The day turned out fine, though rather gloomy in the early part, and very windy. As the last day of such a series of fine weather, it was anything but a promising farewell. At twelve precisely, the keys of Balaklava were to be given up. A picket of the Land Transport Corps were placed on the small bridge at the Col of Balaklava.
A few minutes after, three or four gentlemen sailors, accompanied by some parties whom we at first took for heroic Kadikoi tradesmen, arrived at full gallop, crying out—“The Russians are coming!” which report spread alarm through the camp, and in less than two minutes caused all the troops, twenty-five in number, to be under arms, and rush full speed upon the assailants, by whom they were entirely defeated—as in a few minutes Balaklava was retaken, and has ever since remained in the hands of the Russians. Thus ended that friendly battle of which I was so anxious to be an eye-witness, where champagne flowed freely in lieu of blood.
The grand reception and ceremony was to take place at the Commandant’s head-quarters. A few minutes after twelve, Captain Stamaki, the new governor of Balaklava, made his appearance, accompanied by only one aide-de-camp. Being met by the English authorities, he made a full stop, and the password was exchanged, I believe, in the Greek language. The governor of Balaklava then galloped into his new kingdom. In about twenty minutes a body-guard of about seventy men, some on foot and some mounted, made their appearance. The horsemen, upon nearer approach, we found to be a picket of Cossacks. When about one hundred yards from the bridge, the British picket went towards them—the Russians having halted. This conventional performance lasted but a few minutes; and then, the British posts were relieved by the Russians as they passed on their way to the commandant’s, where they were received by Sir W. Codrington, General Garrett, Admirals Freemantle, Stewart, Captain Codrington, &c. &c. A squadron of the 56th, the last regiment remaining in the Crimea, were in attendance with their band. On one side were the English, and the Russians opposite, for the first time on duty facing each other in friendly feeling. The centre was occupied by the authorities. Amongst the group of lookers-on was the illustrious Mrs. Seacole, dressed in a riding-habit; and for the last time this excellent mother was bidding farewell to all her sons, thus ending her benevolent exertions in the Crimea. Having given her my parting salute, I left the mère noire for the Black Sea. The sun shone brightly upon that animated group, now performing the last scene of the great drama enacted upon those shores.
A few minutes after the curtain had fallen, spectators and performers had separated, and all were entering upon their new duties. The last remnant of the British army was that day ordered to sail for home.
The weather, which had been rather boisterous, increased in violence; and in consequence, the captain of the Argo, with whom I had been in company since the morning to witness the grand closing scene, made sure that we should not sail till the next day. He therefore proposed inviting several of the Russian officers to dine on board. This I immediately communicated to them in French, and they politely accepted the invitation. The party was six in number: among those invited, was Monsieur le Conte de Maison, a French nobleman, who had lived many years in Russia, and was a large proprietor in the Crimea. After replying to several of his questions, I told him my name. He appeared doubly interested, having heard, as he said, so much about me in the Crimea. In Russia this gentleman was looked upon as an epicure, and probably the interest he felt in my acquaintance had something to do with the good dinner he anticipated. Dinner was to have been upon the table at six, and at half-past five the boat of the Argo was to fetch them on board. All was settled, and a pleasant evening with our new friends expected. A violent shower of rain scattered us in all directions, and, much to our sorrow, we never met again.
We had hardly regained the ship, when Admiral Stewart came on board and ordered the captain to sail immediately. I went home through the rain to inform my people of the sudden change of orders, and found they had already heard the news and had started. I arrived just in time to prevent a Tartar stealing one of my horses, of which I had made a present to Mr. Smith, a wine-merchant, as there was no possibility of selling him. Horse-dealing with the Russians about that time was pretty much after this fashion: a rather decent horse would fetch from three to five roubles—which latter sum makes a pound sterling. Under these circumstances, to place them in good hands was not only a charity, but a duty.
Everybody had got on board, and the new-comers were under shelter. The rain fell heavily, and not a soul did I meet in my way from the General Hospital to the Argo, which was lying at the other side of the harbour. Nobody was out but myself, my horse, and my umbrella, which I had much difficulty in holding up in the gale I was then braving. The thousands who had witnessed and mingled with the noisy crowd which for so many months had encumbered the place, can form but a faint idea of the gloomy appearance of the desolate Balaklava.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
LAST SCENE OF THIS EVENTFUL HISTORY.
Farewell to the Crimea—Last glimpses—A collision—Rough weather—A strange coincidence—The Russian foundling—His history—A metamorphosis—The Sultan’s banquet—Sight-seeing at Constantinople—Last visit to the City of Palaces—“The Culinary wonder of all nations”—Holiday tour—The Author makes his bow.
ON board ship all was bustle and confusion. As the vessel steamed slowly out, we passed the few remaining steamers, including the bold Algiers, Captain Codrington, which was smoking with might and main. We went ahead, digging our way through the mountainous waves, which appeared to have accumulated in the harbour purposely to say farewell, or dash our brains out against the bulwarks or the perpendicular rocks of the bay. Black, sulphurous, and reddish clouds were rolling from mountain to mountain, burying the peaks of each in their course, and giving the aspect of a universal deluge, by the union of earth to heaven. We could perceive nothing excepting now and then a glimpse of two white spots: one was the Sardinian funeral monument, dedicated to their defunct heroes; the other, the white marble Nightingale Cross, which, as I have before mentioned, had just been erected by that lady to the memory of departed heroes, and the deceased Sisters of Charity and Mercy. So rough a day had not visited us since that eventful one on which Sebastopol had fallen. It was getting dark, and a misty rain kept falling, which made any but joyful reminiscences of our final departure from the theatre of war and the arid soil of the Crimea. The sable veil of night soon fell over our colossal steamer, the Argo, as she pitched and rolled in the hollow of the sea, having on board three hundred horses—a rather awkward cargo,—besides having been only recently patched up from some serious damage she had received in consequence of a collision with a French man-of-war. It had made a large hole in her, and carried away her figure-head. She had been for some time in the greatest danger in consequence of this, and though not materially so on the night of our departure, the remembrance of the accident was disagreeable enough to make all uncomfortable and spoil our appetites. A few extras had been added to the bill of fare in anticipation of the visit of our Russian friends; but I beg to inform my readers that I and a few of my compagnons de voyage saw no more of the banquet than did our much-disappointed guests on shore, who may probably think the invitation was a joke played off upon them by the captain, and that he was aware of the time of his departure.[29]