“Only an earthquake, eh!” said P. M., bolting.
In rushing to the street he upset my Greek servant, who was entering with a bowl of blazing punch, which gave both house and man the appearance of being on fire. We saw no more of P. M. till the next day, as he said he preferred being gulped up by mother earth at one nibble to being smothered beneath the ponderous timbers of my castle. The same day the Barrack Hospital shook so much, that the patients were actually seen in a state of nudity in the barrack-yard. Several jumped through the windows; one man was killed, and the others all more or less severely injured.
Each day I devoted to various hospitals, all went well, excepting the Palace Hospital, where there were not less than forty or fifty sick officers, who were much annoyed by the indifference and neglect of their steward. When I called there, they complained to me, and invited me to try if I could not remedy it, as well as remain and dine with them. I accepted their kind invitation, and soon found where the evil lay. I informed Lord W. Paulet, Drs. Cumming and M’Elray, and Mr. Robertson, the purveyor-in-chief; and a new kitchen was built, larger than the former. A civilian cook was placed there, and, to their delight, a new steward. Everything then gave more satisfaction to the illustrious patients, who always received me with the greatest kindness—so much so, that if nature had endowed me with several appetites daily, I could have dined three or four times per diem.
Without mentioning names, I may summon as witnesses the unfortunate heroes who were at that time gathered around the invalids’ table. So happy was I in their company—and I believe they were equally so in mine,—that I felt perfectly ashamed at being quite well; for even the Doctor was sick, in consequence of the harassing nature of his duties; he had so much to do—which is ever the case in time of war. With reference to their former steward, whom we had christened “la prima donna Antonio,” as a set-off to his trickery in supplying the invalid officers with dessert in the shape of bad ices, unripe fruit, &c.,—things not fit for weak stomachs,—he used, at the request of a few, to bring his guitar, and delight with his voice à la Veluti the ears of those whose palates he had so cruelly displeased. By the aid of a most amiable and kind lady—Mrs. Moore, who some time after died of fever, much regretted by all—I had already their comforts, and, having previously established a better system of cookery, thought I had done some good for those to whom I was so much indebted for their kind and polite attention. Though I did not remain more than three weeks at Scutari on this occasion, never, perhaps, during the whole of my martial career, was my heart so severely tried and tortured.
The following letters, addressed to the metropolitan press, speak volumes:—
Scutari, 27th June, 1855.
Mr. Editor,—Three weeks have hardly elapsed since my departure from the Crimean shores, and Death, that implacable deity of the dark abode, has had to engrave upon his mournful tablet a column of names of some of the most distinguished heroes of the present day—viz., Admiral Boxer, Adjutant-General Estcourt, Sir John Campbell, Colonel Yea, Captain Lyons, General della Marmora, &c.—and W. H. Stowe, a young civilian and bright ornament of the literary world. Every one has heard or will hear of their fame. History will relate facts, but time, as usual, will partly efface from the memory of man the cause of their martyrdom or sudden ill fate; while I—yes, I can relate, though with a sorrowful heart, the circumstances of their social position, having still on the ear a vibratory sound of their pure and candid voices, for it is only a few days since that I was amongst them, cheerfully shaking hands with them, transacting important business with some of them, partaking of the rural hospitality of others, they of mine, and overwhelmed by the kindness of all. Life then seemed proud of them; the bloom of nature was radiant upon their brows. Their eyes spoke volumes. Their hearts were as great in the devotion of the national cause, and the glory of their country, as the pure soul which has since departed from them for a better world. Every drop of their blood no longer belonged to them, but to their Queen, their country, their children—their names to posterity, their fame the beacon to future generations of immortality.
They breathe no more! Such are the chances of war, of life’s uncertainty. Man proposes, and the Supreme Being disposes. Instead of cheerful anecdotes, which a few weeks ago I could have related of those noble departed, I must here, for the present, cast a tenebrous veil over such earthly frivolity, and implore Providence to bestow a better fate upon the still great and noble and brave army.
With the most profound respect, I have the honour to remain,
Your most obedient servant,
A. Soyer.