EARLY on the 3rd of September we started for Kamiesch; but, as usual, Bornet could not forget his old trade, and love for his fellow-soldiers. “Governor,” said he, “the 3rd Zouaves who were on duty in the trenches last night are on their return to camp. It is eight o’clock, and if we take this ravine we shall meet some of them, and learn what is going on.”
Having the whole day before us, I consented to go; we took the road called the French Ravine, which led from the French head-quarters to the trenches before Sebastopol. The returning Zouaves we met, but the cannon balls also met us. Being in the ravine, we were not in great danger, as they passed over our heads and fell on our left side. The principal danger was when they struck a large stone, causing it to roll down the side of the ravine, sometimes at a terrific rate.
The shells were far more objectionable; but, thanks to Providence, none hit us. While retreating, Bornet said, “By a thousand bombs, governor, it must be a fresh battery they are firing from: we always used to go this way to the trenches.”
“Well,” said I, “new or old, let us get out of it.”
Putting our horses to a gallop, we were soon out of danger, and on the road to Kamiesch. Near the French head-quarters we met two Zouaves. They told us the French trenches were now within twenty yards of the Malakhoff tower. “The cannon,” they said, “project about twenty feet over our heads, and cannot touch us; but the grenades, which the Russians throw among us by hundreds, cause the loss of many men, though we extinguish a great number when they fall.”
Bornet now proposed the vin blanc, but to his regret and my delight, they refused, or we should probably not have seen Kamiesch that day. In many instances I have known French soldiers refuse.
At length we arrived at Kamiesch, which I had so long seen from my quarters, but could not reach before, owing to the engrossing nature of my occupations. This French town of pasteboard, or light wood, was so different from Balaklava, that I cannot give my readers a better idea of it than by stating that it bears the same resemblance to Balaklava that Ramsgate does to Boulogne in the height of the season. The traffic, business, markets, restaurants, cafés, billiard-rooms, theatre, &c., display the difference of character between the French and English, as forcibly as Balaklava does the English from the French.
It was really remarkable to see the type of two great nations, such near neighbours, on the same foreign soil, so far from their native homes, so distinctly preserved, while the people agreed so well together. Some of the restaurants were pretty good, very expensive, not very clean, but always full. Money seemed of no consequence, as every one tried to get it out of you if you were rash enough to eat, drink, or purchase anything.
The sea-port was very fine; Kamiesch, flat, sandy, and unpicturesque. Balaklava was a perfect garden; Kamiesch a well populated desert.
The evening of the 7th of September was a memorable one. Each mind was animated; men of the most pacific disposition were transformed into lions or tigers, furiously seeking to devour their prey.