wit;
and the ex-Commissioner was extinguished for ever.
Lord Stratford, I suppose by way of consoling _me_, made an indirect
offer, through Lord Napier and Ettrick, about commissioning me to pay
an official visit to Schamyl, whom some call "The Patriot," and others
"The Bandit," of the Caucasus. The idea was excellent, but somewhat
surprised me. Schamyl had lately been accused, amongst other atrocious
actions, of flogging Russian ladies whom he had taken prisoners, and
I could not understand how Lord Stratford, who had an unmitigated
horror of all Russian cruelties, and who always expressed it in the
rawest terms, could ally himself with such a ruffian. Possibly the
political advantages in his opinion counterbalanced his demerits,
for, had Schamyl been fairly supported, the Russian conquest of the
great mountains might have been retarded for years. I consulted on the
subject Alison and Percy Smythe, and both were of the same opinion,
namely, that although there were difficulties and dangers, involving
a long ride through Russian territory, the task might have been
accomplished. They relied greatly upon the ardent patriotism of the
Circassian women who then filled the harems of Constantinople. I should
not have seen a single face, except perhaps that of a slave-girl, but
I should have been warmly assisted with all the interest the fair
patriots could make. So I began seriously to think of the matter. But
the first visit to Lord Stratford put it entirely out of my head. I
asked his Excellency what my reply was to be, should Schamyl ask me
upon what mission I came. "Oh, say that you are sent to report to
_me_." "But, my lord, Schamyl will expect money, arms, and possibly
troops, and what am I to reply if he asks me about it? Otherwise he
will infallibly set me down for a spy, and my chance of returning to
Constantinople will be uncommonly small."
However, the "Eltchi" could not see it in that light, and the project
fell through.
Here also, although somewhat out of place, I may relate my last chance
of carrying out a project upon which I was very warm, namely, to assist
Circassia and to attack Georgia.
On returning to London I received a hint that Lord Palmerston had still
some project of the kind, and was willing that I should be employed
on it. So I wrote a number of letters, which I was allowed to publish
in the _Times_, upon the subject of levying a large force of Kurdish
Irregular Cavalry, and these being supported by the excellent work of
Sir Henry Rawlinson, found favour with the public. But presently came
the Franco-Russian peace of 1856. France, who had won all the credit
of the mismanaged Campaign because she washed her dirty linen at home,
and who had left all the discredit to England, whose practice was the
opposite, lost all interest in the war. Louis Napoleon was thoroughly
satisfied with what he had done, and Russia, after a most gallant
and heroic defence of her territory, wanted time to heal her wounds.
Accordingly the Treaty of Paris was entered into, the result being
that, fifteen years afterwards, when France was in her sorest straits,
Russia, with the consent of England (!), tore up that treaty and threw
it in our face.
After this fruitless visit to Constantinople, I returned post haste to
the Dardanelles, where I found the Bashi-Bazouks, like the unfortunate
Turks at Kars, in a state of siege. On the morning of the 26th of
September we were astounded to see the Turkish Regulars drawn out in
array against us, Infantry supported by the guns, which were pointed at
our camp, and patrols of Cavalry occupying the rear. Three War-steamers
commanded the main entrance of the Town, and the enemy's outposts were
established within three hundred yards of the 1st Regiment of Beatson's
Horse, evidently for the purpose of ensuring a sanguinary affair.
The inhabitants had closed their shops, and the British Consulate
was deserted. The steamer _Redpole_ was sent off in hottest haste to
Constantinople with a report that a trifling squabble between the
French _infirmiers_ and the Bashi-Bazouks had ended in deadly conflict,
and that the most terrible consequences were likely to ensue.
General Beatson at once issued an order to his men, who were furious at
this fresh insult, and requested permission to punish the aggressors by
taking the enemy's guns; and by means of his officers _he restrained
the natural anger of his much-suffering men_.
The result was a triumph of discipline, and not a shot was fired that
day. About four p.m. the Military Pasha, ashamed of his attitude,
marched the Regulars back to their barracks, but he did not fail to
complain to Constantinople of General Beatson's order, keeping his men
in camp "till the Turkish authorities should have recovered from their
panic and _housed_ their guns." But the _Redpole_ had also carried from
the English and French Consuls an exaggerated account of the state of
affairs, and earnestly requesting a reinforcement. The reply was an
order from Lieut.-General Vivian removing General Beatson from command,
and directing him to make it over to Major-General Richard Smith, who
appeared at the Dardanelles on September 28th, supported by a fresh
body of Nizam; and, lest any insult might be omitted, three hundred
French soldiers had been landed at the Nagára Hospital to attack us in
the rear.
[Sidenote: _End of Crimea._]
General Beatson was at the time suffering from an accident, and was
utterly unfitted for business. So Major Berkeley and I collected as
many of the officers as we could at head-quarters, and proposed to go
in a body to General Smith and lay the case before him. We assured him
that all the reports were false, and proposed to show him the condition
and the discipline of the Bashi-Bazouks; we also suggested that
Brigadier-General Brett might be directed to assume temporary Command
of the Force, until fresh orders and instructions should be received
from General Vivian. Of course General Smith could not comply with our
request, so we both declared that we would send in our resignations.
After an insult of the kind, we felt that we could no longer serve with
self-respect. It was this proceeding, I suppose, which afterwards gave
rise to a report that I had done my best to cause a Mutiny.
On the last day of September General Beatson, with his Chief of Staff
and military Secretary, left the Dardanelles for ever. Arrived at
Buyukdere, a report was sent to General Vivian, and he presently came
on board, where a lengthened communication passed between the Generals.
Rumours of a Russian attack had induced a most conciliatory tone.
General Vivian appeared satisfied with the explanation, and listened
favourably to General Beatson's urgent request for permission to return
at once to the Dardanelles. He asked expressly if the "Buzouker" could
keep his men in order. The answer was a _decided affirmative_, which
appeared to have considerable weight with him, and he expressed great
regret for having, under a false impression, written an unfavourable
letter to Lord Panmure, the tone of whose correspondence had been most
offensive. He stated, however, that nothing could be done without the
order of her Majesty's Ambassador; and, promising to call upon him for
instructions, he left the steamer about midday, declaring that he would
return in the course of the afternoon. After a few hours appeared,
instead of General Vivian, a stiff official letter, directed to General
Beatson. The interview with Lord Stratford had completely altered the
tone of his official conduct.
On the 12th of October General Beatson reported officially to Lords
Panmure and Stratford the efficient state of his force, concerning
which General Smith had written most favourably. An equally favourable
view was expressed in the public press by that Prince of War
Correspondents, William H. Russell, whose name in those days was quoted
by every Englishman. General Beatson begged to be sent on service,
offering, upon his own responsibility, to take up transports, and to
embark his men for Eupatoria, Yinikali, Batum, Balaclava, or--that
unhappy Kars. To this no reply was returned.
Nothing now remained to be done, and on the 18th of October we left
Therapia _en route_ to England.
[Sidenote: _Beatson's Trial._]
The sequel to this affair was sufficiently remarkable. General Beatson
came home and attempted to take civil proceedings against his enemies.
Chief amongst them was Mr. Skene--one of the Consuls already referred
to--who, from the inception of General Beatson's scheme, had shown
himself most bitterly opposed to it, and who had used all his influence
to make General Beatson's position untenable.
Afterwards he chose to say that, "when General Smith arrived at the
Dardanelles, General Beatson assembled the Commanding Officers of the
regiments, and actually endeavoured to persuade them to make a mutiny
in the regiments against General Smith, and against the authority of
Vivian. Two of these Commanding Officers then left the room, saying
they were soldiers, and they could not listen to language which they
thought most improper and mutinous. These two were Lieut.-Colonels
O'Reilly and Shirley. General Beatson subsequently had a sort of
round robin prepared by the Chief Interpreter, and sent round to the
different officers, in the hope that they would sign it, refusing to
serve under any other General than himself. Both of these mutinous
attempts are said to have originated from Captain Burton, who it also
appears kept the order from Lord Panmure, placing the Irregular Horse
under Lieut.-General Vivian, for three whole weeks unknown to any one
but General Beatson, and the order was not promulgated until after
General Smith had arrived."
General Beatson went into the witness-box and categorically denied the
charges made against him.[3] I followed and gave evidence to the same
effect, as did also General Watt; but there was a great difficulty in
proving the publication of the libel, the War Office, then represented
by Mr. Sidney Herbert, refusing to produce certain letters. Mr. Skene
was very ably defended by Mr. Bovill (afterwards Lord Chief Justice),
Mr. Lush (afterwards a judge), and Mr. Garth, and he brought forward
a considerable number of witnesses, including General Vivian himself.
Their evidence, however, tended rather to establish the case against
him (Skene), so that he was compelled to plead that his libel was a
privileged communication. Mr. Baron Bramwell confined himself in his
summing-up strictly to the legal aspects of the case, but he allowed
his view of Mr. Skene's conduct to be very distinctly understood.
The jury (a special one), after half an hour's deliberation, returned
a verdict for the defendant on the technical ground, but added a rider
to their verdict, expressive of their disgust at Mr. Skene for having
refrained from retracting his charges against General Beatson when he
found how utterly without foundation they were. The verdict of the jury
was confirmed on appeal, but it was generally felt that General Beatson
had fully vindicated his character, and had very successfully exposed
the conspiracy against the Irregulars, which had ended so disastrously
for him and for his officers. The characters of the plaintiff and the
defendant respectively may be estimated from one small circumstance.
Beatson began his action just as the Indian Mutiny broke out, and being
reasonably refused an extension of leave for the purpose of prosecuting
it, went out to India. When the Mutiny was suppressed he obtained six
months' leave, without pay, for the purpose of prosecuting his case.
Mr. Skene had obtained the appointment of Consul at Aleppo, and could
have reached England in a fortnight, but he chose to remain at his
Consulate, though there would have been no difficulty in obtaining
leave of absence on full pay. Under such circumstances, it was perhaps
hardly worth while for his counsel to dwell upon the cruelty of pushing
on this case in his absence, a complaint for which the presiding
judge somewhat emphatically declared _that there was not the smallest
foundation_.
[1] Here, however, "Pam" was in the right. He foresaw that if the
Canal was once made, England would cling to Egypt, and never again
have a Crimean War. He also appreciated the vast injury which would
accrue to our Eastern monopoly. But he never would or could do anything
_sérieusement_, and he would humbug his countrymen with such phrases
as a "ditch in the sand." He knew as well as any man that the project
was feasible, and yet he persuaded Admiral Spratt and poor Robert
Stephenson to join in his little dodge. I lost his favour for ever by
advocating the Canal, and by proposing to assist the emigration of
Fenian emigrants, at the expense of that fatal humbug, the "Coffin
Squadron" on the West Coast of Africa.
[2] How often one has to witness this in learned societies!--I. B.
[3] Richard was not altogether lucky, as far as promotion went, about
his Chiefs. Sir Charles Napier had seen what stuff he was made of, and
had utilized and praised him to the utmost, but Napier's patronage was
not in those days a recommendation, because he was always fighting some
big-wig at home, and high officials who are ruffled up are quite as
dangerous as fighting Sikhs or Afghans. He then served under General
Beatson, who, like Napier, was always plunging into hot water; but
Richard was devoted to his Chiefs, who well deserved his loyalty, and
in this instance Richard gave valuable evidence on his old Commander's
behalf. He was very amusing in the witness-box; he was so cool and
ready, and always worried his cross-examiner into a white heat of rage,
playing with him as a cat does a mouse, when the lawyer was doing his
best to bewilder him, and make him contradict himself, especially when
Richard got him into a network of military terms, the cross-examiner
being rather at sea among its technicalities. I can see him now,
just as he used to be in the fencing school; he would play with his
adversary, just as if he was carving a chicken, and tire him out long
before the real play began, so that an ill-tempered man would almost
spit himself with rage, if the button had not been on.
It was good to see him under cross-examination. Bovill, subsequently
Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, was leading counsel on the other
side, and was so ill-advised as to attempt to browbeat Richard. His
failure was naturally disastrous. A very simple answer of Richard's
quite upset Bovill. "In what regiment did you serve under the
plaintiff?" "Eh?" "In what regiment, I say----" "In no regiment." After
playing with counsel for a minute or two, Richard let him know that he
had served in a "corps." Bovill was still further discomfited in the
course of the trial, by a manœuvre of Edwin James, who was managing
Beatson's case. James coolly got up while Bovill was speaking for the
defence, declared he could not stay and listen to such stuff, and left
the court for a while. It is only fair to add that Bovill won the
case.--I. B.