Chapter II (2)

Thus far I had been an eye-witness of one of the noblest feats of arms that ever was seen upon a battle-field. It spoke volumes to the rising generation. Go and do likewise. Never say die. A brave man can die but once, but a cowardly sneak all his life long. It told the enemy plainly the metal our cavalry were made of. They said that we were red devils at the Alma; it must be acknowledged that they got well lathered then, and now the Union Brigade of heavy horse had shaved them very roughly. As for the Light Brigade, with sickness, disease, a strong escort for our commander-in-chief, and mounted orderlies for the different generals, it hardly mustered the strength of one regiment on an Indian footing. There was a lot of excitement on the hill-side when we found the Light Brigade was advancing, first at a steady trot, then they broke into a gallop. Their noble leader, the Earl of Cardigan, might well say, "Here goes the last of the Cardigans!" Some one (an officer) said, "What on earth are they going to do? Surely they are not going to charge the whole Russian army? It's madness." But, madness or not, they were simply obeying an order. And this noble band pressed on towards the enemy, sweeping down the valley at a terrific pace in all the pride of manhood. Every man's heart on that hill-side beat high. "They are lost! they are lost!" burst from more than one spectator. The enemy's guns, right, left, and front, opened upon this devoted band. A heavy musketry fire was likewise opened; but still they pressed on. The field was soon strewn with the dead and wounded. It was a terrible sight to have to stand and witness, without the power of helping them. The excitement was beyond my pen to express. Big briny tears gushed down more than one man's face that had resolutely stormed the Alma. To stand and see their countrymen rushing at a fearful pace right into the jaws of death was a most exciting scene to stand and witness. The field was now covered with the wreck of men and horses. They at last reached the smoke. Now and then we could hear the distant cheer and see their swords gleaming above the smoke, as they plunged into one of the terrible batteries that had swept their comrades down. An officer very kindly lent me his field glass for a short time. The field presented a ghastly sight, with the unnatural enemy hacking at the wounded; some trying to drag their mangled bodies from the awful cross-fires, but a few escaped the bloodthirsty Cossack's lance. We could see the enemy formed up to cut off all retreat; but it was now do or die. In our fellows went, with a ringing cheer, and cut a road through them; and now to our horror, the brutish enemy opened their guns with grape upon friend and foe, thus involving all in one common ruin, and the guns again opened on their flanks. It was almost miraculous how any of that noble band escaped. Our gallant allies, the French, had witnessed the heroic deeds of the Light Brigade, and now the Chasseurs went at the enemy in a most dashing manner to help to rescue the remains of such a noble band. The chivalrous conduct of our allies, the French, on this field will always be remembered with gratitude; they had ten killed and twenty-eight wounded. The loss sustained by the Light Brigade will be found in the table of losses. This was the only field on which our cavalry were engaged during the campaign. At the Alma, a few squadrons were on the field, but not engaged. At Inkermann a portion of the cavalry were formed up; they then would have had a chance if the enemy had broken through the infantry. As far as the siege was concerned, they only did the looking-on part. Our gallant allies, the French, admired much the conduct of our cavalry, both heavy and light. General Bosquet said that the charge of the heavies was sublime; that of the Light Brigade was splendid; "but it was not war." We have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that the Light Brigade was sacrificed by a blunder. It is but little use trying to lay the blame on the shoulders of poor Captain Nolan; had he lived the cavalry would have gone at our guns and re-captured them, or had a good try for it. It was Lord Lucan, and no one else, that ordered the charge. To say the least of it, it was a misconception of an order. But I am confident that Old England will long honour the memory of the noble Six Hundred.

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league, onward,
All in the Valley of Death,
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply;
Their's not to reason why;
Their's but to do and die:
Into the Valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode, and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd;
Plung'd in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke,
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke,
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not--
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them--
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made,
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
_Alfred, Lord Tennyson._

My readers will please remember that my party was unarmed, hence my keeping out of harm's way. Had we been armed, I should most likely have gone down the hill at the double, and formed up on the left of the thin red line--the 93rd Highlanders. Shortly after the sanguinary charge of the Light Brigade I moved forward as fast as I could. On arriving at Balaclava I found the stores closed up, and the Assistant Quartermaster-General ordered me to take my party on to the field, to assist in removing the wounded, as far as it lay in my power. Off I went at once. I found the cavalry still formed up. The Light Brigade were but a clump of men! Noble fellows, they were few, but fearless still. I was not allowed to proceed further for some time, and I had the unspeakable pleasure of grasping more than one hand of that noble brigade. There was no mistaking their proud look as they gave me the right hand of fellowship. A sergeant of the old Cherry Pickers, who knew me well, gave me a warm shake of the hand, remarking, "Ah! my old Fusilier, I told you a week ago we would have something to talk about before long." "But," I replied, "has there not been some mistake?" He said, "It cannot be helped now; we have tried to do our part. It will all cone out some day." My men carried a number of the Heavies from the field to the hospitals; then I got my store of priceless blankets, and off we plodded through the mud back to camp. We had something to talk about on our way home. Our gallant allies, the French, were in high glee, they could hardly control themselves. As soon as they caught sight of us, they commenced to shout "_Bon Anglais, Bon Anglais!_" and so it continued until I reached our camp. But exciting and startling events now rapidly succeeded each other: the victorious cavalry had hardly sheathed their swords, after their conflict with the enemy, when about ten thousand, almost maddened with drink and religious enthusiasm, took another peep at our camp next day, supported by some thirty guns. They were driven back into the town quicker than they came out. This was afterwards called Little Inkermann, and was a stiff fight while it lasted.

But it was such desperate deeds as we are recounting that brought out the material that has built up this vast and glorious old Empire, the home of the undefeated race of happy men; this "beautiful isle of the sea," which is, so to speak, the citadel of an empire such as the world has never before seen. It is five times as large as that under Darius, four times the size of that which owned the sway of ancient Rome, sixteen times greater than France, forty times greater than united Germany, three times larger than the United States. Australia alone is nearly as large as the States. India has 1,250,000 square miles, Canada 600,000 square miles. Our empire has nearly 9,500,000 sq. miles, with a population of 310,000,000. And this has been built up by such indomitable pluck as that displayed at Albuera, Assaye, Balaclava, Delhi, Ferozeshah, Inkermann, Plassey, Pyrenees, Salamanca, Trafalgar, Vittoria, Waterloo, and scores of other fields, by the sons of Albion, side by side the undaunted sons of the Green Isle. I have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that the English-speaking nation will be the universal nation. We have for many years past been compelled to send our children away to make room in this tight little isle. The vast continent of North America is peopled from the stout old loins of this God-defended isle. Our language is already spoken in more than half the civilised world. All we want is unity with the English-speaking race, and we have nothing to fear.

THE NOBLE SIX HUNDRED.

The wind of dawn is breathing, the mists of night are wreathing
Up from the valley in white swathes, the mountain range is sheathing;
Watch-fires are burning dimly, hill batteries frowning grimly.
Troop horses in the plain below at their pickets tethered trimly.
When in with hot haste riding, our out-pickets bring tidings
That the Russians within the eastern gorge were hiding:
"Boot and saddle" and _reveillé_ in the cool clear air, ring gaily,
And horse and foot are forming, all eager for the melée.

Would to God that gallant charge had closed the bloody day,
Then clear of blame had shown the fame of Balaclava's fray;
But who is there with patient tongue the sorry tale to tell?
How our Light Brigade, true martyrs, to the point of honour fell.
'Twas "sublime," but 'twas not warfare, that charge of woe and wrack,
That led six hundred to the guns and brought two hundred back.
Enough, the order came to charge, and charge they did like men,
Whilst shot and shell and rifle-ball played on them down the glen.

Though thirty guns were ranged in front, not one e'en bated breath,
Unfaltering, unflinching, they rode upon their death;
Nor by five times their numbers of all arms could they be stayed,
And with two lines for one of ours, e'en then the Russians paid.
Till torn with shot and rent with shell, a spent and bleeding few,
Life worn against those fearful odds from the grapple they withdrew;
But still like wounded lions their faces to the foe,
More conquerors than conquered, they fall back stern and slow.

With dinted arms and wearied steeds, all bruised and soiled and torn,
Is this the wreck of all that rode so bravely out that morn?
Where thirty answered muster at dawn now answered ten,
Ah! woe's me for such officers, woe's me for such men.
Whose was the blame? name not his name, but rather seek to hide.
If he live leave him to conscience, to God if he have died.
But for you, brave band of heroes, your country knows you well;
It asks not to what purpose, it knows but how you fell.

MILITARY HEROISM.

To overcome in battle, and subdue
Nations, and bring home spoils with infinite
Manslaughter, shall be held the highest pitch
Of human glory, and for glory done
Of triumph, to be styled great conquerors,
Patrons of mankind, gods, and sons of gods!
Destroyers rightlier call'd, and plagues of men!
_Milton._

Well, reader, the charge of our Light Brigade at Balaclava, backed up by that of the Heavies, will not die; it will be remembered when the bones of those who there sustained the honour of our Island lie rotting in the tomb!

LITTLE INKERMANN.

But I have something else in store. Our turn came next day, 26th October--Little Inkermann, as our men named it. About mid-day the enemy came out of the town in very strong columns, and attacked us just to the right of the Victoria Redoubt; the fighting was of a very severe nature. The 2nd Division, under Sir De Lacy Evans, received them first; and a part of the Light Division had a hand in it. The enemy made cock-sure of beating us and brought trenching tools with them, but were again doomed to be disappointed. We were hardly prepared for them; but soon collected ourselves, and closed upon them with the bayonet, when, after some hard fighting, they were hurled from the field. They paid dearly for a peep at our camp, leaving close upon 1000 dead and wounded. They retired much quicker than they came, with our heavy guns sweeping them down by scores, and cutting lanes through their columns. Our Artillery on this occasion did great execution, whilst a continuous rain of Minie rifle balls mowed their ranks like grass, and for the finishing stroke they got that nasty "piece of cold steel;" our huge Lancaster guns simply killed the enemy by wholesale. General Bosquet kindly offered assistance, but the reply of our commander was, "Thank you, General, the enemy are already defeated, and too happy to leave the field to me."

The attack of the 26th was nothing more nor less than a reconnaissance in force, preparatory to the memorable battle of Inkermann; but it cost them heavily, while we also lost a large number of men. On this field the brutal enemy distinguished themselves by bayoneting all our wounded that the picquets were compelled to leave behind in falling back for a short distance. The stand made by the picquets of the 30th, 55th, and 95th on our right was grand, for they retired disputing every stone and bush that lay in their way. The following morning our commander, under a flag of truce, reminded the Russian chief that he was at war with Christian nations, and requested him to take steps to respect the wounded, in accordance with humanity and the laws of civilized nations. Nevertheless, the remonstrance did not stop their brutality. A few days later, on the memorable field of Inkermann, the Russians murdered almost every wounded man who had the misfortune to fall into their hands. Whilst the picquets were holding on with desperation, the Royal Fusiliers and portions of the Royal Welsh, 33rd Duke's Own, and 2nd battalion Rifle Brigade, went with all speed to the five-gun battery, to reinforce our picquets there, and a portion of us were directed to the slopes of the White-house ravine. We had just got into position when we observed one of the enemy retiring towards Sebastopol with a tunic on the muzzle of his rifle belonging to one of the Fusiliers, who was on fatigue in the ravine cutting wood when the attack commenced. Having nothing to defend himself with, he had to show his heels. One of the Rifle Brigade at once dashed off shouting that the tunic should not go into the town. As the Rifleman neared the Russian he turned and brought his rifle to the present. John Bull immediately did the same. As luck would have it, neither of them were capped. They closed to box, the Briton proving the Russian's superior at this game, and knocked him down, jumping on the top of his antagonist: but the Russian proved the strongest in this position, and soon had the Rifleman under. We watched them, but dared not fire. A corporal of the Rifles ran as fast as he could to assist his comrade, but the Russian drew a short sword and plunged at our man, and had his hand raised for a second. The corporal at once dropped on his knee and shot the Russian dead. Our men cheered them heartily from the heights. They were both made prisoners of by an officer, and in due course brought before the commander of our forces, who made all enquiries into the case, and marked his displeasure with the young officer by presenting £5 to the gallant Rifleman for his courage in not allowing the red coat to be carried into Sebastopol as a trophy, and promoted the corporal to sergeant for his presence of mind in saving the life of his comrade. No end of dare-devil acts like the above could be quoted, for the enemy always got good interest for anything which they attempted.

Our numbers were now fast diminishing from sickness and hardship; our clothing began to get very thin; we had none too much to eat, and plenty of work, both by night and by day, but there was no murmuring. We had as yet received no reinforcements; though the enemy had evidently been strongly reinforced. Day after day passed without anything particular being done except trench work. Our men went at it with a will--without a whimper--wet through from morn till night; then lay down in mud with an empty belly--to get up next morning, perhaps, to go into the trenches and be peppered at all day; to return to camp like drowned rats, and to stand to arms half the night.

ACROSTIC ON NAPOLEON.

The following acrostic on Napoleon, told in "Literary
Eccentricities and Curiosities," was composed by a professor
at Dijon, as soon as the entrance of the Allies into that
town had enabled its loyal population to declare in favour
of its legitimate sovereign:--

N ihil fuit;
A ugustus evenit;
P opulos reduxit;
O rbem disturbavit;
L ibertatem oppressit;
E cclesiam distraxit;
O mnia esse voluit;
N ihil erit.

It would be difficult to give a more concise and more
faithful history of Napoleon's whole career. The following
is a translation of the lines--a rough one, it is true; but
it still retains the acrostic characteristic of the
original:--

N aught he was;
A monarch he became;
P eoples he reduced;
O verturned the world;
L iberty he cursed;
E cclesiastics he worried;
O mnipotent he wished to be;
N aught he shall be.

The following letter was written from the

Camp before Sebastopol,
October 27th, 1854.

My Dear Parents,

Long before this reaches you, you will have heard that our
bombardment has proved a total failure; if anything, we got
the worst of it. The French guns were nearly all silenced,
but our Allies stuck to us well. But you will have heard
that we have thrashed the enemy again, on two different
fields. On the 25th inst., they attacked our position at
Balaclava, and the people that we are fighting for (the
Turks,) bolted, and let them take our guns. Our cavalry got
at them--it was a grand sight, in particular the charge of
the Heavy Brigade, for they went at them more like madmen
than anything that I can explain; the Greys and Enniskillens
(one a Scotch and the other an Irish regiment) went at them
first, and they did it manfully. They rode right through
them, as if they'd been a lot of old women, it was a most
exciting scene. I hear that the Light cavalry have been cut
to pieces, particularly the 11th Hussars and the 17th
Lancers. The rumour in camp is that someone has been
blundering, and that the Light Cavalry charge was all a
mistake; the truth will come out some day. The mauling that
our Heavy Cavalry gave the enemy they will not forget for a
day or two. I was not engaged in fighting, but simply going
down to Balaclava on fatigue. You will most likely see a
full account of the fight in the papers, and I feel that you
will be more interested in our fight, which we had yesterday
(the 26th.) What name they are going to give it, I do not
know. It lasted about an hour-and-a-half, but it was very
sharp. The 2nd and Light Divisions had the honour of giving
them a good thrashing, and I do not think they will try
their hands at it again for a little while. We had not much
to do with it; it was the 30th, 41st, 49th, and 95th that
were particularly engaged, and they gave it them properly.
We supported them; the field was covered with their dead and
wounded--our Artillery simply mowed them down by wholesale.
The Guards came up to our assistance, but they were not
engaged more than they were at Balaclava. We charged them
right to the town. I heard some of our officers say they
believed we could have gone into the town with them; but our
noble old commander knew well what he was about. I mean Sir
De Lacy Evans, for he commanded the field. You must excuse
this scrawl, as I must be off; I am for the trenches to
night. It is raining in torrents, so we are not likely to be
short of water; but I am as hungry as a hunter. Don't be
uneasy; thank God I am quite well, and we must make the best
of a bad job. As long as we manage to thrash them every time
we meet them, the people at home must not grumble--while
they can sit by their firesides and smoke their pipes, and
say we've beat them again. We begin to get old hands at this
work now. It is getting very cold, and the sooner we get at
the town and take it, the better. It is immensely strong,
and looks an ugly place to take, but we will manage it some
day. The enemy fight well behind stone walls, but let us get
at them, and I will be bound to say, that we will do the
fighting as well as our forefathers did under Nelson and
Wellington. Bye-the-bye, our sailors who man our heavy guns,
are a tough and jolly set of fellows. I shall not finish
this letter until I come off duty.

October 29th.

Well, I've got back to camp again. We have had a rough
twenty-four hours of it; it rained nearly the whole time.
The enemy kept pitching shell into us nearly all night, and
it took us all our time to dodge their Whistling Dicks
(huge shell), as our men have named them. We were standing
nearly up to our knees in mud and water, like a lot of
drowned rats, nearly all night; the cold bleak wind cutting
through our thin clothing (that is now getting very thin and
full of holes, and nothing to mend it with.) This is ten
times worse than all the fighting. We have not one ounce too
much to eat, and, altogether, there is a dull prospect
before us. But our men keep their spirits up well, although
we are nearly worked to death night and day. We cannot move
without sinking nearly to our ankles in mud. The tents we
have to sleep in are full of holes; and there is nothing but
mud to lie down in, or scrape it away with our hands the
best we can--and soaked to the skin from morning to night
(so much for honour and glory). I suppose we shall have
leather medals for this one day--I mean those who have the
good fortune to escape the shot and shell of the enemy, and
the pestilence that surrounds us. I will write as often as I
can; and if I do not meet you any more in this world, I hope
to meet you in a far brighter one. Dear mother, now that I
am face to face with death, almost every day, I think of
some of my wild boyish tricks, and hope you will forgive me;
and if the Lord protects me through this, I will try and be
a comfort to you in your declining days. Good bye, kind and
best of mothers. I must conclude now. Try and keep up your
spirits--

And believe me ever
Your affectionate son,
T. GOWING,
Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

A MOTHER'S LOVE.

A mother's love--how sweet the name,
What is a mother's love?
A noble, pure, and tender flame
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold,--
This is a mother's love.
_James Montgomery._

* * * * *

"The gates of mercy shall be all shut up:
And the fleshed soldier,--rough and hard of heart,--
In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell: mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants."
_Shakespeare._

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN.

On the morning of the 5th November the enemy attacked us in our trenches in broad daylight. Our heavy guns gave it them prettily, and mowed down their dense columns by wholesale; but still they came on, until they felt the bayonet. Then, after some stiff fighting, which lasted more than an hour, they were compelled to beat a hasty retreat, our heavy guns sweeping lanes through them, and we plying them with musketry both in front and flank. We found they could run well, only too glad to get under cover. A sortie has no chance of success unless the besieging army can be taken by surprise; but no doubt this attack was made in order to distract our commander's attention from the vital point.

The ever-memorable battle was then raging on our right rear, and by the shouts of the combatants and the tremendous firing, we knew that something very serious was going on, so as many of us as the General could spare were ordered to march as fast as our legs could carry us to the assistance of our comrades, then at the dreadful fight raging at Inkermann. As we had just drubbed the enemy terribly, our blood was up, but we were hungry: many of us had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours, and were wet through to the skin. They say an Englishman will not fight unless his belly is full; that's all bosh: let him once be roused, and you will soon see whether he will or not. Well, to the field we went, and the sights were something horrible, but there was not a desponding voice; the fog was so dense that at times we could not see twenty yards. Our men were falling very fast, for the enemy were in overwhelming strength, particularly in guns. But it is impossible to disguise the fact that the crafty Muscovites in the darkness and fog had stolen a march upon our commanders; that the Allies were taken completely by surprise; and that only the intrepidity of the picquets of the Light and Second Divisions saved the entire Allied Armies from an overwhelming disaster. We can now say without boasting that the heroic conduct of a mere handful of Britons were, and are to this day, the admiration of all. The determined rushes of the Muscovites were hurled back time after time. Their princes boasted that they would drive us all into the sea. So they would, perhaps, if weight of numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. At this critical moment the startling intrepidity of the sons of Albion, side by side with the heroic boys of the green isle, came out in all its native splendour, to shine by the side with that displayed at Trafalgar, Albuera, and Waterloo. Their deeds are to-day stimulating their descendants on the banks of the Nile, and will do till the end of time, or as long as we have an enemy to face, whether they are to be found on the burning plains of Egypt or the frontiers of Afghanistan. The queen of weapons was used with deadly effect, the drunken massive columns of the enemy were pitched over the rocks by men who might die but never surrender, and who had a strong objection to a watery grave. Our highest martial interest, honour, was at stake; but, reader, it was safe withal, from our much-respected Commander-in-Chief to the drummer-boy. They had all made up their minds to conquer or to die. Children yet unborn will exclaim "all honour to that band of heroes." The odds were heavy, but from the brutes we had to face we had no mercy to expect. Our Fourth Division--composed of the following regiments, the 20th, 21st, 57th, 63rd, 68th, and 1st Batt. Rifle Brigade, under Cathcart--fought at a disadvantage, having been armed with the old Brown Bess musket, against the Needle-Rifle which the enemy were armed with. Our weapons were almost as much use as a broomstick. Yet with all these disadvantages we smote the enemy with a terrible slaughter, and there was seen again with what majesty the British soldier fights. Our loss was heavy: three generals fell and every mounted officer, but our men fought to the bitter end, and stood triumphant on the rocky ridge, cheering for victory--the unconquerable heroism of the handful of men we knew would set the church-bells of old England ringing and clashing for victory, and give schoolboys a holiday. All regiments vied with each other, as the following will prove:--At the Alma and Balaclava we had fought for victory; but at the fight that was now raging, a mere handful of Britons were contending for very existence, for to be beaten here meant an ignominious death at the hands of a lot of fierce brutes, mad with drink--Dutch courage had to be poured into them to make them face our ranks. The drunken yells of their massive columns were answered by volley after volley at point-blank range, and then, with a clear and distinct cheer for old England, we closed upon them with the bayonet, and stuck to them like wax until they were hurled from the field. We had no supports or reserves, but every man, as fast as he could reach the field, went straight at them, with a shout that seemed to strike terror into them; and so the fight went on, hour after hour. In many parts of the field it was a horde of half-drunken madmen attacking cool and collected Britons, determined to conquer or die. Our Guards were the admiration of the whole army; their deeds at Inkermann will never fade. Led by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, they repeatedly buried themselves in the Russian columns, as cheer after cheer went up in defiance to the enemy's unnatural yell. The Guards, all must admit, set a glorious example, for if they had to die, they acted upon the old 57th motto, "Let us die hard." The daring, courage, and obstinacy of our Guards was grand; the terrible odds that they faced on this field puts Hougoumont in the shade, and ranks beside the unconquerable heroes of Albuera, fully justifying their high prestige in the army.

_The memorable foggy morning, 5th November, 1854._]

Some who read this may think that I am an old Guardsman--so I am; I had the pleasure of guarding the honour of our beloved Isle, in the 7th Royal Fusiliers. But, I wish to give honour where honour is due. The 7th, however, were not behind when hard fighting had to be done. One of our Majors--a Norfolk hero--Sir Thomas Troubridge, although he had both his feet shot away, would not give in, neither would he allow himself to be carried off the field, but continued fighting to the end. When he was lying apparently bleeding to death, with both his stumps resting upon a gun-carriage, he called upon us to "shift those fellows with the bayonet," animating us by voice and gesture. Although the poor man could not lead us, he could cheer us on. And on we went with an irresistible rush, and routed them then and there. On one occasion after he was wounded, he called upon us not to forget our bayonets, adding, "They don't like cold steel, men." Neither did I. It was here that I received two bayonet wounds, one in each thigh, and would most likely have been despatched, but that help was close at hand, and the fellows who wounded me fell at once by the same description of weapon, but not to rise again and write or talk about it. Revolvers and bayonets told heavily that foggy morn, and when our men were short of ammunition, they pitched stones at the enemy. My legs were quickly bandaged, and after giving the enemy a few parting shots at close quarters, which must have told upon their crowded ranks, I managed to hobble off the field, using my rifle and another I picked up as crutches. We could spare none to look after the wounded; it was every man for himself. After hobbling some distance out of the range of fire, I lay down, for I could get no further without a little rest. Our allies, the French, were then coming up to our assistance in a right mood for fighting. The Zouaves passed me with a ringing cheer of "Bon Anglais" and "Vive l'Empereur," repeated over and over again. A mounted officer of rank, who was with them, stopped and asked me a number of questions in good English. He turned and spoke to his men, and they cheered me in a most lusty manner. The officer kindly gave me a drink out of his flask, which revived me considerably, and then, with a hearty shake of the hand, bade me good-bye, and passed on into action, shouting out something about the enemy walking over his body before he would surrender. Thus was Waterloo and Trafalgar avenged, by the descendants of the vanquished advancing with rapid strides and a light heart, but with a strong arm, to assist the sons of Albion in one of the most unequal and bloody contests ever waged. Let us hope that the blood then spilt may have cemented for ever the friendship between the two nations who are so near neighbours. The French fought in a most dashing manner, side by side with us, till the enemy were driven from the field. The Russian officers fought with desperation, though their men hung back unless almost driven to it. But the reader must remember our men and the Zouaves plied the queen of weapons with terrible effect, and all met the enemy with an unconquerable energy, while we often stimulated each other by asking--what would they say of us in England?

But I could do no more; I had done all I could, and now had to remain and take my chance of being killed by a stray shot. It was hard work to lie there for upwards of an hour-and-a-half in suspense. I felt as if I should like to be at them, for a little satisfaction; but I had to lie passive.

I am proud to record that no regiment on that memorable field could take the shine out of the gallant old 7th Fusiliers. I lay on the field bleeding, when I heard the welcome shout of victory; I was shortly afterwards attended to, and carried to hospital, there remained for a day or two, and was then sent on to Malta, to be patched up ready for another go in at them.

I saw Inkermann's Heights on that memorable foggy morn,
A name now respected by Britons not then born;
The odds were seven to one, there was no desponding cry,
But, remember the Heights of Alma, we conquer or we die.

The enemy's loss was exceedingly heavy; twenty thousand men is the estimated loss of the Russians, in their endeavours to take the Heights of Inkermann on that memorable Sunday, 5th November, 1854. The carnage was something frightful, as our close point-blank fire had told heavily upon the enemy's columns. Our total strength on the field was about nine thousand, upwards of one third of whom fell killed or wounded; while of the six thousand French who came to help us, they lost seventeen hundred. But the enemy were completely routed, and England confessed that every man that foggy morn had done his duty. We had been fighting against heavy odds, and men armed with as good weapons as ourselves, while they were wrought up to a state of madness or desperation with drink.

Inkermann will not admit of much description, particularly from one who was in the thick of it. The fighting all day on that awful Sabbath was of a furious character. The bayonet was the chief weapon, and the Minie rifle balls told heavily upon the crowded ranks. To sum it up in a few words, every man had to, and did fight, as Britons ought to do when the honour of the nation is at stake. The best of Generals might have lost such a fight as Inkermann,--none could direct, for the fog was so dense that one could not see, at times, twenty yards. On came the Russian columns, but they had to go back time after time much quicker than they came.

The bayonet was used with terrible effect by all regiments. The enemy, driven on by their brave officers, had to and did literally climb over the heaps of their slain countrymen and ours, to renew this bloodthirsty contest, but they were met by British cold steel, and were hurled or pitchforked from the field. We might appropriately say of a number of the brave men who fell on that field in the hour of victory--

That nothing in their life
Became them like the leaving it.

We had proved, in a hundred fights, that no enemy could resist our men. But at Inkermann, victory hung in the balance, and our weak Battalions had to resist the enemy's heavy columns bayonet to bayonet. It was Greek meeting Greek, for a number of most determined encounters were maintained against very heavy odds; and as often as the Russian Infantry charged us, our people met them with that never-failing weapon. The 41st and 49th regiments held the Sandbag Battery, and were fairly mobbed out of it by the overwhelming numbers of the enemy, who were exulting in their victory with yells of triumph, when up came the Guards, and in they went with a cheer and a rush that told heavily upon the foe. The Russians, except the dead and dying, were literally lifted out of the battery and its vicinity, by these gallant regiments. Our army may well be proud of its present Commander-in-Chief, for it was His Royal Highness himself who led these unconquerable men. Fresh draughts of "Rackie" had to be issued to the legions of Russia, in order to make them face us again. All was done that could be devised by the enemy, in order to fasten victory to their standards. Holy Russia was represented on the field by the two Imperial Grand Dukes, sons of their sacred chief, and the soldiers were taught that they must, as true Russians, die for their holy Czar; the glory of conquering in the presence of his children, even at the expense of life, would open the gates of heaven to them. (?) They were repeatedly urged on to the attack, and as often driven back. The 41st fought like tigers, to gain time for their comrades to come up. The grey-coated battalions of the enemy were now on the right, on the left, and in front of us, but there was not a desponding voice in our ranks. The Duke of Cambridge was requested to retire a little out of the immediate reach of the murderous musketry fire. But--"No; I will, when these follows are shifted," was the reply. It was well that the French came up when they did. Our men were gradually being crushed in some parts of the field, but showing the enemy a most determined front. It was at this juncture that His Royal Highness set so animating an example; and the French coming up to our assistance, again the hosts of Russia had to retire. About this time a cry was raised that the ammunition was running short. Sir G. Brown, exclaimed--"Then there is nothing for it but the bayonet: _at them, my lads_." And at them we went; and they had to go back, although their Princes boasted that they would put us all into the sea. It was a great pity we had not the 42nd, 79th, and 93rd Highlanders with us, for we knew well they would have left their marks upon the enemy, under the guidance of their old Commander, Sir Colin Campbell, but they had to watch Balaclava. We lost a great number of officers, and at the close of the day the 4th division was commanded by a captain. But on that memorable field if there was one corner hotter than another, the Guards had it. At one time they were completely surrounded by the assailing multitudes, and the dense fog prevented them from seeing anything but the foes all round. Shoulder to shoulder, with a ringing cheer, they cut their way out; shouting, "Keep to the colours." It was a bloody contest; but this little band--now reduced to about 700 unwounded men, showed the enemy an undaunted front. The 20th was sent to help them. They staggered under the murderous fire that met them. This battery had now become more like a slaughter-house than anything else. The Guards went at them again, and routed the Russians out of it. At the 5-gun battery the fighting was desperate, but the enemy never got into it to live. Inkermann may well be called the soldiers' fight, for at times the fog was so thick that we could not see friend from foe. Our men, however, managed to find the Russians, and then "shift" them.

Except Trafalgar and Waterloo, no battle fought by the British since the invention of powder has called forth such exultation. And still the word "Inkermann" stimulates the warlike enthusiasm of every Briton, and the rising generations will recall with rapture the name of some distant relative and exclaim, "He fought and fell at Inkermann," while with manly pride they feel that they have sprung from fathers whom the nation at large delights to honour. The Alma and Balaclava awakened the war-spirit--that indomitable spirit that lies latent in the breast of every Briton. The news of victory at these places set the church bells ringing; but the victory by a mere handful of men on the heights of Inkermann, went through every Briton like an electric shock; and thousands at once volunteered to defend the flag, side by side with the heroic sons of France. In our most remote colonies, the people of British extraction exulted at the tidings of Inkermann. In all our large cities--London, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Birmingham, Norwich, Nottingham, &c., in the workshops, in the furnace-rooms, at the forges, in the meanest tap-rooms, in the most remote village taverns, in the hills of Scotland, and the bogs of Ireland--all were proud they were united Britons, and of the same stock that had just hurled the armies of Russia, although in overwhelming numbers, from the heights of Inkermann. My young readers must bear in mind that this battle was not fought by men who were well fed, well clothed, or well housed, nor by an army that was well prepared; but, on the contrary, by men who were, so to speak, half starved, clothed in rags, and exposed to all the inclemencies of a rigorous climate, whilst they were attacked by hordes of men confident of victory, whose feelings had been wrought to madness by stimulants and priestcraft. At one time victory trembled in the balance; some of our guns were in the hands of the enemy, and the gunners had been all shot or cut down. But the boys of the Emerald Isle were close by. The 88th Connaught Rangers and the 49th went at them; and re-captured the guns. The advance of our Guards at the Sandbag, or 2-gun battery, was grand, and surely it could be said of them, "Nothing could stop that astonishing Infantry." No sudden burst of undisciplined valour, no nervous enthusiasm weakened their order; their flashing eyes were bent upon the dark masses in their front; their measured tread shook the ground; their ringing cheer startled the infuriated columns of the enemy, as their bayonets were brought down to the charge; and, led by a grandson of a king--H.R.H. the Duke of Cambridge--in they went, shoulder to shoulder, and the enemy with all their boasted strength, were driven down the hill.

The stubborn infantry still made good
Their dark, impenetrable hill;
Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.

At the Alma and Balaclava, when the enemy had gained a temporary success, they behaved in a most barbarous manner to our wounded; sometimes their officers set them the example by plunging their swords into the helpless. At Inkermann, they outstripped all their former deeds of assassination. Mercy they did not seem to understand when once our poor fellows were in their clutches. But yet our men, I am happy to record, would not retaliate, except in so far as that, after the battle was over, their wounded were left to lie, while ours were removed from the field; but those who were alive next morning were then attended to, and taken to our hospital tents. Such are the horrors of war. Our loss had been heavy: there were killed 4 Generals, 50 Officers, 42 Sergeants; total killed, wounded, and missing, 2700, exclusive of the French loss, and that was heavy for the numbers engaged. The whole French army were loud in their expressions of admiration of the British, their exultation seemed to be beyond all bounds, for our deeds had put Alma and Balaclava in the shade, and cast a fresh lustre upon our glorious old Standard. They looked at us in wonderment, for they knew well the odds we had fought against, hour after hour. And, I have not the slightest doubt, some of their old officers thought of our forefathers who had so often fought them, and never once met them but to give them a good sound thrashing. As Napoleon said, we had often been beaten, but would not give in; we would stick to them like a good bull-dog, and worry them out. Reader, such was Inkermann.

Night closed around that conquering band,
The lightning showed the distant field,
Where they who won that bloody day,
Though few and faint, were fearless still.

The aspect of the field was awful--dead and dying mutilated bodies in all directions. Many of our men had been wounded frequently with shot and bayonet; others were cut limb from limb, and yet a spark of life remained. Many had perished by the bayonet and it was noticed that but few had fallen with one thrust. In and around the 2-gun battery the sights were sickening. Our Guardsmen, and 41st, 47th, and 49th, lay locked in the arms of the foe with their bayonets through each other--dead. Some of our officers and men were found dead, with no fewer than twelve or fifteen bayonet wounds; the appearance of the poor fellows who had been thus tortured was painful. To describe the scene would be impossible--the result of eight hours' hand-to-hand conflict--it was horrible to look upon. Scarcely did any field in the whole Peninsula war present, as the result of conflict, such a murderous spectacle as the terrible sights that now lay before us. There were literally piles of dead, lying in every posture that one could imagine; I may say that there were acres of defaced humanity--ghastly wounds from sword, bayonet, grape, and round shot; poor fellows literally shattered--and yet with life still in them. Others lay as if they had been asleep--friend and foe mixed together. In some parts of the field our men lay in ranks as they had stood; and the enemy in columns, one on the top of the other. The Russian Guardsmen lay thick all over the field. Upwards of 2000 dead were found belonging to the enemy. Just outside the 2-gun Battery the wounded were numerous, and their groans were pitiful; while cries of despair burst from the lips of some as they lay, thinking perhaps of wives and helpless little ones far away. The Russian dead were buried in large pits by themselves; and our people and our gallant allies, the French, were laid side by side. For hours during that dreadful night of woe and victory, the wailing of a poor dog--which had followed his master--could be distinctly heard. The faithful creature had found his master's body, and he pierced the night air with his lamentations. Such was the field of Inkermann. That was keeping up Gunpowder Plot with a vengeance.

* * * * *

The letter I sent to my parents on this occasion was as follows:--

Camp before Sebastopol,
November 6th, 1854.

My dear Parents,

Long before this reaches you, you will have seen the account
of our glorious battle of the 5th (yesterday). It was a
terrible fight. I was in the trenches when it commenced. We
had a shy at them there, and sent them back much quicker
than they came out. A number of us then marched on to the
field of Inkermann. The fight was raging when we got there;
and the fog was so dense that we could not see what we were
doing, or where to go. Our poor fellows soon began to drop.
We were wet through to the skin, and as hungry as hunters.
We were ordered to the Five-Gun Battery, to support our
comrades. Sir Thomas Troubridge was in command, and it took
all our time to hold our own. What a gunpowder plot! but,
above all, what a Sunday! I thought, dear father--I thought
of you, and what you were most likely doing. It's no use my
trying to hide or cloak matters up--you will see this is not
my handwriting--they have managed to hit me at last; but you
must not be alarmed; I am not half so badly hit as some of
my poor comrades are, so keep up your spirits. I am in good
hopes of getting over this; and, if it should please the
Lord to spare me, to be a comfort to you in your declining
days. Do not answer this, as a number of us are to be sent
down to Scutari. Will write as soon as I can. Do, dear
parents, try and keep your spirits up; and I know you will
not forget me at the Throne of Grace. I will try and give
you, at some future day, a full account, as far as I could
see, and from what I can find out from my comrades. Will
write as soon as I can. Cheer up! I'll warm them up for
this, if ever I get a chance. My kind love to poor mother,
brothers, and sisters.

Believe me, dear Father,
Your affectionate son,
T. GOWING,
Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

The following is a copy of a letter addressed to Field-Marshal Lord Raglan, by command of Her Most Gracious Majesty, on receipt of the news of the victory at Inkermann:--

Her Majesty is desirous of expressing her gratitude for the
noble exertions of the troops in a conflict which is
unsurpassed in the annals of war for persevering valour and
chivalrous devotion. The strength and fury of the attacks,
repeatedly renewed by fresh columns with a desperation which
appeared to be irresistible, were spent in vain against the
unbroken lines, and the matchless intrepidity of the men
they had to encounter. Such attacks could only be repulsed
by that cool courage, under circumstances the most adverse,
and that confidence of victory, which have ever animated
the British Army. The banks of the Alma proved that no
advantages of position can withstand the impetuous assault
of the Army under your command. The heights of Inkermann
have now shown that the dense columns of an entire army are
unable to force the ranks of less than one-fourth their
numbers in the hand-to-hand encounters with the bayonet
which characterized this bloody day.