The Romance of Modern Sieges

“October 3.– Sebastopol is not yet invested. It is only threatened on the south and south-east side by the army, while the fleet attacks it from the east. There is an enormous boom across the entrance, and many ships have been sunk close to shore. The Russians can throw shot further from their batteries than we can from our decks. Their shot went over us the other day when ours were falling 500 yards short.

“Since we landed in the Crimea as many have died of cholera as perished at the Alma. The deserters say that thirty Russian ladies went out of Sebastopol to see the Alma battle, as though they were going to a picnic. They were quite assured of the success of the Russian troops, and great was their dismay when they had to fly for their lives.

“Bad news to-day about the Dragoons’ horses. Some 200 horses coming from Varna have perished en route. The sea ran high: fittings and horse-boxes gave way, and the horses got loose upon the deck, and were killed or washed overboard.

“October 9.– An amusing incident has happened. Towards noon a large ship, under Austrian colours, was seen standing in towards Sebastopol. The Russian Fort Constantine opened fire on her at 2,500 yards, but the ship paid no attention to the shot and shell which flew over her. The other Russian batteries followed suit; still the Austrian cared not. Not a sheet did she slack, while the shot struck her hull and rigging. She came right past the batteries, and passed them unscathed, nearing the shore as she came. The Firebrand went to her assistance, and received several shot in her hull while doing so, but Captain Stuart persevered and brought her off. What do you think? Why, she had been deserted by her crew when the wind failed and she was getting too near Sebastopol. But she was laden with 600 tons of hay for the English army. Her escape is almost miraculous, but it is a proof of the bad gunnery of the Russians.

“October 13.– It is now eighteen days since our army, by a brilliant march on Balaklava, obtained its magnificent position on the south side of Sebastopol. Up to this moment not a British or French gun has replied to the fire of the enemy. The Russians have employed the interval in throwing up earthworks, trenches, and batteries, to cover the south side of the town.

“The delay had been quite unavoidable. We had to send all our guns and material round by sea, and land it as best we could. All these enormous masses of metal were to be dragged by men or a few horses over a steep and hilly country a distance of eight miles. You have some idea of the severity of the work in the fact that on the 10th no less than thirty-three ammunition horses were found dead. We had now opened out about 1,500 yards of trench fit for the reception of heavy guns.

“‘Jack’ made himself very useful to us. The only thing against him was that he is too strong. He pulls strong carts to pieces as if they were toys; he piles up shot-cases in the waggons till the horses fall under the weight, for he cannot understand ‘the ship starting till the hold is full.’ But it is most cheering to meet a lot of these jolly fellows working up a gun to the camp: from a distance you can hear a hearty English chorus borne on the breeze. The astonishment of the stupid, fur-capped Crim Tartars, as they stare at the wondrous apparition of our hairy Hercules, is ludicrous to a degree; but ‘Jack’ salutes every foreigner who goes by with the same cry, ‘Bono, Johnny!’ and still the song proceeds.

“October 22.– Lord Dunkellin, Captain Coldstream Guards, was taken prisoner this morning. He was out with a working party of his regiment, which had got a little out of their way, when a number of men were observed through the dawning light in front of them. ‘They are the Russians!’ exclaimed one of his men. ‘Nonsense! they’re our fellows,’ said his lordship, and went off towards them, asking in a high tone as he got near: ‘Who is in command of this party?’ His men saw him no more. The Russians fired no shot, but merely closed round and seized him before he could get away.

“October 25.– At half-past seven this morning an orderly came galloping in to the head-quarters camp from Balaklava with the news that at dawn a strong corps of Russian horse, supported by guns and battalions of infantry, had marched into the valley, and had already nearly dispersed the Turks of the redoubt No. 1, and that they were opening fire on the other redoubts, which would soon be in their hands unless the Turks offered a stouter resistance. Sir George Cathcart and H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge were ordered to put their divisions, the fourth and the first, in motion for the scene of action. Sir Colin Campbell, who was in command of Balaklava, had drawn up the 93rd Highlanders in front of the road to the town. The French artillerymen and Zouaves prepared for action along their lines.

“Lord Lucan’s little camp was full of excitement. The men had not had time to water their horses; they had not broken their fast yet, and had barely saddled at the first blast of the trumpet, when they were drawn up on the slope behind the redoubts. Soon after eight o’clock Lord Raglan and his staff cantered up towards our rear; a French General, Bosquet, with his staff and an escort of Hussars, followed at a gallop.

“Never did the painter’s eye rest on a more beautiful scene than I beheld from the ridge. The fleecy vapours still hung around the mountain-tops, and mingled with the ascending volumes of smoke from the cannonade; the patch of sea sparkled freshly in the rays of the morning sun, but its light was eclipsed by the flashes which gleamed from the masses of armed men below.

“To our disgust, we saw the Turks fly at the approach of the Russians; but the horse-hoof of the Cossack was too quick for them, and sword and lance were busily plied among the retreating herd. The yells of the pursuers and pursued were plainly audible. The Turks betake themselves to the Highlanders, where they check their flight, and form into companies on the Scotsmens’ flanks.

“The Russian cavalry, seeing the Highlanders, halt till they have about 1,500 men along the ridge – Lancers, Dragoons, and Hussars. They drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders, who were drawn up two deep. The ground flies beneath their horses’ feet; gathering speed at every stride, they dash on towards that thin red streak topped with a line of steel.

“The Turks fire a volley at 800 yards and run. As the Russians come within 600 yards, down goes that line of steel in front, and out rings a rolling volley of minié musketry. The distance is too great; the Russians come on. With breathless suspense every one awaits the bursting of the wave upon the line of Gaelic rock; but ere they come within 150 yards, another deadly volley flashes from the levelled rifle, carrying death and terror into the Russians. They wheel about, open files right and left, and fly back faster than they came. ‘Bravo, Highlanders! well done!’ shout the excited spectators.

“But events thicken. The Russians – evidently corps d’élite– their light blue jackets embroidered with silver lace, were advancing at an easy gallop towards the brow of the hill. A forest of lances glistened in their rear, and squadrons of grey-coated Dragoons moved up to support them.

“The instant they came in sight the trumpets of our cavalry gave out the warning blast which told us all that in another moment we should see the shock of battle beneath our very eyes. Lord Raglan, all his staff and escort, groups of officers, Zouaves, French Generals and officers, bodies of French infantry on the heights, were spectators of the scene, as though they were looking on the stage from the boxes of a theatre. Nearly every one dismounted and sat down in deep silence.

“The Russians rode down the hill at a slow canter, which they changed to a trot, and at last nearly halted. Their line was at least double the length of ours, and it was three times as deep. Behind them was a similar line, equally strong and compact. They evidently despised their insignificant-looking enemy, but their time was come. The trumpets rang out again through the valley: the Scots Greys and the Enniskillens went right at the centre of the Russian cavalry.

“The space between them was only a few hundred yards; it was barely enough to let the horses gather way. The Russian line brings forward each wing as our horse advance, and threatens to annihilate them as they pass.

“Turning a little to the left to meet the Russian right, the Greys rush on with a cheer that thrills to every heart; the wild shout of the Enniskillens rises at the same instant. As lightning flashes through a cloud, the Greys and Enniskillens pierce through the dark masses of the Russians. The shock was but for a moment. There was a clash of steel, a light play of sword-blades in the air, and then the Greys and the red-coats vanish in the midst of the shaken and quivering columns. In another moment we see them emerging and dashing on with diminished numbers, in broken order, against the second line, which is advancing against them as fast as it can to retrieve the fortune of the charge.

“It was a terrible moment. God help them! they are lost!

“With unabated fire the noble hearts rode at their enemy. It was a fight of heroes. The first line of Russians, though broken, had turned, and were coming back to swallow up our poor handful of men. By sheer steel and sheer courage Enniskillen and Scot were winning their desperate way right through the enemy’s squadrons, and already grey horses and red coats had appeared at the rear of the second mass, when, with irresistible force, the 1st Royals, the 4th Dragoon Guards, and the 5th, rushed at the remnants of the first line of the enemy, went through it as though it were made of pasteboard, and dashing on the second body of Russians, still disordered by the terrible assault of the Greys and Irish, put them to utter rout. A cheer burst from every lip. In the enthusiasm officers and men took off their caps and shouted with delight, clapping their hands again and again.”

Lord Raglan at once despatched Lord Curzon to convey his congratulations to General Scarlett, and to say “Well done!”

The gallant old officer’s face beamed with pleasure when he received the message. Our loss was very slight – about thirty-five killed and wounded.

Presently General Canrobert, attended by his staff, rode up to Lord Raglan, and complimented him upon the magnificent charge of our cavalry.

It was shortly after this that the historic charge of the Light Brigade took place, owing to an order misinterpreted. Lord Lucan received a written order from Brigadier Airey through Captain Nolan to advance his cavalry nearer to the enemy.

“Where are we to advance to?” asked Lord Lucan.

Captain Nolan pointed with his finger to the mass of Russian cavalry, the six battalions of infantry, and the thirty guns that faced them, and said: “There are the enemy, sir, and there are the guns; it is your duty to take them.”

Don Quixote in his tilt against the windmill was not so rash and reckless as the gallant fellows who prepared thus to rush on almost certain death.

It is a maxim of war that “cavalry never act without a support,” that infantry should be close at hand. The only support our light cavalry had was the reserve of heavy cavalry a long way behind them.

As they swept proudly past, officers could scarcely believe the evidence of their senses. Surely that handful of men are not going to charge an army in position! At the distance of 1,200 yards from thirty iron mouths there belched forth a flood of smoke and flame. There were instant gaps in our ranks – dead men and horses, riderless horses starting aside – but the remnant rode on into the smoke of the batteries. You could see their sabres flashing as they cut down the gunners; you saw them return, break through a column of infantry, then, exposed to a flank fire from the battery on the hill, scattered, broken, wounded, dismounted, flying towards their base. But at this moment a large body of Lancers was hurled on their flank. They were cutting their way through this mass when there took place an act of atrocity without parallel in modern warfare. The Russian gunners had returned to their guns: they saw their own cavalry mingled with the troopers who had just ridden over them, and, to their eternal disgrace, poured in a murderous volley of grape and canister, thus mingling friend and foe in one common ruin.

All our operations in the trenches were lost sight of in the interest of this melancholy day, in which our Light Brigade was annihilated by their own rashness and by the brutality of a ferocious enemy.

“November 3.– There were many spies in our camp – sometimes dressed like French officers – and we not clever enough to detect the bad French. The other night the sentinel before the house of the Provost-Marshal in Balaklava was astonished to see a horse, with a sack of corn on his back, deliberately walking past him in the moonlight. He went over to seize the animal, when the sack of corn suddenly became changed into a full-grown Cossack, who drove the spurs into his horse and vanished!

“Our sentries often fraternized with the Russian sentries. A few nights ago our men saw some Russian soldiers coming towards them without arms, and they supposed them to be deserters; but, on coming nearer, they made signs that they wanted a light for their pipes, and then they stayed a few minutes, talking. First Russian: ‘Englise bono!’ First Englishman: ‘Ruskie bono!’ Second Russian: ‘Oslem no bono!’ Second Englishman: ‘Ah, Turk no bono!’ pretending to run away as if frightened, upon which all the party go into roars of laughter, and then, after shaking hands, they retire to their respective beats, ready for the bloody work of war.”

From Sir W. Howard Russell’s “Letters from the Crimea.” By kind permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sons, Ltd.

CHAPTER IX

AFTER INKERMANN (1854-55)

Valiant deeds – Lord Raglan under fire – Tryon the best shot – A Prince’s button – A cold Christmas – Savage horses – The Mamelon redoubt – Corporal Quin – Colonel Zea.

The Battle of Inkermann was fought on the 5th of November, 1854, in a thick fog. It began very early in the morning with a surprise, and developed into a series of desperate deeds of daring, of hand-to-hand fights, of despairing rallies, of desperate assaults in glen and valley, in brushwood glades and remote dells. At six o’clock in the morning our men of the Second Division were roused by their tents being ripped to pieces by Russian shells. In darkness, gloom, and rain the British troops sallied forth to meet the foe – with the bayonet if they could.

Many valiant deeds were done. Some were noted, many were unmarked. Lieutenant Crosse was surrounded by Russians, who attacked him with the bayonet, though he was badly wounded. He shot two with his revolver. Then a private, running up to help him, shot another, bayonetted the fourth, and carried the Lieutenant away in his arms.

MacGrath was captured by two Russians, but while they were leading him away he seized the firelock of one of them, shot the Russian, and dashed out the brains of the other.

Burke was surrounded just as a ball broke his jawbone. He rushed amongst his enemies, shot three dead with his revolver, and cut two men down with his sword. He fell at last with more than thirty wounds in his body.

When Sir George Cathcart was shot and our men were retiring, Colonel Seymour, of the Guards, a dear friend who had served with him through the campaign in Kaffirland, rushed forward to help him, and in so doing was shot through the leg.

“Come back, Colonel!” the men shouted as they swept past the two officers.

“No, no; my place is here with Sir George,” replied Seymour.

“You must leave him,” cried General Torrens; “the enemy are close at hand. You will be killed, man!”

But nothing could persuade the Colonel to leave the side of his dying chief. There he remained, alone against the rushing tide of battle, and met a hero’s death in endeavouring to protect his friend from insult and mutilation.

When, later in the day, some of the French troops were seen to retire before the impetuous onslaught of the Russian masses, Lord Raglan despatched an aide-de-camp to General Pennefather, who was near the French division, to ask how he was getting on.

The General sent word in reply that he could hold his own perfectly well, and that he thought the enemy looked like retiring.

“If I can be reinforced with fresh troops, I will follow the Russians up and lick them to the devil.”

Lord Raglan was so delighted with this spirited answer that he galloped over to the French General Canrobert and translated General Pennefather’s words literally to him.

“Jusqu’au diable, Général!” That was what he said.

Canrobert, who had just remounted his horse, after having his arm bound up, exclaimed: “Ah! quel brave garçon! quel brave homme! quel bon Général!”

The day ended with a great artillery duel, in which Colonel Dickson won great renown, and mowed down great lanes through the massed forces opposed to him, until they broke and fled.

Captain Peel, of H.M.S. Diamond, greatly distinguished himself for his marvellous sang-froid in action. A shell fell close to a gun which he was laying in the trenches. Instead of running to take cover, he picked up the shell and lifted it over the parapet. The shell exploded just after it left his hands, and did no damage, whereas had it burst on the spot where it fell, probably many men would have been killed and wounded.

A private of the 33rd (Duke of Wellington’s) Regiment was surprised and made prisoner by two Russian soldiers when an advanced sentry. One of the Russians took possession of his musket and the other of his pouch, and they marched him between them towards Sebastopol. It was not the direction which Tommy wanted to take, so he kept wary watch, and when he fancied his captors were off their guard, he sprang on the one who carried his musket, seized it, knocked the fellow down, and then shot dead the Russian who carried his pouch. Meanwhile the Ruskie from whom Tommy had taken his own musket rose up from his recumbent position, fired and missed his aim. Tommy promptly hit him on the head with the butt end of his musket. After this the Englishman proceeded at leisure to take off his foes’ accoutrements, and he returned to his post laden with spoils, being fired at by the Russian sentries and cheered loudly by the English pickets.

But Lord Raglan himself gave several instances of great coolness under fire. He was sitting on horseback during the Battle of Inkermann, in the midst of a battery of artillery, watching our men working the guns. A very heavy fire was being directed against this part of the field, and one of his staff suggested the propriety of his not putting himself in quite so dangerous and conspicuous a place, especially as, from the number of bullets that came singing by, it was clear he was being made a mark for the enemy’s riflemen.

Lord Raglan, however, merely said: “Yes, they seem firing at us a little; but I think I get a better view here than in most places.”

So there he remained for some time, and then, turning his horse, rode along the whole length of the ridge at a foot’s pace. Some of the hangers-on about the staff found they had business elsewhere, and cantered unobtrusively away.

Towards evening of the same day Lord Raglan was returning from taking his last leave of General Strangways, who had been mortally wounded, and was riding up towards the ridge. A sergeant of the 7th Fusiliers approached, carrying canteens of water to take up for the wounded. As Lord Raglan passed, he drew himself up to make the usual salute, when a round shot came bounding over the hill and knocked his forage-cap off his head.

The man calmly picked up his cap, dusted it on his knee, placed it carefully on his head, and then made the military salute, all without moving a muscle of his countenance. Lord Raglan was delighted with the sergeant’s coolness, and, smiling, said to him: “A near thing that, my man!”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the sergeant, with another salute; “but a miss is as good as a mile.”

One of the most painful things during the battle was the number of wounded horses. Some of the poor creatures went grazing about the fields, limping on three legs, one, perhaps, having been broken or carried away by a shot. Others were galloping about wildly, screaming with terror and fright. At times two or three horses would attach themselves to the staff, as if desirous of company or for human protection. One poor beast, who had its nose and mouth shot away, used to edge in amongst the staff and rub its gory head against their horses’ flanks. He was at last ordered to be put out of his pain, being in this more fortunate than many poor soldiers, who lay out for several nights in their agony.

It was a day or two after that the best shot in the British Army was killed. Lieutenant Tryon, of the Rifle Brigade, was shot through the head when in the act of firing at the retreating Russians. He was a great loss, much beloved by his men. It is stated that he had himself killed over a hundred Russians. At the Battle of Inkermann he employed himself the whole day in firing at the Russian artillerymen. He had two of his men to load for him, and they say that he knocked over thirty Russians, besides wounding several more.

General Canrobert issued a general order eulogizing the conduct of our Rifles, and lamenting in just terms the death of Lieutenant Tryon.

This must be the first occasion on record of a French General particularizing the bravery of a British officer of Tryon’s rank.

There is a story told which proves that Russian Generals were not dead to a sense of humour.

A Mr. C – , an officer in an English regiment, was taken prisoner in a sortie of the Russians, and was sent on to Simferopol. A day or two after his arrival there he received some letters from England which had been sent in with a flag of truce. One of these letters was from a young lady who was engaged to Mr. C – . In this letter she wrote:

“I hope, dearest, that if you take Prince Menchikoff prisoner, you will cut a button off his coat and send it to me in a letter, as you know how fond I am of relics.”

All these letters had been opened and translated at the Russian headquarters, as is usual. Prince Menchikoff was shown this letter, which amused him not a little; so he wrote to Mr. C – , saying how much he regretted he was unable to pose as a prisoner, when it was the other way about; but he had much pleasure in sending him the enclosed button off his best coat, which he trusted Mr. C – would forward to the young lady with his compliments.

By December the whole army was suffering, worn out by night work, by vigil in rain and storm, by hard labour in the trenches, by cholera and short allowances. For nine days there was no issue of tea, coffee, or sugar to the troops. Food, corn, hay were stowed in sailing-vessels outside the harbour. A hurricane arose. To the bottom went provender and food for twenty days of all the horses. You could hardly tell an officer from a corporal. They were all hairy and muddy, filthy, worn, mounted on draggle-tailed ponies. Yet withal we are told they were the noblest, cheeriest, bravest fellows in Europe – ready to defy privation, neglect, storm, and wounds. Letters, it is true, sometimes came from the Crimea in which the writer showed a righteous indignation against those who mismanaged affairs and caused so much unnecessary loss and suffering. In one of these we read:

“January 2.– We have had a rough and dreary Christmas. Where are our presents? where are the fat bucks, the potted meats, the cakes, the warm clothing, the worsted devices made by the fair sympathizers at home? They may be on their way, but they will be too late. Why are our men still in tents? Where are the huts that were sent out? Some of them I have seen floating about the beach; others are being converted into firewood. There are 3,500 sick men in camp; there are 8,000 sick and wounded in the hospitals on the Bosphorus.

“Snow is on the hills, and the wind blows cold. We have no greatcoats. Our friends the Zouaves are splendid fellows, always gay, healthy, well fed. They carry loads for us, drink for us, eat for us, bake for us, forage for us – and all on the cheapest and most economical terms.