Chapter IV (2)

On other days every man has his meals alone, in the solitude of his cell, and but a brief time is allowed him, for it is considered sinful to spend more time in eating and drinking than is absolutely necessary to swallow down so much food as will hold body and soul together. That men may keep themselves healthy, even on such meagre diet as that I have mentioned, is proved by the monks of the Grande Chartreuse, for they enjoy excellent health, and generally live to a green old age. Even the weak and delicate grow strong and hardy under the severe discipline. The rasping friction of the nervous system, which annually slays its tens of thousands in the outer world, is unknown here. All is calm and peaceful, and the austerity of the life led is compensated for by the abiding and hopeful faith. It is a brief preparation for an eternal life of unsullied joy in a world where man's sin is known no more. Surely nothing else but such a faith could sustain mortal beings under an ordeal so trying.

This strange community of Carthusians is divided into categories of "Fathers" and "Brothers." The former wear robes of white wool, cinctured with a girdle of white leather. Their heads and faces are closely shaven, and the head is generally enveloped in a cowl, which is attached to the robe. They are all ordained priests, and it is to them the rule of silence, solitude, and fasting, more particularly applies. The fasting is represented by the daily bill of fare I have given, and it never varies all the year round, except on Fridays and certain days in Lent, when, poor as it is, it is still further reduced. The solitude consists of many hours spent in prayer in the loneliness of the cell, and the silence imposed is only broken by monosyllabic answers to questions addressed to them. Sustained conversation is a fault, and would be severely punished. Aspirants for the Fatherhood have to submit to a most trying novitiate, which lasts for five full years. After that they are ordained, and from that moment they renounce the world, with all its luring temptations and its sin. Their lives henceforth must be strictly holy in accordance with the tenets of their religion. The Brothers are the manual labourers, the hewers of wood and drawers of water. They do everything that is required in the way of domestic service. They wear sandals on their bare feet, and their bodies are clothed in a long, loose, brown robe, fastened at the waist by a rope girdle. On both branches of the Order the same severe _régime_ is compulsory, but on Fridays the Brothers only get a morsel of black bread and a cup of cold water. The attention to spiritual duties is all-absorbing, and under no circumstances must it be relaxed. Matins commence in the chapel at twelve o'clock at night, and continue until about two o'clock. After a short rest, the Divine service is resumed at six o'clock. But all the monks do not attend the matins at one time. While some sleep others pray. And it is doubtful if amongst the religious orders of the world anything more solemn and impressive than this midnight service could be found. To witness it was my chief aim in going to the convent, and so I left my cell after a short sleep, and proceeded to the chapel as the deep-toned bell struck twelve with sonorous sounds that rolled in ghostly echoes along the lofty corridors. The passage through which I made my way was a vast one, and a solitary lamp ineffectually struggled to illumine the darkness. I groped along until I reached a door that swung silently open to my touch. Then I stood within the chapel, where all was silent, and a Cimmerian gloom reigned. Far in the depths of the darkness was a glimmering, star-like lamp over the altar, but its beams, feeble and straggling, revealed nothing, it only accentuated the pitchy blackness all around. The feeble lanterns of the monks, one to every third stall, were invisible from my position. Everything was suggestive of a tomb far down in the bowels of the earth--the silence, the cold, the damp earthy smell that filled one's nostrils, all seemed to indicate decaying mortality. Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a single voice broke into a plaintive, monotonous chant. Then others took up the cadence with a moaning wail that gradually died away until there was unbroken silence again. There was something strange and weird in this performance, for the impenetrable darkness, the star-like lamp, the wailing voices of unseen figures, seemed altogether unnatural. It begot in me a shudder that I could not repress, for the moaning and wailing appeared to be associated with death rather than life. There was nothing in the whole ceremony indicative of joy or hope, but rather their converse--sadness and despair. Throughout those weary hours the wailing chant and the silence alternated. I wanted to go away, but could not. Some strange fascination kept me there, and I recalled some of the wonderful descriptive scenes in Dantè which were irresistibly suggested. My imagination was wrought on to such an extent that I pictured that vast gloomy space as filled with unquiet spirits condemned to torture; and the lamp as typical of the one ray of hope that told them that after a long period of penance they should pass from the gloom of woe to the lightness and joy of eternal day, when their anguish should cease for ever and rest be found. At last, to my great relief, I saw the beams of a new morn steal in at the chapel windows. The bowed forms of the cowled monks were faintly discernible, kneeling before the altar, where still burned the watch-lamp. One by one they rose and flitted away like shadows; no sound came from their footfalls, no rustle from their garments. Warmly clad though I was, I shivered with the cold, and was cramped with the position I had maintained for hours; for I had been fearful of moving lest any harsh, grating noise should break in upon that solemn and impressive silence. When all had gone I too went, and made my way back to the cell, where I tried to snatch a few hours' sleep, but it was all in vain, for my mind seemed as if it had been upset by a strange and terrible dream. Although I have had a wide and varied experience of men and manners in all parts of the world, I never witnessed such a strange scene before as I witnessed that night. It was like a nightmare picture, a poem evolved from a distorted imagination. I say a poem because it had the elements of poetry in it, but it was the poetry of ineffable human sadness.

Truly it is singular that men can so strengthen their faith, so enwrap themselves, as it were, in a gloomy creed, that they are willing to deny themselves every pleasure in life, to shut themselves off from all that is joyous and beautiful in the world, in order to submit to an endless sorrowing for human sins; a sorrowing that finds expression every hour of their lonely, saddened lives. For from sunset to sunrise, and sunrise to sunset again, they are warned by the mournful tolling of the iron bell, every quivering stroke of which seems to say "death," to pray without ceasing.

Many of the monks at the Grande Chartreuse are still in the very prime of their manhood, and not a few of them are members of distinguished and wealthy families. Yet they have renounced everything; all the advantages that influence and wealth could give them; all the comforts of home; the love of wife and children; the fascination of travel and of strange sights--every temptation that this most beautiful world could hold out has been resisted, and they have dedicated themselves to gloom, fasting, and silence. Verily, human nature is an unfathomable mystery. One may well ask if these monks are truly happy? If they have no longings for the flesh-pots of Egypt? If they do not sometimes pine and sigh for the busy haunts and the excitement of the great towns? Such questions are not easily answered, unless we get the answer in the fact that the monastic vows are faithfully and religiously kept; and there is no record of a Carthusian monk ever having broken his vow. Surely then there must be something strangely, even terribly attractive in that stern life which is so full of hardship and trial, and from year's end to year's end knows no change, until the great change which comes to us all, sooner or later, whether we be monks or revellers.

I have already mentioned that notwithstanding their sparse and meagre diet, which seems to us ordinary mortals to lack nutriment and sustaining power, the monks of the Grande Chartreuse are healthy and vigorous. The Brothers labour in their fields and gardens, and they cultivate all the vegetables that they use, as well as grow most of their own corn for the bread. They do any bricklaying, carpentering, or painting that may be required, as well as all the washing and mending of the establishment, for a woman is never allowed to enter the sacred precincts. The furniture of each cell consists of a very narrow bed as hard as a board, and with little covering; a small stove, for the rigours of the climate render a fire indispensable at times, and yet the fires are used but sparingly; a little basin, with a jug of water for ablutions; and of course there is the _prie-dieu_, and the image of a saint. Attached to the convent is a cemetery, which cannot fail to have a very melancholy interest for the visitor. It is divided into two parts, one being for the Fathers, the other for the Brothers, for as the two branches of the Order are kept distinct in life, so they are separated in death. No mounds mark the last resting-places of the quiet sleepers; but at the head of each is a wooden cross, though it bears no indication of the name, age, or date of death of the deceased--only a number. Having played his little part and returned to the dust from whence he sprang, it is considered meet that the Carthusian should be forgotten. And the cross is merely an indication that beneath moulder the remains of what was once a man.

As is well known, the monks distil the famous liqueur which finds its way to all parts of the world, and yields a very handsome revenue. The process of its concoction is an inviolable secret, but it is largely composed of herbs and cognac. It is said that the recipe was brought to the convent by one of the fathers, who had been expelled in 1792, and that at first the liqueur was used as a medicine and distributed amongst the poor. In the course of time, however, it was improved upon, for its fame having spread a demand for it sprang up, and it was resolved to make it an article of commerce. For this purpose a separate building was erected apart from the monastery, and placed in charge of one of the Fathers, who has a staff of brothers under him. The basis of the liqueur is supposed to be an indigenous mountain herb combined with the petals of certain wild flowers. These are macerated with honey until fermentation takes place. The liquid is then refined and brandy is added. Formerly it was made without brandy. The "green" is most favoured by connaisseurs, and its exquisite, delicate fragrance and flavour have never been imitated. More care is bestowed upon the "green" than the "yellow," which is somewhat inferior in quality and of a coarser flavour. On several occasions very large sums have been offered for the right to manufacture the chartreuse by financial speculators, but all such offers have been resolutely refused. Although I believe that the greater part of the income of the convent is spent in deeds of charity, it may be doubted by some people whether it is not a somewhat questionable way for a religious Order to augment its funds by the preparation of an intoxicating liquor for which, according to their own doctrine, there is absolutely no need. The chartreuse has a strong rival in the well-known benedictine, made by the Benedictine Monks; and which, while being similar in character, is said by some to be superior. There is little doubt, however, that the chartreuse has much the larger sale of the two. Many attempts have been made from time to time by outsiders to manufacture both these liqueurs, but without success, and the exact secret of their decoction is as religiously preserved as are the secrets of Freemasonry.

Like the Great St. Bernard, the Grande Chartreuse, though not to the same extent, is a show place in summer. Perhaps this is hardly a fair way of putting it, for it would be a cruel injustice to let it be supposed that the Chartreux had the slightest desire to make an exhibition of their lonely convent. But the travelling facilities afforded the tourist nowadays enable him to penetrate to the remotest recesses of the earth. No place is sacred to him; and as he thinks nothing of going into a Continental theatre dressed in a tweed suit, so he does not hesitate, garbed in hob-nailed boots and knickerbockers, to demand entrance into the Grande Chartreuse, whose mystery he does not understand and cares nought for, and whose solemnity does not awe him. To refuse hospitality even to the irreverent curiosity-monger would be contrary to the Carthusian's creed, which teaches charity to all men, and to "turn no deaf ear to him who asks for bread and succour." And so anything of the masculine gender is admitted and fed with the frugal fare that is now specially provided for visitors; and very properly he who partakes of this hospitality, not being in actual want of it, is required to pay for his entertainment. The ordinary visitor is not allowed to pass the night under the roof of the convent, and therefore that strange and ghostly service in the chapel during the hours of darkness is rarely witnessed. The Grande Chartreuse boasts of a magnificent library, which numbers upwards of 20,000 volumes, for the most part of a theological nature. Many of these books are unique and of great age, and to the theological student would probably prove a mine of wealth. Amongst the volumes are some very rare Bibles and Prayer-books of nearly every civilised country in the world. This library replaces the one that was destroyed, and has been collected during the present century.

What is known as the Chapter-room is an exception to the rest of the place, inasmuch as it is hung with portraits of the Father Superiors from the very foundation of the Order. There are about fifty of these portraits altogether, and some of the earlier ones are more curious than artistic. The "Superiors" are the only men of the Order whose memory is thus kept alive.

The Grand Cloister is the largest apartment in the building. It is a not quite perfect square, and is lighted by a hundred and thirty windows. A portion of this cloister dates back to the early part of the thirteenth century. There are two main corridors, seven hundred and twenty-two feet long, and abutting on these corridors are the cells, thirty-six in number. There is also a Chapelle des Morts, built about the end of the thirteenth century. Here the bodies of the dead monks rest during the religious services that are held over them before they are finally consigned to the little cemetery to which I have already made reference. Nor must I forget to mention what is known as the Map-room, where there is a very valuable collection of maps of different parts of the world, but particularly of France. There is also a small museum of insects and butterflies indigenous to the mountains of the region in which the convent is situated. That region is the southern group of the singularly interesting limestone Alps of Savoy, and the convent stands in about the middle section of the group which culminates in the Pointe de Chamchaude, 6,845 feet high.

In choosing the site for the convent, there is little doubt that isolation as well as a position of natural defence were aimed at. Isolated it truly is, and up to a couple of hundred years ago it must have been absolutely impregnable. But it is well known that the monks of old had an eye also to beauty of surroundings, and it is doubtful if the faithful followers of St. Bruno could have found a site commanding a view of more magnificent beauty in all France than that which the Grande Chartreuse occupies, and by ascending to the summit of the Grand Som, which throws its shadow over the convent, a panorama of unsurpassed grandeur is unfolded to the wondering gaze. To the west it embraces the valley of the Rhône, the town of Lyons, and the mountains of Ardèche and Forez; to the east the chain of glittering Alps that stretches from Mont Visio to Mont Blanc; to the north is the Mont du Chat of Chambéry, the Lake of Bourget, and that part of the Rhône Valley which is bounded by the rugged peaks of the purple Jura, while to the south are smiling valleys and rolling uplands.

This view of the outer world is all the monks ever obtain, for, having once taken the vows, they leave the convent no more; and they know little of what goes on in the busy haunts of men, where the passion of life reaches fever heat, save what they gather from the chattering of the throngs of summer idlers. In winter they live in a silent, white world, and the face of a stranger is very rarely seen.

Before leaving the neighbourhood I paid a visit to the Chapelle de St. Bruno, which is within half an hour's walk of the monastery. It is erected in a very wild spot, said to be the site of the saint's original hermitage. There is nothing particularly interesting in the chapel, which is in a state of dilapidation. But it is curious to speculate that here dwelt, in what was little more than a cavern, the man who, by the austerity of his life and his gloomy views, was able to found a religious Order which has endured for many ages, and is one of the few that escaped destruction during the revolutions and upheavals of the last century. The situation of the Chapelle is one of singular loneliness and desolation, and for eight months of the year at least it is buried in snow.

As I turned my back upon the Grande Chartreuse, after that memorable night spent under its roof, and feeling grateful for the shelter and refreshment it had afforded me, the morning sun was gilding the glorious landscape, and I breathed a sigh of relief and gladness, for I seemed to have come from a region of sorrow and gloom, where the coldness of death was ever present, into the healthy, joyous life of the throbbing, breathing world.

_Portraits of Celebrities at different times of their Lives._

HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA.

AGE 6 MONTHS.]

AGE 8. [_Miniature._]

AGE 18. [_R. Lane, A.R.A._]

AGE 45. [_A. Gracfle._]

PRESENT DAY. [_Wallery._]

WE here present a series of portraits of the Queen, which, together with the portrait given on our first page, completely represent the features of Her Majesty from baby-hood until the present day.

PRINCESS BEATRICE.

BORN 1857.

IT is fitting that next the portraits of Her Majesty the Queen should be placed those of the daughter who has been her most constant companion of late years.

AGE 4. [_Photograph._]

AGE 7. [_Lauchert._]

AGE 17.]

PRESENT DAY. [_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

THE EMPRESS FREDERICK OF GERMANY.

BABY, child, bride, and widow--such are the four portraits of the Queen's eldest daughter which we give above. An earlier portrait even than the first of these, and one of the most interesting in existence, is that which the Queen with her own hand depicted of her baby while it was still in swaddling-clothes, and which we have the pleasure of presenting to our readers as the frontispiece of the present number.

AGE 12 MONTHS.]

AGE 6. [_Painting._]

AGE 18. [_F. Winterhalter._]

PRESENT DAY. [_Byrne & Co., Richmond._]

THE DUKE OF
ARGYLL.

Born 1823.

AT the age of eight-and-twenty the Duke of Argyll, who had succeeded to the dukedom four years earlier, was already well known as a writer, a politician, and a public speaker, and as one who took keen interest in all Scottish questions which came before the public. At this age, also, he was elected Chancellor of the University of St. Andrews, and was already, what he has since remained, one of the most prominent figures in the House of Lords. The Duke, who has held many of the highest offices, in various Governments, was, at the age at which he is represented in our second picture, Secretary of State for India under Mr. Gladstone. But as a politician the Duke's position is not easy to define; he has been described as "Whig by family, Liberal by intellect, Independent by nature, and Conservative by inclination." But it is in questions of science and theology rather than in politics that the Duke's name is known, and his most celebrated book, "The Reign of Law," was considered by Darwin himself so powerful an attack upon the Theory of Descent as to call for special refutation.

AGE 28. [_J. E. Swinton._]

AGE 45. [_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

AGE 67. [_Messrs. Elliott & Fry._]

H. BEERBOHM TREE.

THE first photograph we give of Mr. Herbert Beerbohm Tree, shows him at the age of five, then a cherubic and rosy boy of seemingly serious disposition. The second likeness represents him at seventeen, soon after he had left the college of Schnepfenthal in Thuringia, where he received his education, but where, according to his own modest statement, he acquired no distinction in the walks of learning. But so great was his evident talent for acting that he was persuaded to adopt the stage as a profession, with what instant success we all know. He became manager of the Haymarket in 1887. As a manager he has shown not only enterprise, but an almost quixotic liberality. His latest Monday night venture has proved one of the happiest of his many happy thoughts.

For leave to reproduce these portraits we have to thank the kindness of Mr. Beerbohm Tree.

AGE 5. [_Photograph._]

AGE 17. [_The Stereoscopic Co._]

AGE 29. [_A. Bassano_.]

AGE 36. [_The Stereoscopic Co._]

WILLIAM BLACK.

BORN 1841.

MR. BLACK'S ambition as a boy was to become an artist, and he studied for a short time in the School of Art at Glasgow, in which city he was born. "As an artist," he tells us, "I was a complete failure, and so qualified myself for a time in after life as an art critic." Yet in feeling for the beauty of sea, forest, moor, and hill, and in graphic power of painting them in words, Mr. Black has rarely had a rival. At twenty, the age at which our first portrait shows him, he had already turned to journalism, and was writing in the _Glasgow Weekly Citizen_. Three years afterwards he came to London, where he wrote for newspapers and magazines. During the Prusso-Austrian War of 1866 he acted as the Special Correspondent of the _Morning Star_. Scenes taken from his adventures appeared in his first novel, "Love or Marriage," which he wrote on his return. Several other novels followed during the next four or five years, none of which had any great success; but in 1871, just at the age depicted in our second portrait, Mr. Black produced the striking story--"A Daughter of Heth." Since then, his books have become household words, and probably no living author has given pleasure to so many readers by means at once so simple and so fine. With less of plot and startling incident than almost any novelist, Mr. Black has two points of excellence in which he stands alone--in power of painting scenery and of depicting charming girls.

We are indebted for these portraits to the courtesy of Mr. Black.

AGE 20. [_Cramb Bros., Glasgow_.]

AGE 30. [_Sarony, Birmingham_.]

AGE 45. [_Messrs. Elliott &
Fry_.]

CHARLES WYNDHAM.

MR. CHARLES WYNDHAM was, at eighteen, the age at which our first portrait represents him, a medical student at Liverpool, at which city he was born; but having taken his degrees of L.R.C.S. and L.S.A., he went, at twenty-one, to America, and made his first appearance as an actor at Washington, with John Wilkes Booth, to whose _Hamlet_ he played _Osric_. Booth, who perhaps was never wholly sane, and who three years later made himself a name of world-wide infamy by shooting President Lincoln in a theatre-box, saw so little sign of genius in the new actor that he discharged him for incompetency. Mr. Wyndham then served as surgeon to the 19th Army Corps, and was present at some of the most deadly battles of the Civil War. His appearance at that time was that of our second portrait, which represents him in his uniform. Two years later, on his return to England, he again went on the boards, and entered at once upon the career which has long been recognised as that of the finest light comedian at present on the stage.

AGE 18. [_Miniature._]

AGE 22. [_Purviance, New
York._]

PRESENT DAY. [_Vernon
Heath._]

HENRY M. STANLEY.

AT 19, John Rowlands, a poor Welsh boy, had emigrated to America, had been adopted by a merchant of the name of Stanley, and had assumed the latter name. At 22, his adopting father having died without a will, young Stanley was serving as a petty officer on board the war-ship _Minnesota_. At 26 he had become a journalist, and was about to represent the _New York Herald_ with the British army in Abyssinia. On returning from this expedition he delivered lectures on his adventures, a handbill of which we reproduce on the page opposite, as a veritable curiosity. At 31 he had discovered Dr. Livingstone, and had returned with glory. What Mr. Stanley has done recently is known to all the world.

AGE 19. [_Photograph._]

AGE 22. [_Photograph._]

AGE 26. [_Rockwell & Co.,
New York._]

AGE 31 [_The Stereoscopic
Co._]

PRESENT DAY. [_John Fergus,
Cannes._]

(_Half original size._)]

_Stories of the Victoria Cross: Told by Those who have Won it._

NO tales of heroism are more thrilling and exciting than the narratives of the exploits which have gained the coveted reward of the Victoria Cross; and a story never has so much reality and vividness as when it comes first-hand from the performer of the deed. Accordingly, we have asked a number of the heroes of the Victoria Cross--a truly noble army--to relate in their own language how they came to win the most glorious decoration open to a soldier, the plain bronze cross "For Valour." The narratives which follow require no further introduction, and will, we think, be found to possess an interest which is all their own--the interest and impression of reality.

SERGEANT ABLETT.

One of the most gallant acts which can be conceived is the seizing a live shell and casting it away, so as to prevent mischief from its explosion. A second's delay may be fatal, and the man who picks up the shell cannot tell whether the second in question will be allowed him. If it bursts in his hands it means certain death. Not only the greatest, but also the promptest, courage is needed for such an act of courage. Among the few who have performed such a feat is Sergeant Ablett, late Grenadier Guards, whose own modest account is as follows:--

On the 2nd September, 1854, when in the trenches before
Sebastopol, the sentries shouted "Look out there!" a shell
coming right in the trenches at the same moment and dropping
amongst some barrels of ammunition. I at once pulled it from
them. It ran between my legs, and I then picked it up and threw
it out of the trench; it burst as it touched the ground. From
the force of it I fell, and was covered by its explosion with
gravel and dirt.

Sergeant Baker and others picked me up, and asked if I was hurt.
I said, "No; but I have had a good shaking." There was a great
number in the trenches at the time, but I am glad to say no one
was hurt. The Sergeant reported the circumstances to the officer
in charge.

On coming off duty I was taken before the commanding officer,
and promoted to the rank of Corporal, and then Sergeant. He also
presented me with a silk necktie made by her most gracious
Majesty. I was at the battles of Alma, Balaclava, Inkerman, and
the capture of Sebastopol after eleven months' siege. This is
all I think I need say as to myself and the Victoria Cross. My
likeness is to be found in Victoria Cross Picture Gallery,
Crystal Palace, and Alexandra Palace.

MAJOR JOHN BERRYMAN.

Among those who won the Victoria Cross at Balaclava none gained it more worthily than Major John Berryman, who served in the Crimea as Troop-Sergeant Major in the 17th Lancers. This is how Major Berryman describes the charge of the Light Brigade:--

"Gallop!" was the order as the firing became general. And here a
discharge from the battery in our front, whose guns were doubly
shotted, first with shot or shell, and then with case, swept
away Captain Winter and the whole division on my right. The gap
was noticed by Captain Morris, who gave the order, "Right
incline," but a warning voice came from my coverer in the rear
rank (Corporal John Penn), "Keep straight on, Jack; keep
straight on." He saw what I did not, that we were opposite the
intervals of the guns, and thus we escaped, for the next round
must have swept us into eternity. My attention here was
attracted to James Melrose, a Shakespearian reciter, calling
out, "What man here would ask another man from England?" Poor
fellow, they were the last words he spoke, for the next round
from the guns killed him and many others. We were then so close
to the guns that the report rang through my head, and I felt
that I was quite deaf for a time. It was this round that broke
my mare's off hind leg, and caused her to stop instantly. I felt
that I was hit, but not till I dismounted. Seeing that the
mare's leg was broken, I debated in my own mind whether to shoot
her or not, when Captain Webb came up to me, and asked me, was I
wounded? I replied, "Only slightly, I thought, in the leg, but
that my horse was shot." I then asked, "Are you hurt, sir?" He
said that he was, and in the leg, too; what had he better do?
"Keep to your horse, sir, and get back as far as you can." He
turned, and rode back. I now caught a loose horse, and got on to
his back, but he fell directly, the brass of the breast-plate
having been driven into his chest. Seeing that there was no hope
of my joining the regiment in the _mêlée_, and the 11th Hussars
being close upon me, I moved a little to the right, so as to
pass through the interval between the squadrons. Both squadrons
closed in a little, and let me pass through. I well remember
that Sergeant Gutteridge was the right guide of the 2nd
squadron. Finding that Captain Webb had halted, I ran to him,
and on inquiries found that his wound was so painful that he
could not ride any further. Lieutenant George Smith, of my own
regiment, coming by, I got him to stand at the horse's head
whilst I lifted the captain off. Having accomplished this, I
assisted Smith to mount Webb's horse, and ride for a stretcher,
taking notice where we were. By this time the Russians had got
back to their guns, and re-opened fire. I saw six men of my own
regiment get together to recount to each other their escapes.
Seeing their danger, I called to them to separate, but too late,
for a shell dropped amongst them, and I don't think one escaped
alive. Hearing me call to these men, Captain Webb asked what I
thought the Russians would do?

"They are sure to pursue, sir, unless the Heavy Brigade comes
down."

"Then you had better consult your own safety, and leave me."

"Oh no, sir, I shall not leave you now."

"Perhaps they will only take me prisoner."

"If they do, sir, we will go together."

"Don't mind me, look to yourself."

"All right, sir; only we will go together, whatever happens."

Just at this time I saw Sergeant Farrell coming by. I called to
him. He asked, "Who is it?" When told, he came over. I said, "We
must get Captain Webb out of this, for we shall be pursued."

He agreeing, we made a chair of our hands, lifted the Captain
up, and found that we could carry him with comparative ease. We
had got about 200 yards in this manner, when the Captain
complained that his leg was very painful. A private of the 13th
being near, Malone, I asked him would he be good enough to
support Captain Webb's legs, until we could procure a stretcher?
He did so, and several of the officers passed us. Sir G.
Wombwell said, "What is the matter, Peck?" (Captain Webb's
nickname.)

"Hit in the leg, old fellow. How did you escape?"

"Well, I was unhorsed and taken prisoner, but when the second
line came down, in the confusion I got away, and, seizing the
first horse I could, I got away, and I find that it is
Morris's."

Sir W. Gordon made the same inquiry, and got the same answer. He
had a very nasty cut on the head, and blood was then running
down his face. He was carrying his dress cap in his hand. We had
now reached the rear of the Greys, and I procured a stretcher
from two Infantry band boys, and a young officer of the "Greys"
gave me a "tourniquet," saying that he did not know how to apply
it, but perhaps I might. I put it on the right thigh, and
screwed it up. Doctor Kendal came here, and I pointed out what I
had done, and asked was it right?

"I could not have done it better myself; bring him along."

I and Farrell now raised the stretcher and carried it for about
fifty yards, and again set it down. I was made aware of an
officer of the Chasseurs d'Afrique being on my left by his
placing his hand upon my shoulder. I turned and saluted.
Pointing to Captain Webb, but looking at me, he said:--

"Your officer?"

"Yes."

"Ah! and you sergeant?" looking at the stripes on my arm.

"Yes."

"Ah! If you were in French service, I would make you an officer
on the spot." Then, standing in his stirrups and extending his
right hand, said:--

"Oh! it was grand, it was _magnifique_, but it is not war, it is
not war."

This officer was General Morris. We resumed our patient, and got
to the doctors (Massy and Kendal). I saw the boot cut off and
the nature of the wound, the right shin bone being shattered.
Farrell made an exclamation, and I was motioned to take him
away. I told him that I should go and see the end of it. He said
that he was too exhausted to do any more. Finding a horse in the
lines, I mounted him, although the animal belonged to the 4th
Light Dragoons, and thus dropped in behind the Duke of
Cambridge, and heard what passed. The Duke, speaking to Lord
Cardigan, said:--

"Cardigan, where's the Brigade, then?"

"There," said Cardigan.

"Is that all of them? You have lost the finest Brigade that ever
left the shores of England."

A little further on he spoke to Captain Godfrey Morgan (Lord
Tredegar):--

"Morgan, where's the regiment, then?"

"Your Royal Highness, that is all of them!"

"My poor regiment, my poor regiment!"

I now took my place in the ranks, and, in numbering off, being
on the extreme left, I counted 22. We fell back during the
night, and, being dismounted, I, with my servant, was left
behind. I suffered intensely with my head, and got a napkin and
tied it as tightly as possible round my brows. I also had time
to examine my wound, which was inside the calf of my leg. A
small piece about the size of a shilling had been cut clean out
of my leg; but except that the blood had run into my boots, I
felt but very little inconvenience from it. Cold water bandage
was all I used; but, unfortunately, scurvy got to it, and it was
a long time healing.

PRIVATE WILLIAM NORMAN.

Private William Norman, of the 7th Regiment, in a true modest and soldier-like style thus describes the exploit which won for him the Victoria Cross:--

On the night of December 19, 1854, I was placed on single sentry
at some distance in front of the advanced sentries of an
out-lying picquet in the White Horse Ravine--a post of much
danger, and requiring great vigilance. The Russian picquet was
posted 300 yards in our front. Three Russian soldiers advanced
under cover of the brushwood for the purpose of reconnoitring. I
immediately fired my rifle, which was the signal of alarm, and
then jumped into the trench almost on the top of the three
Russians, two of whom I succeeded single-handed in taking
prisoners, and marched them into our lines, the other one having
fled back to the Russian lines.

My feelings I can hardly describe, as what I did was on the spur
of the moment. But it was no doubt the means of saving our
position.

PRIVATE JAMES DAVIS.

The attack on Fort Ruhiya on April 15, 1858, gave an opportunity for much display of courage and devotion. Among those who conspicuously distinguished themselves was Private James Davis, of the 42nd Highlanders. This gallant soldier, who had previously served throughout the Crimean War, also saw much fighting during the Indian Mutiny, and for his conduct at Fort Ruhiya was awarded the Victoria Cross.

The following is his account of the feat which won for him the much-prized honour:--

I belonged to the Light Company, under the command of Captain
(now Sir John) Macleod. We got orders to lie down under some
trees for a short time. Two Engineer officers came up and asked
for some men to come with them to see where they could make a
breach with the artillery. I was one who went. There was a small
garden ditch under the walls of the fort, not high enough to
cover our heads. After a short time the officers left. I was on
the right of the ditch with Lieut. Alfred Jennings Bramley, of
Tunbridge Wells, as brave a young officer as ever drew sword,
and saw a large force coming out to cut us off. He said, "Try
and shoot the leader. I will run down and tell Macleod." The
leader was shot, by whom I don't know. I never took credit for
shooting anyone. Before poor Bramley got down he was shot in the
temple, but not dead. He died during the night.

The captain said, "We can't leave him. Who will take him out?" I
said, "I will." The fort was firing hard all the time. I said,
"Eadie, give me a hand. Put him on my back." As he was doing so
he was shot in the back of the head, knocking me down, his blood
running down my back. A man crawled over and pulled Eadie off.
At this time I thought I was shot, the warm blood running down
my back. The captain said, "We can't lose any more lives. Are
you wounded?" I said, "I don't think I am." He said, "Will you
still take him out?" I said, "Yes." He was such a brave young
fellow that the company all loved him. I got him on my back
again, and told him to take me tight round the neck. I ran
across the open space. During the time his watch fell out; I did
not like to leave it, so I sat down and picked it up, all the
time under a heavy fire. There was a man of the name of Dods,
who came and took him off my back. I went back again through the
same fire, and helped to take up the man Eadie. Then I returned
for my rifle, and firing a volley we all left. It was a badly
managed affair altogether.

PRIVATE ROBERT JONES.

At the gallant defence of the fort at Rorke's Drift, every man fought like a hero, but some were fortunate enough to attract the particular attention of their superiors. Among these was a private of the 24th Regiment, named Robert Jones, who obtained the Victoria Cross for his conduct on the occasion. His story is as follows:--

"On the 22nd January, 1879, the Zulus attacked us, we being only
a small band of English soldiers and they in very strong and
overwhelming numbers. On commencing fighting, I was one of the
soldiers who were in the hospital to protect it. I and another
soldier of the name of William Jones were on duty at the back of
the hospital, trying to defeat and drive back the rebels, and
doing our endeavours to convey the wounded and sick soldiers out
through a hole in the wall, so that they might reach in safety
the small band of men in the square. On retiring from one room
into another, after taking a wounded man by the name of Mayer,
belonging to the volunteers, to join William Jones, I found a
crowd in front of the hospital and coming into the doorway. I
said to my companion, 'They are on top of us,' and sprang to one
side of the doorway. There we crossed our bayonets, and as fast
as they came up to the doorway we bayoneted them, until the
doorway was nearly filled with dead and wounded Zulus. In the
meanwhile, I had three assegai wounds, two in the right side and
one in the left of my body. We did not know of anyone being in
the hospital, only the Zulus, and then after a long time of
fighting at the door, we made the enemy retire, and then we made
our escape out of the building. Just as I got outside, the roof
fell in--a complete mass of flames and fire. I had to cross a
space of about twenty or thirty yards from the ruins of the
hospital to the leagued company where they were keeping the
enemy at bay. While I was crossing the front of the square, the
bullets were whishing past me from every direction. When I got
in, the enemy came on closer and closer, until they were close
to the outer side of our laager, which was made up of boxes of
biscuits on sacks of Indian corn. The fighting lasted about
thirteen hours, or better. As to my feelings at the time, they
were that I was certain that if we did not kill them they would
kill us, and after a few minutes' fighting I did not mind it
more than at the present time; my thought was only to fight as
an English soldier ought to for his most gracious Sovereign,
Queen Victoria, and for the benefit of old England."

GUNNER JAMES COLLIS.

Gunner James Collis tells his story in these words:--

On the twenty-seventh of July, 1880, we were encamped at
Khushk-i-Nakhud, in Afghanistan. At 4 a.m. that day we--Battery
E, Battery B Brigade--marched with the rest of the force on
Maiwand to meet Ayub Khan. About 9 a.m. we came in sight of him
in position under the hills. We were on the open plain. Major
Henry Blackwood, commanding my battery, gave the order "Action
front." I was a limber gunner that day. We began firing with
common shell from the right of the battery. After we had fired a
few rounds, their artillery replied. The first shot struck the
near wheel of my gun, killing a gunner, wounding another, and
Lieutenant Fowler.

The limber box upon my gun was smashed by a shell which also
killed the wheel horses, but did not touch the driver. Several
riding horses of my battery were killed, and a good deal of
damage done to guns and carriage. Four gunners and Sergeant
Wood, the No. 1 of my gun, were killed, and two men wounded,
leaving only three men to work the gun. I took Sergeant Wood's
place.

At about 1.30 p.m., some of Jacob's Rifles, who were lying down
about ten yards in rear of the trail, began to be
panic-stricken, and crowded round our guns and carriages, some
getting under the carriages. Three got under my gun. We tried to
drive them away, but it was no use. About that time we ceased
firing a little, the enemy having set the example. During that
pause the enemy on the left got pretty close. To check them,
General Nuttall formed up the 3rd Bombay Cavalry and the 3rd
Scinde Horse to charge. Gunner Smith of my gun, seeing what was
going to be done, mounted his horse and joined the cavalry.
General Nuttall led the charge, Gunner Smith being at his side.
After going about 300 yards, the enemy being about 200 yards
off, the whole line, with the exception of the General, the
European officers, and Gunner Smith, turned tail, forming up
when in line with the guns. General Nuttall with the officers,
finding themselves deserted, returned, General Nuttall actually
crying from mortification. Gunner Smith dashed on alone, and was
cut down.

About 4 p.m. a large body of the enemy's infantry charged the
left of the battery, the men of the left division 5 and 6 being
compelled to use their handspikes and charge staves to keep them
off. Major Blackwood on this ordered the battery to limber up
and retire. When Lieutenant Maclaine heard this order he said,
as I was afterwards informed, "Limber up be damned! Give them
another round." We limbered up and retired at a gallop about
2,000 yards. In the meantime Major Blackwood remained behind
with Lieutenant Maclaine's guns and was killed, Lieutenant
Osborne by his side, Lieutenant Maclaine fighting to the last.
At length, seeing no use in stopping, he galloped after us--we
had got separated from the right division--and called out to us,
only two guns, "Action, rear." We fired two rounds with
shrapnel. Captain Slade, who had been in temporary command of
the smoothbores, finding Major Blackwood dead, came up with his
smoothbores and took command of all the guns. Colonel Malcolmson
a moment later ordered Captain Slade to retire, saying, "Captain
Slade, if you and the Lieutenant keep those two guns, he will
lose them the same as he has lost his own." We then limbered up
and went off. Just then a shell burst open our treasure chest.
Many of the troops and camp followers stopped to pick up the
money and were overtaken and killed. Just after that some of the
enemy's cavalry caught up the guns. One of them wounded me on
the left eyebrow as he passed. He wheeled round and came at me
again; I took my carbine, waited till he was within four or five
yards, and let drive, hitting him on the chest and knocking him
off his horse. As he fell his money fell out of his turban, and
Trumpeter Jones jumped off his horse and picked it up. He
escaped, and is now corporal R.H.A., and wears the Distinguished
Service medal for his conduct at Maiwand.

It was now beginning to get dusk, and I got off to walk by the
side of my gun. Seeing a village close by, and some men at a
well, I followed them and got some water. Just as we got to the
well the enemy charged and drove us off, killing a good many.

On my return I missed my gun, and picked up with No. 2, which I
stuck to till I reached Candahar. It was now dark, and we were
with a stream of men of all regiments, camp followers, camels,
and waggons. Going along I saw a lot of sick and wounded lying
by the side of the road, and I picked them up and put them on
the gun and limber. I had about ten altogether; they were all
66th men, and a colonel whose name I do not know and never heard
of.

We had been fighting all day, marching all night and next day
without a bit of food or a drink of water. I did not feel it so
much, as I was so occupied, but I saw several dying by the
roadside from thirst and fatigue. About four in the afternoon of
the 28th, we came to a place called Kokeran, 7-1/2 miles from
Candahar; I saw a village where I could get water for the men
who were with me. I went off and brought the water back and the
men with me. On going to the village I saw Lieutenant Maclaine
mounted; when I came back I saw two horses without a rider. I
then went again for more water. I was about 150 yards from the
gun when I saw ten or twelve of the enemy's cavalry coming on at
a slow pace towards the gun. The gun went off and I lay down and
allowed the gun to pass me, and began firing with a rifle which
I had got from a wounded 66th man, in order to draw their fire
upon myself, and stop them from going forward with the gun. I
was concealed in a little nullah, and I fancy they thought there
was more than one man, for they stopped and fired at me from the
saddle. I shot one horse and two men. After firing about
thirty-five rounds General Nuttall came up with some native
cavalry, and drove them off. When I first saw the enemy they
were about 300 yards off, when they left they had got 150 yards.
General Nuttall asked me my name, saying, "You're a gallant
young man, what is your name?" I said, "Gunner Collis, of E. of
B, R.H.A." He entered it into a pocket-book and rode off. I then
followed up my gun, which I found some 500 yards distant by the
side of a river. The enemy's fire, which had been going on all
the way from Maiwand, now became hotter, the surrounding hills
being full of them. Some of the garrison of Candahar met us
about four miles from the Fort and escorted us in. I arrived
about seven p.m.

On the occasion of the sortie from Candahar in the middle of
August, 1880, the fighting was going on in the village situated
about 200 yards from the edge of the ditch of the fort. I was
standing by my gun on the rampart, when General Primrose,
General Nuttall, and Colonel Burnet came up. I heard them
talking about sending a message to General Dewberry, who had
succeeded General Brooke, who had been killed. I spoke to
Colonel Burnet and said that I would take the message over the
wall. After a little hesitation General Primrose gave me a note.
I was let down a distance of about thirty or forty feet to the
bottom of the ditch by a rope. When half down I was fired at but
not hit by matchlock men about 250 yards distant, and I
scrambled up the open side of the ditch and ran across to the
village. I found the officer commanding in the middle of it, and
fighting going on all round. I delivered the note and returned.
When half way up the rope I was fired at again, one bullet
cutting off the heel of my left boot. General Primrose
congratulated me and Colonel Burnet gave me a drop out of his
flask, for what with not having recovered from the fatigues of
Maiwand and the exertion and excitement of this trip, I was a
bit faint.

I was recommended for the Victoria Cross without my knowledge
about September 10, by Sir F. Roberts, on the report of General
Nuttall and Colonel Burnet. It was given to me July 28, 1881.

(_To be continued._)

_How Novelists Write for the Press._