Chapter VI (3)

Private (No. 3443) WILLIAM NORMAN.--On the night of the 19th
December, 1854, he was placed on single sentry some distance
in front of the advanced sentries of an outlying picquet in
the White Horse Ravine, a post of much danger, and requiring
great vigilance; the Russian picquet was posted about 300
yards in his front; three Russian soldiers advanced, under
cover of the brushwood, for the purpose of reconnoitering.
Private William Norman, single-handed, took two of them
prisoners, without alarming the Russian picquet.

Private (No. 1879) MATTHEW HUGHES.--Private Matthew Hughes,
7th Royal Fusiliers, was noticed by Colonel Campbell, 90th
Light Infantry, on the 7th June, 1855, at the storming of
the Quarries, for twice going for ammunition, under a heavy
fire, across the open ground; he also went to the front and
brought in Private John Hampton, who was lying severely
wounded; and on the 18th June, 1855, he volunteered to bring
in Lieutenant Hobson, 7th Royal Fusiliers, who was lying
severely wounded, and in the act of doing so was severely
wounded himself.

THE 9TH OR NORFOLK REGIMENT.

Some of our most distinguished commanders have served in this gallant regiment, that is "second to none." This is the regiment that young Colin Campbell first joined in 1808--its colours, then virgin, being about to be decorated with the names of battles in which he first saw fire. It decided, or helped to decide, many a hard-fought battle. It boldly confronted the hitherto victorious Republicans on the field of Roliça; and in fight after fight in the Peninsula the North Folk's blood was up, and the victors of Jena, Austerlitz, and Wagram had to bow before them and bolt--_they did not even wait to accept a twenty minutes' swimmer_--from the hitherto contemptible sons of Albion. The Iron Duke did not give the enemy breathing time, but in four days closed with them on the field of Vimiera, when the old 9th again, with the queen of weapons, leaped upon the pets of Napoleon and routed them. On the memorable field of Corunna this regiment took a distinguished part; again, on the field of Busaco, the Imperial Guards of France were, so to speak, pitchforked over the rocks by this dashing regiment, and from crag to crag and rock to rock they followed them up, using the bayonet with fearful effect. The career of this fine regiment through "Salamanca," "Vittoria," "Saint Sebastian," "Nive," "Cabul, 1842," "Moodkee," "Ferozeshah," and "Sobraon," was one continued series of victories; and at the siege of Sebastopol it was clearly proved that the old 9th could hold its own, for the Russians were often glad to get out of its reach. Since then this regiment has made the acquaintance of the Afghans on several fields, taking another peep at "Cabul" without an invitation. And, more recently still, the Egyptians found that they had not forgotten the use of the bayonet. Therefore the honour of Old England might with safety be left in the hands of the old 9th, the Norfolk Regiment, "The Holy Boys." I have heard that the nickname was given them during the Peninsula war, for selling their bibles for grog, but I will not vouch for the truth of the story.

THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS.

We now trace the honourable records of a most dashing regiment--the Connaught Rangers. Its motto is "_Quis separabit_"--Who shall divide us. The Connaught Rangers were raised at the outbreak of the French Revolutionary war in 1793, and was soon called upon to receive from the Republicans its "baptism of fire," at Alost, 6th July, 1794. The sprigs from Connaught, although attacked with fury, repulsed the enemy with unshaken fortitude, and for the first time nobly upheld the honour of the flag of Old England, well stamping their motto, "who shall divide us," upon the foe, and proving, under proper guidance, their fierce native bearing. Burning to meet the enemy, it endured with much patience the misery of a winterly retreat from overwhelming odds. Numbers dropped down completely overpowered by the intense cold, and were frozen to death. The Rangers in 1795 were quartered at Norwich, and a number of the wild boys of Norfolk helped to fill its ranks. Shortly after this the regiment sailed for the East Indies, but its stay there was of short duration. It formed a portion of Sir David Baird's expedition to Egypt, and was one of the first regiments that marched across that long, dreary desert to measure its strength with Napoleon's Invincibles. But it was all over with that usurper as far as Egypt was concerned before they reached the field. The regiment returned to England with Nelson's victorious fleet, and some 250 of the Derbyshire Militia volunteered to join their ranks. On a number of fields in Portugal, Spain, France, and America it was proved that they were worthy to fight beside the wild boys of Connaught and Norfolk.

We will now pass on to the most glorious period in the present century, the Peninsula War, in which the Connaught Rangers immortalised themselves upon field after field. No regiment in the whole British army gained more glory than the Rangers, yet much was gained. The 88th first met the Imperial Guards of France on the memorable field of Talavera, and well thrashed them. The enemy advanced in broad and deep columns with the swiftness of a sand-storm, with drums beating and colours flying, in all the majesty of war, but the sons of Erin and Albion stood unmovable and dauntless, until they received the order to advance. They then defeated the hitherto victorious legions of France with a terrible slaughter, and with thrilling shouts of "Faugh-a-Ballagh" and "Hurrah for ould Ireland," they rushed at the foe. Bayonet crossed bayonet, sword crossed sword; backwards and forwards rolled the eddying mass, but the French columns were routed. The conflict was renewed with fresh troops which had never before been beaten, but time after time this noble regiment largely contributed to hurl them from the field with terrible carnage. The next field on which this noble regiment took a conspicuous part was Busaco. The furious charges with the queen of weapons made by the Rangers won the admiration of all. The enemy were pitched over the rocks from crag to crag and from rock to rock. They followed the foe, and although the crafty French commander brought up the Irish brigade in the service of Napoleon, these noble sons of Erin proved that they were loyal sons, routing their unfortunate countrymen from the field by the side of the much vaunted "heroes of Austerlitz." Wellington with the eye of an eagle watched the dreadful strife, and thanked the regiment on the spot for its conduct. We next find the Rangers on the hard-contested field of Fuentes de Oñoro, where the odds were heavy against us. Again they crossed bayonets with Napoleon's old guards, and routed them from the field. The 79th Highlanders were by the side of them, and their brilliant conduct was the theme of general admiration. They put the finishing stroke on the "spoilt child of fortune," and largely helped to nail victory to our glorious old flag. Again we find the gallant sons of Connaught under the walls of Ciudad Rodrigo. The hero of Assaye was determined to wrench that stronghold from the enemy, and with a masterpiece of generalship it was besieged. On the 19th January, 1812, the order was issued, "Ciudad Rodrigo must be stormed this evening." The Rangers' answer was, "We will do it;" and right well they did it. Their fire-eating commander, Picton, addressed them briefly: "Rangers of Connaught," he exclaimed, "it is not my intention to expend any powder this evening, we will do this business with cold iron." The word "Forward" was then given. After a fierce hand-to-hand fight the main breach was gained, the enemy driven from street to street, our proud old flag was floating from its walls, and the fortress lay at the conqueror's feet. The "hero of a hundred fights" again thanked the Rangers for their heroic conduct.

We now trace the sprigs of Connaught to the walls of Badajoz, where they take a conspicuous part, planting our proud old flag on its lofty castle. The fiery Picton led them under a terrible fire of musketry, showers of heavy stones, logs of wood, and bursting shells. The ladders were quickly raised, and these undaunted veterans strove who should first climb them. The ladders were overthrown, the French shouted "Victory," the stormers were baffled, but not defeated. The gallant Ridge of the 5th Fusiliers and the heroic Canch of the Rangers sprang forward, and called with the voice of thunder for their men to follow. The ladders were again raised, under a terrible fire, and in less than one minute those two heroic leaders stood conquerors on the ramparts of the castle, whilst the sons of Connaught with the sons of Albion rushed up the ladders. The garrison was amazed, not suspecting that an entrance could be made there. It was a most glorious achievement; the intrepid Ridge fell in the hour of victory. If a chariot of fire had been sent for him he could not have departed with more glory.

We now trace the Rangers to Salamanca, where they immortalised themselves; the brunt of the fighting fell on the third division. The Rangers for some time had been under a terrible fire of artillery, and becoming impatient, their commander, Major-General the Hon. Pakenham, noticed it, and called out to their colonel to let them loose. The noble regiment at once dashed with a headlong charge at the enemy; the fighting was desperate but short; the enemy were completely overthrown, and routed from the field. An incident occurred here worth recording. The Duke of Wellington knew well how and where to hit, and ordered General Pakenham to take the hill in his front. "I will, my Lord," was the reply of that noble soldier, "if you will give me a grasp of that conquering right hand," and, parting with a true English grasp, Pakenham swept all before him, although the enemy advanced to meet him with drums beating and colours flying until they came close enough to mark the frown on our men's faces. It was too late then; the Rangers dashed at them, side by side with the Sherwood Foresters. The boldest of the French officers rushed to the front to inspire the quailing souls of their countrymen. The commander of the Rangers was shot dead, and the men were mad to revenge their beloved chief. Albuera was here repeated, but all had to yield to the vehement charge, as this noble regiment closed with the enemy. Then was seen with what determination our men fight. They smote that mighty column into fragments, and rolled it back in indescribable confusion. At this moment the gallant Le Merchant's heavy brigade of cuirassed cavalry burst through, and went straight at the reeling masses of the enemy. The column was cut to pieces, and two eagles, eleven pieces of cannon, and seven thousand prisoners were captured on the spot. Our commander, Wellington, might well thank the commander of the fighting third division on the spot. The Connaught Rangers and Sherwood Foresters had knocked all the conceit of fighting man-to-man out of the enemy, and, as at Albuera with the Fusiliers, and at Busaco, the conceit was taken out of them. But we must pass on to the field of Vittoria. Here, again, the Rangers were as firm as the rocks of their native shore, and with fortitude this glorious old regiment came out in all their native lustre, proving that nothing could daunt and nothing dismay them, for Picton's heroes on this field swept all before them. We note that it was on this field that Picton led his division on with his night-cap on, and did not find it out until he was in the thick of the fight, and both officers and men laughing at him, when he exclaimed, waving his plumed hat, "Come on, you fighting devils, come on;" and the pride of France were swept from the field, leaving all their guns, 151, in the hands of the victors. They bolted from the field like a well-greased flash of lightning, our cavalry chasing them for miles, capturing prisoners at every stride. King Joseph's coach and all his State papers fell into our hands. One million sterling was the booty of this field. It was a most crushing defeat. The fighting third division had suffered fearfully, and largely contributed in nailing the victory to our glorious standard.

But we must pass on to note that throughout the battles of the Pyrenees and on the field of Neville, this dashing regiment well sustained the reputation of our flag. At Orthes it especially distinguished itself, by routing the legions of Napoleon from the field, side by side with the gallant old 52nd, snatching victory from the hands of the crafty Marshal of France, Soult. Their loss on this field attested the brilliancy of its services; nearly half the regiment fell.

We now come to the closing scene of the Peninsula War--the field of Toulouse. Only three companies of the Rangers were engaged, but they well sustained the reputation of the good old corps. We now emphatically say that the Rangers of Connaught have on field after field proved their loyalty to our beloved Sovereign, and have often maintained the honour of our glorious old flag. After the battle of Toulouse the regiment, like a number of others, was drafted off to America, to help to teach our big cousins better manners; and to the honour of the Rangers be it said, not a man did they lose by desertion, although hundreds deserted and went over to the enemy. On Napoleon bursting from his narrow prison at Elba, the Rangers were ordered home, but too late for the crowning victory of Waterloo.

Colonel A. J. Wallace, who had so often led this noble regiment on to victory, obtained permission from His Royal Highness the Duke of York, in 1818, to present to the surviving veterans of the Peninsula War silver medals and clasps, as a testimony of their unshaken fortitude. These were divided into three classes. The first class were composed of men who had been present in twelve general actions; the second class, men who had been present in from six to eleven actions; and the third class, men who had been present in any number less than six. The following are the numbers of the different ranks that received and wore them with pride:--

Sergts. Corpls. Drumrs. Privates.
First Class 13 6 6 45
Second Class 7 9 3 126
Third Class 19 10 3 185
-- -- -- ----
Total 39 25 12 356

We would here note that the only medal issued to the non-commissioned officers and privates up to 1848 by our Government was one for Waterloo. In 1848 the surviving veterans of the Peninsula campaigns were served with medals and clasps to commemorate the brightest military page in our history. The Rangers were stationed in all parts of our vast empire during the "piping times of peace" from 1815 to 1854. When Russia disturbed the peace of Europe the boys of Connaught were once more called upon to uphold the honour of our dear old flag, and the writer can testify that they had not degenerated from their unconquerable forefathers, who fought and vanquished on field after field under the immortal Picton and Wellington. As far as the Alma was concerned, the Rangers had not much to do with it, but, reader, it was not their fault, or they would have been by the side of us, the Fusiliers, at the great redoubt. But at Inkermann they nobly revenged themselves; they advanced with level steel with such vehemence as to hurl the enemy's huge columns from the field time after time. At one period they were completely surrounded by the assailing drunken multitudes, and a desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued, which proved their valour. Their loss was terrible, but the Connaught loyal boys yielded not one inch of ground on this bloody field. As fast as one column of the enemy was broken into fragments another took its place, to share the same fate from these gallant heroes. The carnage was terrible, the dead and wounded of both friend and foe lying in piles. All regiments seemed to vie with each other in fortitude, but the Rangers would not be second to any. At one time one of our batteries was captured and the gunners were all shot down or bayoneted, but the Connaught boys were close at hand. The enemy were exulting over their victory with wild yellings, when the "two eights" were let loose at them, and rushed at the foe with a wild shout of "Faugh-a-Ballagh" and "Hurrah for ould Ireland," which soon stopped their crowing. The enemy were fairly lifted from the field with the rush of cold steel, the guns were re-captured, and handed over to some of our artillery officers. I have heard a good tit-bit about this, and feel I must give it. A big grenadier of the 88th, profusely bleeding, addressing an artilleryman just after, said, "Now just see if yer can take better care of your thundering guns this time, for, be jabers, I am kilt entirely in takin' them back for yers." The battle was raging, and our men were almost exhausted, when our noble Allies, the French, rushed to the rescue with a ringing cheer of "_Vive l'Empereur_" and "_Bon Anglais_;" but a resolve was taken by all hands--"death or victory." We say again that the eight thousand grim bearded Britons had made up their minds not to be beaten, although the odds against them were on some parts of the field twelve to one; and no love of peace will ever deaden in the hearts of true and honest Britons an admiration for such stubborn intrepidity, for the fame of the deeds of the handful of the sons of Albion, side by side of the boys of the Green Isle, who fought and conquered on grim Inkermann's rocky ridge, will surround our standard with a halo of glory, and will live in the page of history to the end of time; and now, March, 1885, it is stimulating their descendants under Sir G. Graham, on the burning plains of Egypt. Under the greatest difficulties the British soldier or sailor will shine forth in all his native splendour that nothing can daunt, nothing dismay. We say it is the bounden duty of every Briton to help to keep up that _esprit de corps_ which no danger can appal. We claim for the Rangers of Connaught all that makes a true soldier--an unconquerable spirit, patience in fatigue and privation, and cheerful obedience to his superiors. Throughout the terrible winter of 1854 they were ever prompt in performing their duty, and ready to meet the foe under all circumstances. On the night of the 22nd March, 1855, the night on which some of the best blood of Britain was spilt, the "two eights" helped to avenge the death of one who was beloved by all, Captain Hedley Vicars. The enemy were driven back with the bayonet with a terrible slaughter. "Faugh-a-Ballagh" could be distinctly heard amid the din of fight. Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, the unconquerable sons of Connaught fought to desperation to uphold the honour of our flag. On the 7th June, 1855, the Rangers of Connaught were let loose side by side the Royal Fusiliers. "At them, my lads," could be heard, and at them they went, and the enemy were lifted out of the Quarries, although they came on in overwhelming numbers to try and re-take the position from us. The Rangers and Fusiliers routed them. All the officers of the 88th fell dead or wounded; the sergeants then took command of companies, and led the men on. On the morning of the 8th this heroic band stood triumphant; the fighting had been of the Inkermann stamp, stones being freely used by our men when ammunition failed, and the bayonet was used with fearful effect. The same valour and constancy which glowed in the breasts of the heroes of Albuera and Busaco animated the Rangers and Fusiliers that night to desperate deeds of valour. The eyes of Europe were upon them, and it was acknowledged that they were worthy descendants of the conquerors of Salamanca. Fight followed fight night after night from the 7th to the 18th of June. The enemy on every occasion were driven back from our batteries by that nasty piece of cold steel, the bayonet. The hitherto victorious "red line" had carried all before them. On the morning of the 18th June the Connaught boys were on tiptoe to be let loose at the great Redan. About 2 a.m. the signal for attack was thrown up; away went the Fusiliers, well supported by the Rangers and other regiments. But we were doomed to disappointment. The column was met with a perfect hail of fire from hundreds of guns loaded with grape and canister, whilst broadside after broadside from some of the largest ships afloat in any waters carried death and destruction into that noble band. The brave fellows fell in heaps. The retreat was sounded all over the field, but that heroic column stood sullen, and would not turn their backs on the foe. The officers had, so to speak, to drag their men from the devouring cross fires. I noticed a powerfully built man of the Rangers had, in advancing across the plain up to the Redan, trod upon an infernal machine, as we called them. Off it went, blowing every stitch of clothing off the poor fellow, but not hurting him otherwise. When I saw him he was in a state of nudity swearing vengeance against the cowardly Russians. But, reader, we had to pocket it; it was a defeat for us. But wait a while, and you will find we soon got out of debt, giving them good interest, for it only roused us the more, and set us longing to get to close quarters with them. The enemy were delighted to think they had beaten us for once. There was no holding them, and they openly boasted that they would drive us all into the sea (see attack 26th June). The Rangers was one of the regiments that held the post of honour that night, nobly doing their duty, and hurling the boasting enemy from the field with fearful slaughter. The Fusiliers and Connaught Rangers again, as on the 7th June, vied with each other in desperate deeds of valour. The vast columns of the enemy were driven back completely bewildered by the determined rushes of our men. We pretty well knocked all the conceit for fighting out of them. But I must pass on. The attention of Europe was directed to that renowned fortress; the honour of our flag was at stake. We had been kept at bay for nearly twelve months, and, let the consequence be what it might, it must fall; and fall it did. It is not my intention to go into details now, as they will be found in other parts of the book. The Rangers was one of the regiments that went at the great Redan, and they nobly sustained their reputation. Again, we find the Connaught boys taking tea with the mutineers at Cawnpore, Lucknow, and Central India, in fight after fight. Since then the 88th have been stationed in all parts of our vast empire, and both in the field and out of it the Rangers of Connaught have proved good loyal sons of the Emerald Isle; and should it ever be our lot to face the Muscovite battalions, let us go shoulder to shoulder at them by the side of the heroic sons of Erin's loyal boys--"_Quis separabit_." The haughty sons of Adam's race could not do it, so let us do justice, and give the right hand of fellowship to the "bravest of the brave." We will now bid adieu, wishing the Rangers of Connaught a hearty God speed.--T. G.

EMBARKED FOR HOME.

Well, we at last broke up camp, and embarked for dear old England, leaving those cold, bleak, inhospitable regions behind. The first night on board ship, homeward bound--what a night for reflection! A flood of thoughts came across my mind regarding the different fields I had fought on, and the many hairbreadth escapes I had had. I thought of the Alma, and my Christian comrade who lay buried beside the river; I thought of the wild charge of our handful of Cavalry at Balaclava, of our desperate fight at Inkermann, of our terrible work in the trenches--night after night, day after day, up to our ankles in mud, half frozen, half dead, as hungry as hunters, with nothing to eat, but yet having to fight like a lot of lions. And after all I had gone through--death in a thousand shapes, both in the field and camp, for upwards of twelve long months staring me in the face--truly I had much for meditation, verily I had much to be thankful for. Thousands had fallen all around me, heap upon heap, and pile upon pile; and yet I had been spared. I thought of poor Captain Vicars, and what a noble fellow he was--he fell in almost his first fight; and yet a merciful God had thought fit to throw His protecting arm of love around me. What a night of reflection! I found myself on board a noble ship--homeward bound. I knew well that a grateful country was waiting to receive us, and that we should most likely have a warm reception, to say nothing of the affectionate greetings from those who were near and dear to us by the ties of nature. I will pass over the voyage home as quickly as possible, for it was a very pleasant one; every morning brought us nearer to that dear old isle that many of us had shed our blood for. At last we arrived in Portsmouth Harbour, on the 26th July, 1856. We at once landed and marched to the Railway Station, or rather we eventually found ourselves there safe, for how we got there it would be difficult to say--one would have thought that the good people had gone mad. They had witnessed hundreds come home from the seat of war, maimed in a most frightful manner, mere wrecks of humanity. They had now got hold of the men that they had read so much of. In their excitement they lifted us right out of the ranks, and carried us on their shoulders through the streets, which were packed by thousands of people, who were determined to give us a cordial welcome. They wanted to kill us with kindness, for as soon as they got hold of us, it was brandy in front of us, rum to the right of us, whiskey to the left of us, gin in rear of us, and a cross-fire of all kinds of ales and lemonades--to say nothing of the pretty girls, and we got many a broadside from them. It did not matter much which way one went, all appeared determined to give the men who had stormed the Heights of Alma, defended against such odds the Heights of Inkermann, routed the hordes of Muscovites from the Plains of Balaclava, and twice stormed the bloody parapets of the Redan--a hearty reception, and well they did it! We did not want to tell them what hardships we had to endure in the trenches; we did not want to tell them how often we had faced the foe--they knew it all.

Many a loving wife embraced her fond but rough-looking husband. The dear children did not in many cases know their long-bearded fathers. Mothers that had come for miles fell fainting into the arms of their soldierly but affectionate sons: many brothers and sisters, too, had come great distances to meet and welcome long absent brethren,--all helped to swell that mighty throng that were only too happy to welcome home the conquering sons of Albion. As for sweethearts, I will leave my young readers to guess all about that, for the "pretty little dears" were as warm-hearted and had as long tongues in 1856 as they have now; but we could not get on well without them. The whole nation appeared to have made up its mind to do honour to the Crimean Army. Hundreds, yea, thousands had previously come home maimed, and many had since found rest in the quiet grave, but all were looked after by the nation at large. Her Most Gracious Majesty shewed a kind motherly feeling, shedding many a tear as she looked at her maimed soldiers. This evidence of Her Majesty's sympathy was most touching, and as a rough loyal old soldier from the Emerald Isle called out at Aldershot, after the Queen had said a few kind words to the troops, and thanked us for doing our duty, "Where is the man who would not fight for such a Queen?" I would re-echo that cry and add "Where is the Briton who would not do or die to uphold our glorious old flag?"

One of the most touching scenes, that melted many to tears, was witnessed on the 18th of May, 1856, when Her Most Gracious Majesty, accompanied by the late Prince Consort, the then young Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, and a host of others, assembled to witness the presentation of the Crimean Medals to a number of Officers, Non-commissioned officers and Men that had faced the foe on many hard-fought fields. Her Majesty betrayed much emotion, her whole frame indicating the deep throbbing of her heart. When each maimed warrior was brought into the presence of Her Majesty, the whole mighty assembly gave utterance to their feelings, but not in cheers; it was as if an audible throb broke from the heart of Queen and people at once; the people felt that they had a Sovereign worth battling and bleeding for. Three officers were wheeled up in chairs, Sir Thomas Troubridge, of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, was the first; he had lost both his feet at Inkermann; that kind motherly heart could not stand that, it was too much for her, and she burst into tears. The other two were both of the Light Division, Captain Soyer of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and Captain Cuming of the 19th Foot. During this scene Her Majesty must have been amused by Jack's dumbfounded expression and bearing--he appeared to be out of his latitude, but there was no mistaking his proud look after receiving the distinction. A number of officers and men had to move slowly along by the aid of a stick, or the assistance of a comrade; others could only approach Her Majesty on crutches. Queen and people were deeply affected.

And now, before closing this narrative, as far as the Crimean campaign is concerned, I wish just to relate a few amusing incidents that came under my own observation, and in which I was an actor.

ANECDOTES.

Paddy isn't half such a fool as he is often taken to be. During the Crimean campaign, a genuine son of the Emerald Isle was brought before his Commanding officer for stealing his comrade's ration of liquor. Being (as most of his countrymen are) witty, he was not at a loss for a defence when brought before the green baize covered table, and the charge was read out to him. His Commanding officer asked him what he had to say for himself. "Well, sur, I'd be sorry indade, sur, to be called a thief. The Quartermaster sergeant put the liquor into the same bottle that mine was in, and shure enough I was obliged to drink his, to get at my own. Och! shure sur, I'd scorn the action; a thief I never was." This ingenious defence got him over it, with a fool's pardon.

* * * * *

Another, a man of my company, was continually getting himself into trouble. He had proved himself, from the commencement of the campaign, a valiant soldier. About a month before Sebastopol fell, I gave him some money with which to go and purchase some soap; at the same time Pat asked for the loan of a couple of shillings. He did not turn up any more that day. Next morning he was a prisoner in the guard tent. We all knew that he was on his last legs; but as he was a general favourite with the company, the men pitied him. Some were of opinion that his wit would not forsake him when brought before the Commanding officer, and he told the man who brought his breakfast to him that morning that he would get over it with flying colours. In due course he was brought before the tribunal and the charge read out--"Absent from camp, from 10 a.m. on the 15th August, until 5 a.m. 16th August." "Well, Welsh, you have heard the charge. What have you got to say for yourself?" The old rogue pulled a long face, and then commenced: "Shure, yer honour, the whole regiment, you know, was very fond of our poor old Colonel Yea, that was kilt on the 18th of June, and shure, yer honour, I would'nt tell ye a word of a lie, but I wint and sat on the poor old jintleman's grave, and I sobbed and sobbed, till I thought my heart would break, for sur, he was a sodjur every inch of him; and shure, I fell asleep and slept till morning, and then got up and walked to the guard tent." "Now Welsh, are you telling the truth? for you know I promised you a Court Martial, if ever you came before me again for absence." With both hands uplifted, he exclaimed--"Och! shure yer honour, never a word of a lie in it." Some of the young officers came to the rescue, and stated that they had frequently seen men standing and sitting around the Colonel's grave; and thus he got over it without punishment.

* * * * *

Private Patrick Lee was a "Manchester Irishman," that is to say, his parents were both from the "land of praties and butter-milk," but he himself was born at Manchester. He was a powerful athletic fellow, and knew well how to use his hands, feet, or stick. Some six months after Sebastopol had fallen, I was Sergeant in charge of the Quarter Guard. Pat had, contrary to orders, gone into the French camp to look up some cognac, for he was fond of "his drops." It appears that he had paid for two bottles of liquor, but could neither get the liquor nor his money returned. But Paddy was not such a fool as to put up with that without knowing the reason why, so he quickly took the change out of the Frenchman by knocking him head-over-heels, and with the unearthly row the delinquent Frenchman made, he soon brought others to the rescue. In less time than it takes me to write it, Pat had some half-dozen Frenchmen sprawling on the ground like a lot of "nine-pins." They had each received one straight from the shoulder. Pat then armed himself with a good cudgel which he had picked up, as by this time he was surrounded by enough "frog-eaters" to eat him. They appeared determined either to kill him or take him prisoner, but he fought his way through them all, and like a deer bounded into our camp and gave himself up a prisoner to me. He was covered with blood, and appeared much exhausted. Next morning he was brought before the Commanding officer on the charge of trying to obtain liquor in the French camp. Some fifteen or sixteen Frenchmen, with their arms in slings, and their heads bandaged, appeared to testify to Paddy's rough usage; and a French officer stated that some of his men had been so fearfully kicked and knocked about, that they were unable to appear against him. The man was sentenced to be severely punished, and the Frenchmen left our camp apparently satisfied. But when Pat came out of the tent from the presence of his Commanding officer, he gave the Frenchmen such a horrible look that one needn't ask how men appear when they are frightened. After the Frenchmen had cleared our camp, the prisoner was recalled and asked why he had disgraced himself and his Regiment in such a manner, when he told the whole story in true Irish brogue--"that the blackguards robbed him, and then set to to bate him, but he floored them all as fast as they came up to him. They wanted to take him prisoner. He found it was getting rather hot, so he gave them all leg bail, and ne'er a one, nor the whole French army, could catch him." The Colonel then told the prisoner that, had he allowed himself to be taken prisoner by the French, he would have tried him by Court Martial, but as it was he mitigated his punishment.

COMMISSARIAT MULES.

One day in March, 1855, I was one of the sergeants, with a party of men, that had been sent to Balaclava to bring up supplies, in the way of biscuit and pork, or salt junk (salt beef). We had a young officer with us, well mounted, who had but little compassion for poor fellows who were doing their best, trudging through the mud up to their ankles, with a heavy load upon their backs. The party were not going fast enough to suit the whim of our young and inexperienced commander, who called out to the writer, "Take this man's name, sergeant, and make a prisoner of him when we get home." The unfortunate man was doing his best to keep up, and he gave our young officer such a contemptuous look as I shall not forget as long as I live. Throwing his load of biscuit down in the mud, he exclaimed, "Man indade! soger indade!--I am only a poor broken-down commissariat mule." Here a light-hearted fellow burst out with--

"There's a good time coming, boys!"

The poor fellow was made a prisoner of at once, for insubordination; but when I explained the case to our gallant, noble-hearted colonel, he took quite a different view of the matter, forgave the man, and presented him with a pair of good warm socks and a pair of new boots; for the poor fellow had nothing but uppers, and no soles on his old ones; and, in order to teach our smart young officer how to respect men who were trying to do their duty, sentenced him to three extra fatigues to Balaclava, and to walk it the same as any other man. On another occasion, I had to take charge of a party of men (about forty), march them to Balaclava, to bring up blankets. In due course, after trudging through the mud for nine miles, I presented my requisition to the Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General, who informed me that it was not signed by the Quartermaster-General of the Division, and that I should not have an article until it was duly signed. I informed him that the men were dying daily for the want of blankets. He ordered me to be silent, and, with language that is not parliamentary, he informed me he did not care--(a correct return, or no stores)--shouting like a half-mad man: "Here, take this document back, and when it is correctly signed you can then have the blankets." I informed him that I had a party of forty men with me, and that if he gave me the blankets, the return should be sent back, correctly signed. But, no! He had not the feelings of humanity in him. I was ordered out like a dog. I at once handed my men over to another sergeant of ours, that was stationed at Balaclava to look after the interests of the regiment, and, with a little coaxing, managed to borrow a good strong mule; and away I went back to camp, as fast as the poor brute could move, straight to the colonel's tent. The first salute I got, from one that had the feelings of humanity, and who had frequently proved himself as brave as a lion (Col. L. W. Yea), was: "What's up, Gowing?" I at once explained all, handing the document to him. As quick as thought he called to his servant: "Brock, get this sergeant something to eat and drink." Mounting his old cob, that had carried him through the fields of the Alma (where he was bravely followed by his Grenadiers, whilst shot and shell flew like hail about their ears), Little Inkermann, and throughout that memorable foggy morn at Inkermann, away he went, and in less than fifteen minutes was back again. Rushing into the tent, he exclaimed: "Well, sergeant, what are you going to do now?" "Go back; sir, and get the blankets, if you have got the signature of the Quartermaster-General." "Here you are, then." I was up and out of camp before he had time to say more. I found my mule had a lot of pluck in him, so I gave him his head and let him go. We looked a pair of beauties when I pulled up at our young swell's hut, and presented the signature. I at once got my stores of priceless blankets, and marched back. I found that a number of my men had been taking water well diluted during my absence. A wild youth from the Green Isle said that that was the best fatigue he had had since he left ould Ireland--handing me a bottle to whet my eye with. I found that most of my party had something besides blankets to keep out the cold; but we got home all right, without any trouble. In less than a month after, I had the pleasure of meeting our gallant Deputy-Assistant Quartermaster-General in the trenches, up to his knees in mud and water, like the remainder. He had been sent to his duty. I thought at once of his treatment of me and my party. He appeared such a shiftless creature, shrivelled up with cold, that I felt compelled to offer him my tin pot of hot coffee, to revive him a little. He, poor lad, recognised me, and apologised for his treatment, which I knew well arose from want of experience and thought.

HEAVY ODDS.

The true Briton generally comes out in his proper colours when under difficulty. During the Crimean campaign, a man joined us who had some little experience in the prize ring. There was nothing particular to note about him, further than that he was a fine specimen of humanity, about five feet eleven inches, and forty-six in. round the chest; he was strong as Hercules, and knew it. But he was as meek as a lamb unless well roused, and it took not a little to accomplish that. Only once during that trying campaign was he ever known to stand upon his dignity, and that was with a big bully, whom he settled in less than five minutes. Whilst the fighting lasted, our gallant allies, the French, got on well with us. It was nothing strange to hear them applauding us with _Bon Anglais, Bon Anglais_. They were loud in their expressions of admiration at our conduct at Balaclava, and after Inkermann their exultation was beyond all bounds. They looked at our men in wonderment; they knew well we were but a handful against a host; and with thrilling shouts of _Vive l'Empereur_ and _Bon Anglais_, they threw their arms around many a grim face covered with powder, blood, and mud, and impressed kiss after kiss in token of admiration. But what a lot of faces some people carry under one hat; and we proved before we parted with our excitable little neighbours that we could not stake horses well together. After the fall of that far-famed town, Sebastopol, we had but little to do but drink each other's health, which often ended in a row; and it was nothing strange to see one of our men defending himself against half-a-dozen half drunken Frenchmen, and proving the victor. If they started to kick, some of our Lancashire lads would soon give them a lesson in "pausing" and "purring." So things went on week after week.

A YORKSHIRE BITE.

Some six months after the fall of Sebastopol, when peace negotiations were being carried on, some four or five non-commissioned officers (I being one of them) had been out for a walk on a Sunday afternoon. Returning home to camp up one of the ravines that had been the scene of the desperate strife at Inkermann, we met a party of some fifteen half-drunken Frenchmen coming down the hill. It was an awkward place for a row. The road was narrow; on one side was a solid rock, and the other a nasty slope of some thirty or forty feet, like an ugly railway embankment. As soon as the French caught sight of us they commenced to shout _Anglais non bon; non bon Anglais_--"English, you are no good; you are no good." One of our party was the gallant bruiser, to whom I have before alluded. He was what is called a well-scienced man, and of tremendous strength--"Yorkshire bite," we had nick-named him, as he hailed from Leeds. He immediately took command of us, directing us to sit down under the rocks. "Now lads, set thee doon," said he. "If these fellows interfere with us, you set still, and leave this little lot to me, and if I cannot settle them, my name is not Jacky Frith." They were rapidly approaching us, still shouting like madmen, "_Anglais non bon; non bon_," and cursing us with all the most filthy oaths they could muster, which we all understood, having been mixed up with them for two years. Well, we all sat still under the embankment, with the exception of our Yorkshire sprig. A monster of a French artilleryman was the first to come up--and the first to go down. He deliberately spat in our hero's face, shouting disdainfully _Anglais non bon_. The Yorkshireman's arm at once came into play,[13] with a blow that lifted him clean off his feet and sent him rolling from top to the bottom of the cudd. Another, or two, went at him, and he sent them to look after their comrade. Others rushed at him, but he proved himself more than a match for the lot. As far as we could see, one blow was quite enough. We all sat looking at the fun, almost bursting our sides with laughter, until the last had disappeared down the cudd. Our hero then put his hands into his pockets, and, looking over the cudd, shouted out that the English were _bon_ enough for them on the field of Waterloo, and were so now; and turning round to us with "Come on, boys, let's go home," left the French to get out the best way they could. Next day there was a parade for all hands, in order to pick out the men who had so disgraced themselves and the regiment, as our friends had stated that they had been overpowered by numbers, and that those who had attacked them belonged to the Fusiliers. I must say they all looked in a most pitiable plight; some with their heads bandaged, some with black eyes, others with their arms in slings, and some limping with the assistance of a stick. They were accompanied by a French general officer (I think MacMahon). After a minute inspection up and down the ranks, not a man could be picked out, but they still persisted that the party that had given them such an unmerciful beating belonged to us. The colonel then formed square, with this nice little party in the centre. He then addressed us, expressing a hope that those who had disgraced themselves would step to the front. Four out of the five who had constituted our party at once complied. We were made prisoners, and the colonel proceeded to question us; but when it was made known to him that _we_ had been attacked and grossly insulted, and that one man, who was not then on parade, had settled the whole, without any assistance from us, the regiment was at once dismissed, and our gallant pioneer corporal sent for. As soon as our friends caught sight of him, there was no need to ask if they recognized him, for they at once commenced to jabber like a lot of magpies. When Gen. Mac Mahon had satisfied himself that we had been the injured party, and that this solitary man had settled the lot, and further stated that he was ready for as many more, provided they came singly, the general laughed heartily, and applauded the man's conduct, requesting the colonel not to punish any of us. We were at once released, and the case dismissed.

THE HORRORS OF WAR.

The following incident occurred at the Campo Mayor affair, on the 25th of March, 1811. "A French captain of dragoons demanded permission, under a flag of truce, to search among the dead for his colonel. His regiment was a fine one, with bright brass helmets and black horsehair. It was truly a bloody scene, being almost all sabre wounds. It was long before he could find the French colonel, for he was lying on his face, his naked body weltering in blood; and as soon as he was turned up, the officer knew him: he gave a sort of scream and sprang off his horse, dashed his helmet on the ground, knelt by the body, took the bloody hand and kissed it many times in an agony of grief: it was an affecting and awful scene. There were about six hundred naked dead bodies lying on the ground at one view. The French colonel was killed by a corporal of the Thirteenth. This corporal had killed one of his men, and he was so enraged, that he sallied out himself and attacked the corporal, who was well mounted and a good swordsman, as was the colonel himself. Both defended for some time; the corporal cut him twice across the face; his helmet came off at the second, when the corporal slew him by a cut which nearly cleft his skull asunder, cutting in as deep as the nose through the brain."

ESPRIT DE CORPS.

Private Stevenson, of Ligonier's Horse, having had his horse shot under him shortly after the commencement of the battle of Fontenoy, on the 11th May, 1745, did not rejoin his regiment until the evening of the following day. A court-martial was demanded by the man, before which he produced Lieutenant Izard, of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, who deposed that the prisoner acquainted him with the death of his horse, and requested permission to carry a firelock in the grenadier company under him. His request was granted; he behaved throughout the day with uncommon intrepidity, and was one of the nine grenadiers which he brought out of action. He was then promoted to a lieutenancy in the Royal Welsh Fusiliers.

WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN IN THE CRIMEA?

I have seen majestic nature in grandeur displayed,
With the hills and the valleys which the ocean hath made;
I've seen the eagle and vulture with pinions extended,
And battles so well fought that no hero could mend it.

I saw the Light Division leading the van
With their Allies, who also would die to a man
Before they would yield to an Autocrat's rule,
Or turn back on their march to Sebastopol.

I saw the Heights of Alma, on the 20th September,
There the maiden British army first faced the foe,
There the Russian, bear, with all his ugly cubs,
Was taught to use his heels as fast as he could go.

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, but no desponding cry--
Remember the Heights of Alma, boys, we conquer or we die!

I've seen Inkermann's Heights and its Valleys of snow,
Where many a brave soldier a rooting did go,
In search of some fuel his breakfast to cook,
With a pick on his shoulder, and axe or bill-hook.

I've seen the Mamelon and the Malakoff tower,
When the grape shot and shell on our trenches did pour.
While Mars sat in triumph to test our renown,
And meet us with laurels as we stormed the great town.

I've seen the Quarantine Battery, Fort Paul, and the docks;
With the Bear and the Eagle contending for rocks,
And vultures in numbers near the Worrensoff road,
That once was the highway to the Russian's abode.

I've seen sorties and struggles by the Russians, 'tis true,
But their banners were stained by the Red, White and Blue,
We sent them some pills their system to cool,
Which worked them in thousands from Sebastopol.

I've seen Lord Raglan, Pellisier, and their brilliant staff,
While the band of the 7th played "Larry O'Gaff;"
I've seen Lord Brown in the trenches, for war he was ripe,
Dressed as plain as a ploughman, with a little short pipe.