A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War

No one could help that gallant 4000, for everywhere troops were urgently needed against threatened attack. But lack of numbers was fully compensated for by a courage which becomes even more remarkable as one thinks of it – courage sufficient to urge them to march over that crest, and, leaving their tents, amongst which cannon-shot were already hurtling, to descend the slope and advance against an army of huge proportions. Fortune favours the brave, indeed, for where can history show a brighter example? Eager for the fight, and reckless of the consequences, the British troops descended the ridge and threw themselves upon the enemy. The mist opened, and the Russians saw a double line of red, and faces furious with excitement and lust of battle, charging upon them, but next moment the British ranks were hidden. A breath of wind to dispel the vapour would have turned the fortunes of the battle, and changed glorious victory for the British into disastrous defeat. But there was no breeze, no puff of wind to clear the atmosphere, and, ignorant of the thinness of the opposing lines, and feeling sure that they were already face to face with the bulk of the allied army, the Russians came forward slowly and carefully. There was none of that dash and recklessness which would have brought them victory; instead, they paused, swayed this way and that, torn incessantly by volleys from rifles which, far superior to their own, caused ghastly slaughter in their ranks; and gave way whenever a company of England’s soldiers fell upon them.

Meanwhile what had happened at the barrier? Two hundred of the 30th Foot lay behind it, and alone met the central column with their bayonets. Rushing at the low wall of stones, swarms of grey-coated warriors attempted to climb it, only to be hurled back from the bayonets. Time and again did they renew the assault, but always with the same result. And all the while bullets pelted amongst them, so that at length, despairing of surmounting the barrier, they turned to the left and joined one of the lateral columns. All day long did that gallant handful of the 80th cling to their position, and almost incessantly were they called upon to oppose other bodies of Russian troops, who came to renew the combat. Worn out with their exertions, with blackened faces and blood-stained clothing, they threw themselves upon the miry ground and slept the sleep of exhaustion till another alarm was given, when, shaking off their drowsiness by an effort of will, they sprang to their feet once more, and, grasping rifles, again flung themselves upon the enemy. Gallant souls indeed they were, but not more brave and determined than their comrades upon that memorable battle-field. Sweeping by them on the right one Russian column fell upon the flank of the British and hurled it aside by sheer weight of numbers. Then, advancing rapidly, they wheeled to the left, and were within an ace of taking the division in rear. But again fortune favoured the British. Buller hurried up with reinforcements at this moment, and, falling upon them with bull-dog ferocity, pushed them back, then rent them in pieces, and sent them hurrying away in disorder.

And on the British right events of no small moment were taking place. Pushing past the barrier, with the 200 of the 30th growling on their flank, and constantly hurling volleys at them, an enormous column closed with the soldiers in red and pressed them up and up the hill till the crest and the sandbag battery were reached.

And now commenced a stage in the battle that is memorable, that stands out amongst all the glorious deeds of that splendid day as more glorious than all the rest. As if at school and struggling for the possession of some imaginary castle, British and Russians fought fiercely for the sandbag battery. A mere mound of earth, and having no guns, it was but a mark, a ridge upon the rolling crest, which attracted the eye. Foiled in their main attempt to force the enemy back and march on towards Balaclava, the Russians forgot the object of the day, and those in the neighbourhood of the battery straggled furiously for its possession. Frantic with rage and disappointment, and with noble courage, they hurled themselves upon it time and again, only to be as bravely met and dashed down the hill once more. Grim, bareheaded, and full of valour the Guards clustered round that battery and disputed its ownership with the Russians. Undaunted by the numbers advancing, time and again they hurled them back, and then stood leaning upon their rifles, and between their gasps for breath called to the Russians to come again, to mount the slope and capture the position. And the grey-coated host glared up at them across a stretch of beautiful green turf now piled high with poor lads who had fought their last fight. Yes, hundreds of fine men lay there, some barely more than boys, others in the prime of life, gaunt, raw-boned Russian linesmen, with ugly red streaks upon their faces, or big patches of like colour growing ever larger upon the grey cloth of their uniforms. Amongst them, too, still clutching rifles, and some even with hands clenched and tightly grasping their enemies, lay fine stalwart Guardsmen, young men in the pride of youth and strength, and veterans. Death had called them away, and just as many an eye would dim, and cheeks be moistened, in far-away Russian cabins for those near and dear who had gone, so in good old England women and lasses would soon be weeping for those gallant sons and brothers who had died for the country’s good.

For long hours the conflict raged round the battery, but though the Russians were in far greater numbers than the British, the Guardsmen budged not an inch; and when the day was done, stood victorious and proud owners of the position.

Meanwhile the orderly lines of the Second Division had been broken by sheer weight of numbers, and pushed back here and there; in other parts they pressed forward with irresistible valour into the enemy’s columns, and fought on in parties of two hundred, and often less – as few even as twenty, – with desperate courage and determination, and with a lust of battle and ferocity that was truly marvellous. Not once, but many times, these small groups flung themselves upon the enemy, and, thrusting and slashing on every side, cut their way to the very centre of the mass of grey, pushed on with assailants surrounding them, and at length passed to the other side, only to turn and bury themselves once more in the Russian ranks.

Late in the day, too, when the fate of the battle still hung in the balance, more artillery arrived, and, engaging the batteries on Gun Hill, caused them to retire. Then slowly and grudgingly the Russian infantry turned round and retreated in disorder to the heights of Inkermann, leaving an enormous number of killed and wounded behind them.

Oh for Scarlett’s Heavy Brigade, or the remainder even of that glorious 600 horse who had charged into “the gates of hell” on Balaclava day! One dash, one fierce charge amidst those retreating soldiers, and defeat would have been a rout, a decisive victory, which even at this date might well have led to the surrender of the fortress and the humbling of Russian pride.

But no horse were there, and the retreating forces of the Czar reached their bivouacs sullen and dispirited at their crushing defeat, but without suffering further injury save from the shell and plunging shot as the British guns opened upon the flying mass.

But that deep valley and the slopes leading to the ridge were piled with dead and wounded innumerable, for both sides had lost heavily, the Russian casualties amounting to many thousands.

Phil took his full share in the battle, while Tony hovered like a guardian angel near him, many a time turning aside a flashing bayonet meant for his friend.

One thrust, indeed, got home, the bayonet transfixing Phil’s thigh and bringing him to the ground.

With a roar Tony was upon the man and had knocked him senseless with a tremendous blow on the head from the stock of his rifle. Then, lifting Phil, he carried him into a safer position behind the barrier of stones.

“It’s nothing,” exclaimed Phil, with a smile. “Slit up my trousers and just tie your handkerchief round. That’s it. Now I think I shall be all right. The pain made me feel a little faint.”

Taking a pull at his flask, which contained weak brandy and water, he was soon on his feet again, and had taken his place in the fighting-line. When all was over, Tony helped him back to his tent, and fetched the regimental doctor, who bandaged the wound.

“It’s a simple flesh wound,” the latter said encouragingly, “and, if you rest a little, will give you no trouble beyond a little stiffness. The difficulty is to get you young fellows to sit still for a moment. But you must rest, and as there happens to be a convoy going to Balaclava in an hour’s time I’ll send you with it and have you put on one of the ships.”

“I’d rather stay here and get well,” said Phil eagerly. “After all, it’s only a scratch, and will be right in a week.”

“Now, I’m treating you, my boy,” the doctor exclaimed shortly, “and for your own good I shall send you on board ship, so there is an end of the matter.”

Phil resigned himself to what he thought was a hard fate, for he was anxious to stay with his regiment. But no doubt rest for a few days was required, and the doctor was right in insisting upon it.

“Pack up my things, Tony, and we’ll see whether I cannot get a lift in an araba,” he said. “The convoy is to start from the crest, so you might slip up and see what can be done.”

Tony did as he was told, and was able to secure a place for his master. Phil was then carried to the top of the hill, and, being lifted into the cart, was driven off. The convoy reached Balaclava at dawn, and Phil, with Tony in attendance, and some fifty other wounded men was sent on board a small schooner, which at once weighed anchor, and sailed out of the harbour.

“Nasty place that,” said the captain, a rough-faced, genial old sea-dog, jerking his thumb towards the harbour. “Safe as a house so long as the wind’s off shore; but once it begins to blow the other way, God help those aboard ship. There’ll be only bare rocky cliffs to welcome them if the vessels go ashore, and how could they help doing that, for the anchorage is notoriously unsafe? Can’t imagine why they stick there! There’s many a safer harbour hereabouts.”

The captain looked anxiously at the fine transports swinging to their cables, and then muttering “Thank heavens I shall be at sea and have a better chance than they!” nodded to Phil and dived below.

He was a knowing man, this sailor, and, being accustomed to the Black Sea, was well aware that the season for violent gales and storms of rain and snow had now arrived. That night indeed, and all the following day, it blew so fiercely that the vessel’s bowsprit carried away, and she was obliged to put back into Balaclava for repairs. A few days later she once more set sail.

“Don’t like the look of things,” muttered the captain, looking round anxiously as they sailed from the mouth of the harbour. “If it comes on to blow on-shore to-night it’ll be bad for them ships in there. But it isn’t my affair. The chap as is in command has been warned more than once already.”

“Do you think we are going to catch it again?” asked Phil.

“Can’t say for certain, but it looks precious like it; I wonder what the glass is doing?” and with an anxious expression the captain went to consult his barometer.

“Falling fast,” he said shortly, “and it’s getting much colder. We’re in for a dusting, I think. Mr King, get those sails taken off her, and make all taut. I’ll go my rounds in half an hour and see how things are.” He crossed the deck and fell into earnest conversation with his mate, leaving Phil to make his way aft and talk matters over with Tony.

The captain’s fears were not unfounded. That evening, November 14th, a gale of wind sprang up, blowing dead on-shore, and soon a terrific storm was raging. With her head jammed close up into it, the Columbine seemed to make fair progress; but soon darkness had obscured the cliffs, and there was nothing by which to judge their position.

“We’re far closer to those cliffs than I like,” Phil shouted in Tony’s ear. “Still, we seem to be getting well out to sea, and if only we can manage that we ought to be safe.”

“I’d rather be fighting the whole Russian army than knocking about here,” Tony roared back. “’Tain’t that only neither. This sea puts a chap off his grub, and we ain’t had such a lot of late as to let us afford it. Look what a rat I’m getting;” and with a comical air of despair he clutched the tunic he wore, to show that it was too large for him.

An hour passed, and it was very evident that the fury of the storm increased rather than diminished. Phil struggled on to the poop and found his way to the captain’s side.

“We’re in the hands of Providence, I reckon,” cried the old sailor reverently. “Every foot we make we lose to leeward, and away over in that direction are the cliffs. We’re running a trifle more along the coast now, for there’s not a ship that’s built that could face this gale. God help us, young man! We can do nothing more for ourselves.”

Three hours later a tremendous sea struck the ill-fated ship and smashed her rudder to pieces. Instantly she commenced to broach to.

“Get a grip of something to hold you up,” shouted the captain. “That’ll finish her. Good-bye, lad!”

Phil grasped his hand for the moment and looked into his face. It showed more clearly than a book could how desperate the situation was.

Leaving him, he crawled along to Tony.

“Get hold of a rope, old man,” he screamed in his ear. “She’s going fast towards the rocks.”

Whipping out their knives, they soon obtained two long pieces of stout cordage. With these they tied two of the large wooden gratings at the hatchway together, and obtaining some more rope, secured themselves to the woodwork, so that if the ship went down the hatchings would float away and support them.

Meanwhile huge billows of green water poured on board, thumping the ship till every timber quivered. Then one immense wave curled right over her and smashed her decks like an egg-shell. Immediately all was confusion. Shouts occasionally reached Phil’s ear, and he once caught sight of the grey-headed old captain kneeling in prayer. A moment later another wave turned the unfortunate Columbine completely over, and, filling at once, she sank like a stone.

Phil felt as though he was being smothered. The din of rushing water rang in his ears, and intense darkness surrounded him. He fought and kicked madly. Then something struck him sharply on the head, and he grasped the grating to which he was tied, and with an effort dragged himself upon it. Close alongside was the other grating, and upon it, clinging with all his might, was Tony. And thus, side by side, one now dancing on the summit of a wave, while the other hung in the trough, drenched with water of icy coldness and almost smothered by the surf and rain, they drifted fast towards those inhospitable black cliffs against which the tempest thundered.

Chapter Eighteen.

Saved from the Deep

More than an hour of misery and terror passed as Tony and Phil clung, half-submerged, to their gratings, and as they held on, the sound of huge waves, breaking upon the iron-bound coast to which they were fast approaching, grew louder. Phil pulled upon the rope which kept their fragile rafts together and shortened it, bringing them close alongside one another.

“Good-bye, old man!” he shouted, between two gusts of wind.

Tony’s mouth opened and he bellowed something, but the words were carried away on the gale. Conversation, even by shouting, being hopeless, they once more fell into despairing silence.

“What has happened?” cried Phil half an hour later. “We seem to have left the crash of waves on the cliff behind us, and already the sea seems to be going down.”

Tony crept closer. “The wind ain’t going down,” he shouted hoarsely. “It’s blowing stronger if anything, and though we lies low in the water, we’re bowling along in fine style. Can’t make it out, mate; this sea going down looks as if we’d been washed into some sheltered cove. Anyway we shall know soon,” and he jerked his arm to the right, where already the black clouds were lifting.

Half an hour passed, when Phil suddenly caught sight of high cliffs to right and left, while on the summit of one of them seemed to be a fort, for the white masonry was distinctly visible. He stared through the gloom and sweeping sheets of spray, and thought he detected another fort on the opposite side. A few minutes later they were washed through a large opening in the cliffs, and the forts flashed by on either side; at the same moment the sea became still quieter, and the roar of the wind seemed left behind them.

“I think I saw a fort on either side,” cried Phil, “and as I know there is only one harbour on this coast with high cliffs and forts, I feel certain that we are drifting into Sebastopol. Great Scott! We shall be made prisoners again.”

Tony groaned. “Can’t be helped,” he shouted, suddenly brightening. “If we are, why, it’ll just give us the fun and excitement of escaping again. But, old friend, this here’s an escape from sudden and horrible death, and if it hadn’t been that the Almighty up there, above them black clouds, had been keeping His eye on us, we’d have been washing about amongst the fishes hours ago.”

Tony looked upwards to the sky, and his lips moved. Phil watched him curiously, and there, tossing on the storm-troubled water, offered up a prayer for his safety so far. Nor could he help contrasting Tony’s condition of mind as it was at that moment with what it had been when first he made his acquaintance in the menagerie many months before.

“Hallo! What’s that over there?” he suddenly shouted, catching sight of a dark mass in the water. “It looks like a piece of wreckage. Perhaps there is someone on it.”

Both stared at the object which, being much larger and higher out of the water, bore down upon them quickly. There was no doubt now that it was a portion of a ship, perhaps of the wrecked Columbine, and in the hope that it was, Phil and his friend dipped their hands in the water and slowly propelled themselves so as to lie in its path.

“I can see something red on it,” said Phil, shading his eyes. “Can you make anything out, Tony?”

“There’s a chap there in red breeches, or I’m an idiot, Phil. Yes, I can see him plainly. He’s tied to the wreckage, and as far as I make out there isn’t a move in him. Tell yer what, old man, that would be a safer place than these here gratings, and I advise that we swop.”

When the floating mass reached them, Phil and Tony sprang on to it, securing their gratings to it, and casting off the ropes with which they had fastened themselves. Lashed to a ring-bolt was a little, red-breeched French linesman, apparently dead.

Phil cut his lashings free, and turning him on to his back, tore his coat open. “Not dead yet,” he cried eagerly. “Lend a hand here, Tony. We’ll pull this fellow round. He is as cold as ice, so we’ll take his shirt off and rub his chest and arms. That ought to restore the circulation.”

Setting to work with a will they tore the clothing from the unconscious Frenchman, and chafed his body and limbs with such energy that soon there were obvious signs of returning consciousness, and moreover their exertions had made both of them thoroughly warm, whereas before they had been numbed with cold.

Suddenly their ally opened his eyes and stared round wildly.

“Mon Dieu!” he groaned, and seemed to relapse into unconsciousness. Once more opening his eyes he stared at Phil, and, recognising him as an English officer, stretched out his hand, while a look of relief and gladness overspread his face.

“Mon cher, mon cher!” he cried joyfully. “Ah, zis is ze grand plaisir. Ah!”

“Cheer up, my good fellow,” said Phil kindly, patting him on the shoulder, for, overcome by emotion, the little man had burst into tears. “Come, tell us how you came to be wrecked like us. You speak our language, so we shall be able to understand.”

“Oui, monsieur, I speak ze language of ze English. Ah, I speak ’im well!” laughed the Frenchman, with some pride. “Once I live in England three months and act as a waiter. You wish to know how I came here. Ah, c’est terrible!” And he covered his face with his hands.

“Now then, pull yerself together, little ’un!” exclaimed Tony encouragingly. “We’re all in the same box. Fire away and let’s have the yarn.”

“Eh, bien,” said the little man, sitting up. “I leave my beloved France six months ago, and sail for to fight ze perfide Russian. Then after ze battle for Balaclava, – monsieur, what horsemen terrible are yours – I get ze malade; ze – what you call ’im – ah, ze water and ze cold do catch me here;” and placing his hands on his stomach, he rolled his eyes till the whites alone showed, and groaned dismally. “Ze officer say, ‘mon pauvre garçon!’” he continued, “and send me on the ship Henri Cinq.”

“What! you don’t mean to say that that fine boat has gone down?” interrupted Phil.

“Alas, monsieur, it is true!” the Frenchman answered, lifting his hands. “Behold, all is peace; ze sun ’e shine so brightly. Then ze tempest come, ze ship fight bravely, and then rush on the land. ‘Sauve qui peut’, ze captain shout, and I tie myself here. Then I think of my country, and all is dark. I wake, and you are here, mon cher. Aha! what does he matter? Mais – ah, monsieur, mes pauvres camarades!” and once more the little man relapsed into tears.

Meanwhile the wreckage had been rapidly drifting, and as the darkness lifted it became perfectly evident that the harbour into which the gale had swept them was indeed that on the shore of which Sebastopol was built. Soon sentries noticed the wreckage, and before long boats had put off to secure it, for wood was of value for fires. To offer any opposition was hopeless; the three were lifted into one of the boats, and were rowed swiftly into the inner harbour, where they were handed over to a guard.

“Our second visit to this place,” said Tony disgustedly. “Blow’d if it ain’t the hardest luck as ever was. But I sha’n’t grumble no more. We’ve come safe through when other lads have gone to their last. I say we was saved by a miracle.”

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Phil. “We have much to be thankful for.”

“Then you have been prisonaire before?” asked the Frenchman, astonished.

“We only escaped a matter of three weeks ago,” answered Phil.

“You make ze escape, monsieur?” the little man repeated, lifting his eyebrows in his amazement. “Truly, you Englishmen are brave. Ha, ha!” he went on, clapping his hands, “what need I, Pierre Moutard, fear? We will make ze escape with each others, and we will snap ze fingers at our perfide enemy;” and, putting his arms akimbo and throwing his chin proudly in the air, he frowned at the nearest sentry as though he would eat him. The man answered with a hoarse growl, causing the Frenchman to start and take his place between Phil and Tony rather hurriedly.

“Aha, ze perfide!” they heard him mutter beneath his breath. “He think ’e frighten me.”

“I wonder where they will take us!” mused Phil. “If only they will be good enough to put us in the same prison as last time, I think we can guarantee that we will get out somehow.”

“That we will,” answered Tony with emphasis. “But what about this here Froggy with the red legs?” he asked in a cautious whisper. “He’s kind of tied himself on to us – made pals of us, yer see, – so I suppose he’ll have to escape with us too?”

He asked the question as though an escape had been already arranged.

“Heaps of time to think of that,” said Phil, with a laugh. “But I must say the little man seems rather nervous.”

“Pah! nervous! Just fancy getting frightened when one of these surly-looking guards growls at him. It’s disgusting, that’s what it is.”

“Well, we won’t worry about it now, Tony. Look out. Here come our orders.”

An officer joined the group at this moment, and closely inspected the prisoners.

“What has happened?” he asked, less gruffly than usual.

“We were wrecked by the storm and blown into the harbour,” answered Phil in his best Russian.

“Ah, you speak our language, sir! Good! You were wrecked, you say, and must therefore be cold and exhausted. Sergeant, take the prisoners into the guard-room, and bring this officer to my quarters. See that coffee and a glass of vodka are given to the other two. In half an hour you will call for my guest and march them all three to the prison-hall.”