THE ALMA.
We have small space for much detail of the Crimean War, and so shall
confine ourselves chiefly to the personal adventures of our _dramatis
personæ_ there. But it seems strange to think how after the lapse of
a very few years the terrors, the tears, the sufferings, and the
glory incident to that campaign, are already half forgotten, and the
whole seems but as a tale that is told! Yet great were the
endurance, steady the discipline, and noble the heroism of those who
followed Raglan, our one-armed veteran, to the field; and there were
men of all ages in his army, from those white-haired warriors who
like himself had seen the night of horrors at Badajoz, and the
corpse-strewn plains of Vittoria and Waterloo, down to the
fair-cheeked boy-ensigns fresh from school; for when the death-lists
of the Crimea appeared, many a name therein was recalled with pride
and sorrow in the class-rooms and playgrounds of Eton, Harrow, and
Rugby.
Yes, it is indeed all as a tale that is told--the night of our
landing at Eupatoria, when without tents or baggage sixty thousand
men remained on the bare ground, under torrents of rain, thus adding
fearfully to the scourge of cholera next day; the march towards the
enemy under a blazing sun; the maddening thirst, that thousands broke
their ranks and rushed to quench in the Bulganac; the skirmish there
with our advanced guard; the heights of the Alma bristling with
cannon and bayonets; the death ride of "the Six Hundred" at
Balaclava, when cannon blazed in front, on flank, and in rear of
them; that dull November morning, when amid the grey mists the rumble
of the Russian artillery was heard while Mentschicoff poured his
hordes into the valley of Inkerman, and the butchery of our wounded
there and in the quarries. Then came the half-frozen trenches and
rifle pits, while the iron voice on the grassy slopes of the Mamelon,
the lines of the Redan, and the mighty batteries of Sebastopol was
never still; and though last, not least, the ghastly horrors of the
great hospital at Scutari!
On the morning of the 20th September, the allied army was face to
face with the Russians, led by Prince Alexander Mentschicoff, and
then intrenched on the heights above the Alma, a stream which rises
among the western slopes of Crim-Tartary, and falls into the sea
twelve miles from Sebastopol.
Cyril Wedderburn had been on active service before in India, but this
was to be Horace's first battle; and such was also the case with most
of the young subalterns in the army.
High on the southern bank of the Alma rises a ridge of picturesque
rocks, which terminate in a cliff which overhangs the Euxine; in the
ravines of these rocks grew groves of turpentine and other trees,
many of which had been felled to form _abattis_ to encumber the
advance of our troops. The Russian lines were formed along that
ridge, two miles in length, and by the aid of field-glasses their
flat caps, their spiked helmets, glittering bayonets, and grey-coated
masses, could be seen as the allied columns came on. Every available
point was mounted with cannon, trenches were dug, redoubts and
breastworks thrown up, and on the Kourgane Hill, six hundred feet
above the Alma, to protect his right, Mentschicoff had constructed an
enormous triangular battery, mounted with heavy cannon and 24-pounder
howitzers. There too was the great Kazan column with the holy image
of St. Sergius, and also, oddly enough, a train of carriages full of
ladies from Sebastopol and Bagtche Serai, "the Seraglio of Gardens,"
waiting to see the defeat of the "Island curs," as they termed the
British, whom, strangely enough, they believed to be chiefly seamen.
The morning of the Alma was a lovely one. From the Black Sea, where
our steamers--their smoke ascending high into the clear air--were
creeping in shore to shell the Russian left, there came a soft breeze
that played along the slopes, and whirled in wreaths the smoke from
the blazing Tartar village of Burliuk. The leaves rustled pleasantly
in the beautiful groves of olive and turpentine trees, and a peculiar
fragrance that filled the air came from the leaves of a little
aromatic herb (which grew there wild) when bruised by the feet of the
marching column, or the wheels of the field artillery. Many places
were covered with orange-coloured crocuses, growing thick as
buttercups, in the fields at home.
"It was now that after forty years of peace the great nations of
Europe were once more meeting for battle!"
The enemy was at last in front--those dark grey masses, so often
spoken of, written of, and thought of--the hordes of half-savage
Russia, and as the Fusileers (under Sir Edward Elton, who was mounted
on his black barb Vidette, and looked every inch an English soldier)
with the rest of their division halted, the altered demeanour of the
officers and men became apparent to themselves. All foolish banter
and idle conversation had ceased. There was indeed a cessation of
sound--a kind of hush--over all the army, save when the neigh of a
horse, or the clatter of a field-gun, woke the echoes of the rocks in
front.
No man, unless a fool, goes into action, especially for the first
time, in the same mood of mind with which he enters a ball-room, or
joins a dinner party. Decent gravity pervaded the entire ranks, and
many a heart was doubtless filled with prayer and thoughts of home
and loved ones far away. Now and then a brotherly emotion of anxiety
for Cyril occurred to Horace Ramornie, and to Cyril for him. Which
might survive the day to speak of the other? If both fell, would
they be buried together?
"Bother such thoughts!" muttered Horace, as he ventured to light a
cigar in rear of his company.
They and others waxed a little more kind in their bearing to those
about them; and one or two who had small coolnesses, shook hands or
bowed and smiled in passing. Some, like Joyce the married captain,
leant thoughtfully on their swords; and he, poor fellow, was
thinking, no doubt, of the two little faces he had last seen, side by
side and asleep in the dingy room at Chatham Barracks on the morning
of the march.
Sir Edward sat motionless on his horse, till an aide-de-camp, passing
at a quick trot--he was Nolan--the gallant and heroic Nolan--said--
"The General wishes the men to get loose their cartridges. This, Sir
Edward, will be a field day for most of us to remember."
Elton repeated the order; and under their bearskin caps a grim kind
of smile lit up the faces of the Fusileers, as they opened their
pouches and loosened the ammunition from its packing paper.
In losing Mary Lennox, life had--for a time at least--lost much of
its charm for Cyril Wedderburn; and somehow on this morning he felt
as if danger and death had been for him divested of half their
terrors; and he had the longing desire to do that which rarely falls
to the lot of those of subaltern rank, something great and brilliant;
something that would make his family and friends--aye, even the lost
Mary--proud of him; yet with all this wild enthusiasm he seemed
perfectly cool and unmoved.
But alas for poor Cyril! as we shall see in the sequel, he longed and
hoped in vain for such distinction as he honestly coveted! And he
looked wistfully at the armed and hostile heights with the thought
that it would be hard to die there without leaving his mark upon the
world--some footprint "on the sands of Time."
"Breathless and exhausting work this is, gentlemen," said Sir Edward
Elton, taking off his bearskin to cool his forehead, for the heat was
intense, and the troops had been some hours under it.
"It suggests vague desires of iced champagne," said Jack Probyn.
"Egad; it's mighty glad I'd be of a glass of pale ale, and a pipeful
of birdseye or cavendish," added Beamish; "but here comes a Frenchman
who has been on some final mission I hope to Lord Raglan."
"Colonel De la Fosse, by Jove!" exclaimed Horace, as that officer
trotted past the British lines. "Good morning, Colonel--are we
likely to come to blows soon?"
"Soon enough, it may be, for the Russians yonder, Monsieur," replied
De la Fosse, pausing. "The moment I rejoin Bosquet the attack will
commence. I have been pretty close to those Russian fellows already.
They look resolute and determined; but what of that? We shall teach
them that to win glory or die in the field, is all a soldier need
care for."
"Well," said old Major Singleton, "I should prefer half-pay with a
snug pension my self."
"Every man to his taste, mon camarade," replied the Frenchman gaily,
as he laughed and galloped off to the right, of which the French had
contrived to possess themselves, and an awkward post of honour they
might have found it, close by the sheer cliffs which overhung the
Euxine, had they been defeated, or had the British left been turned.
After two protracted halts, during one of which the French division
of Bosquet, coolly cooked their coffee and made a comfortable
breakfast; and after two consultations between Lord Raglan and
Marshal St. Arnayd (who had taken the field in almost a dying
condition), and after the troops had been irritated by seeing parties
of Cossacks scouring the ground in front, while the flash of steel
could be seen amid the olive groves and breastworks above the Alma,
and at times a Russian standard brandished as if in defiance of the
lines that were approaching, now wheeling, now deploying, extending
and taking ground to the right or left--a roar of musketry far away
on the right flank announced that the fiery French had begun the
attack, and were pouring forward in impetuous masses under a terrible
shower of missiles of every kind. These masses were chiefly the
fierce and active little Zouaves, flushed with their victories in
Africa, and they were seen to swarm up the heights at the point of
the bayonet, in their blue jackets and baggy red breeches, till they
formed in two lines, and with a truly French yell, rushed on to close
with the enemy!
On went our columns to close with them too, opening fire at half-past
one. By that time, the cannon shots fell thick and fast among our
ranks. Bursting at times in mid air, the shrill whistling shells
fell in iron showers among them; others ripped up the earth,
scattering stones and splinters on every side. Now a bullet swept
past unseen with a deep humming sound; the next might tear a man in
two, or hurl him away, doubled up like a muslin scarf: another would
bury itself deep in the ranks, making a lane of blood and death, of
shrieks and agony.
"The slow ping, ping, ping of those Minie rifles--don't at all like
it," said Probyn.
"Daresay not," replied little Meredyth Pomfret, whose face was
flushed with boyish ardour and pride in carrying the Queen's colours.
"But why particularly so?"
"It is such deliberate potting, always suggesting that every bullet
takes a human life."
"Well, it is just what a soldier's work is," replied the boy,
bravely. "By jingo; let us only get close to them!"
The burning village with its flaming stack-yards formed the centre of
the British position.
To the right of it the 41st Welsh and 49th regiments forded the Alma
under a heavy fire from Minie rifles of the Russians who there lay
snugly _perdue_ in rear of some vineyard walls, over which the purple
grapes were hanging in ripe and heavy clusters; while on the left of
Burliuk the whole Light Division under old Sir George Brown (who had
first smelt powder at the capture of Copenhagen in 1807) dashed
across the stream and proceeded to storm the heights, which were so
steep in some places, that in several instances the enemy's bullets
traversed the spinal column, as they were shot sheer down upon the
assailants.
Cyril's regiment was in the same division with the 33rd, the Welsh
Fusileers, the 19th, 77th, and 88th, all which pressed on with such
fury that they speedily routed the Russian riflemen out of the
vineyards, carrying the walls at the point of the bayonet, and
pushing on beyond these, a few only pausing at times to snatch a
handful of those grapes which proved so delicious to men furiously
excited, and sorely athirst, after their long march in a hot and
breathless morning.
Waving their caps and swords in front, their officers led them on,
amid tumultuous cheers.
"Forward, the Fusileers!"
"Forward, Twenty-third!"
"On, on--Nineteenth and Seventy-seventh!"
"Forward, forward! aim under the crossbelts."
Such were the cries from officers and men on all hands, as the
scarlet tide pressed upward; but they were mingled with many a shriek
and groan, for the Russian shot fell thick as hail, and every moment
the dead and wounded were dropping in the ranks. But now began that
famous up-hill charge, by which the field was won; the dark Rifles
meanwhile taking the hills in flank, as coolly as if at drill on
Chatham Lines.
The supports were the Duke of Cambridge's Division of Guards and
Highlanders.
Cyril could see before him but a cloud of smoke, amid which, at times
half seen, half lost, were the figures of Sir George Brown, on a grey
charger, and Sir Edward Elton, on his black one. A shower of lead,
heavier than usual, tore through the ranks of the division. Colonel
Chesters, of the Twenty-third, and eight of his officers, fell almost
at the same moment, and their brave Welshmen were nearly decimated.
Sir George Brown fell amid a cloud of dust, and, for a moment, it was
supposed that he was killed.
The Royal Fusileers then wavered for a moment, but reformed, shoulder
to shoulder, as Sir George sprang to his feet and again led on the
whole. The first of Sir Edward's officers who fell was Captain
Joyce; a bullet shattered his head and his body rolled down hill.
The three next were Bingham, Jack Probyn, and young Pomfret. The
first was literally cut in two by a round shot; the second was
pierced in the heart by a ball, and bounded into the air ere he fell
dead. The third had the standard-pole splintered in his hand by a
ball, which penetrated his breast, and he was left behind to die in
great agony. Ned Elton snatched the colours from his relaxed hand;
but in a minute after he too fell, a leg being smashed by a Minie
bullet. Relief after relief were shot under that fatal colour; but
still the human tide went rolling upward and onward, cheering wildly
as their growing enthusiasm became mingled with a thirst for
vengeance, and a longing to grapple with the foe!
A roar, as of thunder, was in the air, and a hell of fire seemed in
front of them.
Meanwhile, wounded officers and men, in hundreds, were being borne to
the rear by bandsmen, on stretchers, or crawling to the river side to
quench their thirst--in many instances the thirst of the dying.
Though nine hundred of all ranks fell on the slope of the great
redoubt, amid the vineyards and the perilous abattis of trees; and
though the colours of the Twenty-third Welsh Fusileers were actually
planted on it, and the Russians expelled by the bayonet, the victory
was not yet decided.
From a higher range of the hills, there rushed upon our now
breathless, blown, and shattered troops, a heavy double column of
Russian Infantry--the regiments of Ouglitz and Vladimir; one wearing
flat caps, the other with spike-helmets. A great, grey, solid mass,
they come on with equal ardour and fury, strong in the belief of the
conquest which the Bishop of Moscow had predicted would accompany the
image they bore--that of St. Sergius--a hideous idol of carved and
painted wood.
It was then that the British ranks began to waver, and even to fall
back a little way, leaving in and near the redoubt several wounded,
who were mercilessly bayonetted, or brained by the clubbed muskets of
the advancing Russians, who, in some instances, hewed off fingers in
their eagerness to possess the rings of those they murdered.
By this time, no less than nineteen Serjeants of the Thirty-third had
perished, chiefly in defence of the regimental colours; and most
fatal would the temporary repulse have been, but for the re-advance
of that corps, with the Fusileers and the Guards and Highlanders of
the Duke's division, when the conflict was renewed in all its fury.
The appearance of the Highlanders, in their strange costume, as their
brigade advanced in successive echelon of regiments, with their
tartans and black plumes waving in the wind, seemed to impart some
superstitious terror to the Russians, who almost immediately began to
waver.
A close and deadly volley was poured upon them. No sound in
particular followed, save the yells of the wounded, while the
Highlanders "cast about" to reload; but after their next volley, a
strange rattling was heard, as the bullets fell fast among the tin
canteens and kettles which the enemy carried outside their knapsacks,
for they were all right-about-face now. Then a cry--a literal wail
of despair--came from them, as they broke their ranks and fled,
throwing away muskets, packs, caps, and everything that might impede
their speed.
Holy Russia was no longer invincible! "The Angel of Light had
departed from her, and the Demon of Death had come!" Three generals,
seven hundred prisoners, and about seven hundred and fifty of their
wounded, remained in our hands, according to Mr. Kinglake, though
other authorities have given them as many, many more.
The Heights of the Alma were won; but three thousand three hundred of
the Allies lay killed and wounded on their green slopes, which were
dotted for miles by spots in scarlet, blue, or grey--each spot a
human corpse, or a man in mortal agony from bayonet or gun-shot
wounds!
Among the latter was Cyril Wedderburn!
At the very moment when his splendid, but sorely cut-up regiment, led
by Sir Edward Elton, was rushing with the bayonet in pursuit of the
foe beyond the Kourgane Hill, he was lying near the river, covered
with blood and dust, and presenting a piteous spectacle. On two
crossed muskets he had been borne there, to have his maddening thirst
quenched and his wounds attended to.
When the troops were recoiling, after the capture of the great
redoubt, he had found himself close to Horace Ramornie, who was
endeavouring to assist a Russian officer of rank, as the number of
his medals and stars evinced, and who was lying, half smothered,
under his dying horse, in the chest of which a cannot-shot was
imbedded.
They succeeded in dragging him out, and raised him to his feet; but
the barbarian--in whom, with the speed of thought, Cyril recognised
the spy of Varna, the pretended Captain, of Zouaves--drew a revolver
from his belt, and, inspired by all the terror of capture, and the
hatred of race and religion--for by these emotions his face, a
handsome one, was quite distorted--he fired at both his protectors,
and retired among his advancing men, escaping several shots that were
sent after him by the exasperated Fusileers.
Horace escaped uninjured, but poor Cyril had his left arm wounded by
one ball, while another penetrated his left breast. He sank into the
arms of his kinsman, who uttered a cry of mingled rage and
commiseration, and had him borne to the rear by two of the band; but
he could do no more, having to lead his company, of which he was now
the only surviving officer.
By this time, the Turks and French were in full pursuit of the enemy,
whose last efforts were a few faint struggles, and a disorderly and
scattered fire. Hereditary hatred and religious rancour alike
inspired the Turks, whose shrill cries of "Allah, Allah Hu!" came, at
times, upon the wind; for they still boast themselves to be the
_Assakiri Mansurei Mohamediyes_--the "Victorious troops of Mohamed,"
and until the day of Balaclava they had always fought with honour.