THE GROTTO
It is not _all_ fighting, though, before Sebastopol. Without coinciding
entirely with the somewhat Sancho Panza-like philosophy which affirms
that the "latter end of a feast is better than the beginning of a fray,"
there is many a gallant fellow who has not the slightest objection to
take his share of both; and from the days of Homer's heavy-handed
heroes, down to those of the doughty Major Dugald Dalgetty himself, a
good commissariat has always been considered essential to the success of
all warlike enterprise. Every campaigner knows what a subject of
speculation and excitement is afforded by the prospect of "what he will
have for dinner," and the scantiness of that meal, together with the
difficulty of providing for it, seems but to add to the zest with which
it is enjoyed. Many a quaint incident and laughable anecdote is related
of the foraging propensities of our allies, particularly the Zouaves,
who had learned their trade in Algeria, and profited by the lessons of
their Khabyle foe. The Frenchman, moreover, knows how to _cook_ a
dinner _when_ he has filched it, which is more than can be said for our
own gallant countrymen.
Had it not been for Fortnum and Mason--names which deserve to be
immortalised, and which will ever be remembered with gratitude by the
British army--our heroes would indeed have been badly off for luxurious
living on that bracing and appetite-giving plateau. Yet, thanks to the
energy of this enterprising firm, Amphitryons were enabled to indulge
their taste for hospitality, and guests to admire and criticise the
merits of the very commendable delicacies placed before them.
A dinner-party at Sebastopol, just out of cannon-shot, had something
inexpressibly enlivening in its composition. There was no lack of news,
no lack of laughter, no lack of eatables and drinkables, above all, no
lack of hunger and thirst. The same faces were to be seen around the
board that might have been met with at any dinner-table in London, but
white neckcloths and broadcloth had given place to tawny beards and
tarnished uniforms, whilst the bronzed countenances and high spirits of
the party formed an exhilarating contrast to the weary looks and vapid
conversation which makes London society, in its own intrinsic
attractions, the stupidest in the world.
The sun's last rays are lighting up that well-known hill where sleeps
"the bravest of the brave," he whose name will go down to our children's
children coupled with Inkermann, as that of Leonidas with Thermopylae.
He whose fall evoked a deed of chivalry such as minstrel and troubadour
snatched from oblivion in the olden time, and handed down to us for a
beacon along the pathway of honour. Had they ever a nobler theme than
this? A chief falls, surrounded and overpowered, in his desperate
attempt to retrieve the fortunes of a day that he deems all but lost.
His friend and comrade, faint and mangled, turns once more into the
battle, and bestrides the form of the prostrate hero. One to ten, the
breathless and the wounded against the fresh and strong, but the heart
of an English gentleman behind that failing sword, beat down and
shattered by the thirsty bayonets. An instant the advance is checked.
An instant and they might both have been saved. Oh, for but one
half-dozen of the towering forms that are even now mustering to the
rescue! They are coming through the smoke! Too late--too late! the
lion-hearted chieftain and the gentle, chivalrous warrior are down,
slain, trampled, and defaced, but side by side on the bed of honour; and
though the tide sweeps back, and the broken columns of the Muscovite are
driven, routed and shattered, to the rear, _their_ ears are deaf to the
shout of victory, _their_ laurel wreaths shall hang vacant and unworn,
for they shall rise to claim them no more.
The setting sun is gilding their graves--the white buildings of
Sebastopol smile peacefully in his declining rays--the sea is blushing
violet under the rich purple of the evening sky. The allied fleets are
dotted like sleeping wild-fowl over the bosom of the deep; one solitary
steamer leaves its long dusky track of smoke to form a stationary cloud,
so smooth is the water that the ripple caused by the sunken ships can be
plainly discerned in the harbour, and the Russian men-of-war still
afloat look like children's toys in the distance of that clear, calm
atmosphere. The bleak and arid foreground, denuded of vegetation, and
trampled by a thousand footmarks, yet glows with the warm orange hues of
sunset, and the white tents contrast pleasingly with here and there the
richer colouring of some more stationary hut or storehouse. It is an
evening for peace, reflection, and repose; but the dull report of a
68-pounder smites heavily on the ear from the town, and a smart
soldier-servant, standing respectfully at "attention," observes, "The
General is ready, sir, and dinner is upon the table."
In a grotto dug by some Tartar hermit out of the cool earth are
assembled a party of choice spirits, who are indeed anchorites in
nothing but the delight with which they greet the refreshing atmosphere
of their banqueting-hall. A flight of stone steps leads down into this
well-contrived vault, in so hot a climate no contemptible exchange for
the stifling interior of a tent, or even the comparative comfort of a
wooden hut thoroughly baked through by the sun. A halting figure on
crutches is toiling painfully down that staircase, assisted, with many a
jest at their joint deficiencies, by a stalwart, handsome Guardsman, a
model of manly strength and symmetry, but lacking what he is pleased to
term his "liver wing." They are neither of them likely to forget the
Crimea whilst they live. Ere they reach the bottom they are overtaken
by a cavalry officer with jingling spurs and noisy scabbard, who, having
had a taste of fighting, such as ought to have satisfied most men, at
Balaklava, is now perpetually hovering about the front, disgusted with
his enforced idleness at Kadikoi, and with a strong impression on his
mind--which he supports by many weighty arguments--that a few squadrons
of Dragoons would be valuable auxiliaries to a storming party, and that
a good swordsman on a good horse can "go anywhere and do anything."
"I think we are all here now," says the host; "Monsieur le General,
shall we go to dinner?"
The individual addressed gives a hearty affirmative. He is a stout,
good-humoured-looking personage, with an eagle eye, and an extremely
tight uniform covered with orders and decorations. He is not yet too
fat to get on horseback, though the privations of campaigning seem to
increase his rotundity day by day, and he expects ere long to go to
battle, like an ancient Scythian, in his war-chariot. By that time he
will be a marshal of France, but meanwhile he pines a little for the
opera, and enjoys his dinner extremely. He occupies the seat of honour
on the right hand of his host. The latter bids his guests welcome in
frank, soldier-like style; and whilst the soup is handed round, and
those bearded lips are occupied with its merits, let us take a look
round the table at the dozen or so of guests, some of whom are destined
ere long to have their likenesses in every print-shop in merry England.
First of all the dinner-giver himself--a square, middle-sized man, with
a kindling eye, and a full, determined voice that suggests at once the
habit of command--a kindly though energetic manner, and a countenance
indicative of great resolution and clear-headedness; perhaps the best
drill in the British army, and delighting much in a neat touch of parade
tactics even before an enemy. Many a Guardsman nudged his comrade with
a grin of humorous delight when, on a certain 20th of September, his old
colonel coolly doubled a flank company in upon the rear of its
battalion, and smiled to see the ground it would otherwise have occupied
ploughed and riddled by the round-shot that was pouring from the enemy's
batteries in position on the heights above the Alma. The British
soldier likes coolness above all things; and where in command of foreign
troops an officer should rave and gesticulate and tear his hair to
elicit a corresponding enthusiasm from his men, our own phlegmatic
Anglo-Saxons prefer the quiet smile and the good-humoured "_Now_, my
lads!" which means so much.
On the left, and facing the Frenchman, sits a middle-aged
decided-looking man, somewhat thoughtful and abstracted, yet giving his
opinions in a clear and concise manner, and with a forcible tone and
articulation that denote great energy and firmness of character. His
name, too, is destined to fill the page of history--his future is bright
and glowing before him, and none will grudge his honours and promotion,
for he is endeared to the army by many a kindly action, and it has been
exertion for their welfare and watching on their behalf, that have
wasted his strong frame with fever, and turned his hair so grey in so
short a time. Soldier as he is to his heart's core, he would fain be
outside in the sunset with his colours and his sketch-book, arresting on
its pages the glorious panorama which is even now passing away; but he
is listening attentively to his neighbour, a handsome young man in the
uniform of a simple private of Zouaves, and is earnestly occupied in
"getting a wrinkle," as it is termed, concerning the interior economy
and discipline of that far-famed corps. The Zouave gives him all the
information he can desire with that peculiarly frank and fascinating
manner which is fast dying out with the _ancien regime_, for though a
private of Zouaves he is a marquis of France, the representative of one
of the oldest families in the Empire, and a worthy scion of his
chivalrous race. Rather than not draw the sword for his country, he has
resigned his commission in that body of household cavalry termed "The
Guides," and entered as a trooper in the Chasseurs d'Afrique: a display
of martial enthusiasm for which he has been called out from the ranks of
his original corps and publicly complimented by the Empress Eugenie
herself. Arrived in the Crimea, he found his new comrades placed in
enforced idleness at far too great a distance from active operations to
suit his taste, and he forthwith exchanged once more into the Zouaves,
with whom he took his regular share of duty in the trenches, and he is
now enjoying a furlough of some six hours from his quarters, to dine
with an English general, and cultivate the _entente cordiale_ which
flourishes so vigorously on this Crimean soil. Alas for the gallant
spirit, the graceful form, the warm noble heart! no bird of ill omen
flew across his path as he came to-day to dinner, no warning note of
impending death rang in his ears to give him notice of his doom.
To-night he is as gay, as lively, as cheerful as usual; to-morrow he
will be but a form of senseless clay, shot through the head in the
trenches.
Meanwhile the champagne goes round, and is none the less appreciated
that although there is an abundance of bottles, there is a sad
deficiency of glasses. A light-hearted aide-de-camp, well accustomed to
every emergency, great or small, darts off to his adjoining tent, from
which he presently returns, bearing two tin cups and the broken remains
of a coffee-pot; with these auxiliaries dinner progresses merrily, and a
fat turkey--how obtained it is needless to inquire--is soon reduced to a
skeleton. A little wit goes a long way when men are before an enemy; and
as the aide-de-camp strongly repudiates the accusation of having
purloined this hapless bird, jokes are bandied about from one to
another, every one wishing to fasten on his neighbour the accusation of
knowing how to "make war support war."
The English officers are a long way behind their allies in this useful
accomplishment; and the French general shakes his jolly sides as he
relates with much gusto sundry Algerian experiences of what we should
term larceny and rapine, but which his more liberal ideas seem to
consider excusable, if not positively meritorious.
"The best foragers I had in Algeria," says he, "were my best soldiers
too. If I wanted fresh milk for my coffee, I trusted to the same men
that formed my storming parties, and I was never disappointed in one
case or the other. In effect, they were droll fellows, my Zouaves
Indigenes--cunning too, as the cat that steals cream; the Khabyles could
keep nothing from them. If we entered their tents, everything of value
was taken away before you could look round. To be sure we could carry
nothing with us, but that made no difference. I have seen the men wind
shawls round their waists that were worth a hundred louis apiece, and
throw them aside on a hot day on the march. There was one Khabyle chief
who was very conspicuous for the magnificent scarlet cashmere which he
wore as a turban. On foot or on horseback, there he was, always
fighting and always in the front. Heaven knows why, but the men called
him Bobouton, and wherever there was a skirmish Bobouton was sure to be
in the thick of it. One day I happened to remark 'that I was tired of
Bobouton and his red shawl, and I wished some one would bring me the
turban and rid me of the wearer.' A little swarthy Zouave, named Pepe,
overheard my observation. '_Mon Colonel_,' said he, with a most
ceremonious bow,' to-morrow is your _jour de fete_--will you permit me
to celebrate it by presenting you with the scarlet turban of Bobouton?'
I laughed, thanked him, and thought no more about it.
"The following morning, at sunrise, I rode out to make a reconnaissance.
A party, of whom Pepe was one, moved forward to clear the ground.
Contrary to all discipline and _ordonnance_, my droll little friend had
mounted a magnificent pair of epaulettes. Worn on his Zouave uniform,
the effect was the least thing ridiculous. As I knew of no epaulettes in
the camp besides my own, I confess I was rather angry, but the enemy
having opened a sharp fire upon my skirmishers, I did not choose to
sacrifice an aide-de-camp by bidding him ride on and visit Pepe with
condign punishment; so, reserving to myself that duty on his return, I
watched him meanwhile through my glass with an interest proportioned to
my regard for my epaulettes, an article not too easily replaced in
Algeria. Nor were mine the only eyes that looked so eagerly on the
flashing bullion. Bobouton soon made his appearance from behind a rock,
and by the manner in which he and Pepe watched, and, so to speak,
'stalked' each other, I saw that a regular duel was pending between the
two. In fine, after very many manoeuvres on both sides, the Zouave
incautiously exposed himself at a distance of eighty or ninety paces,
and was instantaneously covered by his watchful enemy. As the smoke
cleared away from the Khabyle's rifle, poor Pepe sprang convulsively in
the air, and fell headlong on his face. 'Tenez!' said I to myself,
'there is Pepe shot through the heart, and I shall never see my
epaulettes again.'
"The Khabyle rushed from his hiding-place to strip his fallen
antagonist. Already his eyes glittered with delight at the idea of
possessing those tempting ornaments--already he was within a few feet of
the prostrate body, when 'crack!' once more I heard the sharp report of
a rifle, and presto, like some scene at a carnival, it was Bobouton that
lay slain upon the rocks, and Pepe that stood over him and stripped him
of the spoils of war. In another minute he unrolled the red turban at
my horse's feet. '_Mon Colonel_,' said he, 'accept my congratulations
for yourself and your amiable family. Accept also this trifling token
of remembrance taken from that incautious individual who, like the mouse
in the fable, thinks the cat must be dead because she lies prostrate
without moving. And accept, moreover, my thanks for the loan of these
handsome ornaments, without the aid of which I could not have procured
myself the pleasure of presenting my worthy colonel with the shawl of
_ce malheureux Bobouton_.' The rascal had stolen them out of my tent
the night before, though my aide-de-camp slept within two paces of me,
and my head rested on the very box in which they were contained."
"Alas! we have no experiences like yours, General," says a tall,
handsome colonel of infantry, with the Cape and Crimean ribbons on his
breast; "wherever we have made war with savages, they have had nothing
worth taking. A Kaffre chief goes to battle with very little on besides
his skin, and that is indeed scarce worth the trouble of stripping.
When we captured Sandilli, I give you my word he had no earthly article
upon his person but a string of blue beads, and yet he fought like a
wildcat to make his escape."
"Your health, my friend," replies the General, clinking his glass with
that of his new acquaintance. "You have been in Caffraria? Ah! I
should have known it by your decorations. Are they not a fierce and
formidable enemy? Is it not a good school for war? Tell me,
now"--looking round the table for an explanation--"why do you not
reserve South Africa, you others, as we do the northern shore, to make
of it a drill-ground for your soldiers and a school for your officers?
It would cost but little--a few hundred men a year would be the only
loss. Bah!--a mere trifle to the richest and most populous country in
the world. I do not understand your English _sang-froid_. Why do you
not establish _your_ Algeria at the Cape?"
Many voices are immediately raised in explanation; but it is difficult
to make the thorough soldier--the man who has all his life been the
military servant of a military Government--understand how repugnant
would be such a proceeding to the feelings of the British people--how
contrary to the whole spirit of their constitution. At length, with
another glass of champagne, a new light seems to break in upon him.
"Ah!" says he, "it would not be approved of by _Le Times_; now I
understand perfectly. We manage these matters better with us. _Peste!_
if we go to war, there it is. We employ our _Gazettes_ to celebrate our
victories. Your health, _mon General_; this is indeed a wearisome
business in which we are engaged--a life totally brutalising. Without
change, without manoeuvring, and without pleasure: what would you? I
trust the next campaign in which we shall meet may be in a civilised
country--the borders of the Rhine, for instance; what think you?--where,
instead of this barbarian desert, you find a village every mile, and a
good house in every village, with a bottle of wine in the cellar, a
smoked ham in the chimney, and a handsome Saxon _blonde_ in the kitchen.
'_A la guerre, comme a la guerre, n'est ce pas, mon General?_'"
The company are getting merry and talkative; cigars are lit, and coffee
is handed round; the small hours are approaching, and what Falstaff
calls the "sweet of the night" is coming on, when the tramp and snort of
a horse are heard at the entrance of the grotto, a steel scabbard rings
upon the stone steps, and although the new-comer's place at one end of
the table has been vacant the whole of dinner-time, he does not sit down
to eat till he has whispered a few words in the ear of the English
general, who receives the intelligence with as much coolness as it is
imparted.
In five minutes the grotto is cleared of all save its customary
occupants. The French general has galloped off to his head-quarters;
the English officers are hurrying to their men; each as he leaves the
grotto casts a look at an ingenious arrangement at its mouth, which, by
means of a diagram formed of white shells, each line pointing to a
particular portion of the attack, enables the observer to ascertain at
once in which direction the fire is most severe. The originator of this
simple and ingenious indicator meanwhile sits down for a mouthful of
food. He has brought intelligence of the sortie already described, and
which will turn out the troops of all arms in about ten minutes; but in
the meantime he has five to spare, and, being very hungry, he makes the
best use of his time. As the light from the solitary lamp brings into
relief that square, powerful form--that statue-like head, with its
fearless beauty and its classical features--above all, the frank, kindly
smile, that never fades under difficulties, and the clear, unwavering
eye that never quails in danger,--any physiognomist worthy of the name
would declare "that man was born to be a hero!" And the physiognomist
would not be mistaken.