While waiting for the tea, some water was brought from the famous spring of St. George. It is celebrated for miles around, and well deserves its fame. Fresh, sparkling, and cold as if iced, it was really nectar. Well for us it was so, for we needed some little compensation for the disappointment that awaited us with respect to the much-wished-for, long-promised tea. The eagerly-expected beverage, when it did at last arrive, was brought in tumblers, without either milk or sugar, and being a very strong decoction of something bitter, between sloes and haystalks, it was so like a horrid medicine called “black draught,” that nothing but the strongest exertion of good manners could enable one to swallow even a few drops.
At six o’clock we went into chapel for the Ave Maria. The chapel is a neat little building, detached from the monastery, and has some altar-pieces remarkably well painted. The pictures of the saints were covered with plaques of gold and silver in alto-relievo, and had glories of precious stones around their heads.
The congregation was very limited, for it consisted of only three brethren, the sacristan, and one old woman, but the service was got over with wonderful speed, though with no apparent disrespect of manner. Vespers over, we were shown the chapel. Behind the altar-screen was an exceedingly good picture of The Crucifixion, but as it was in a part of the building that women are not allowed to profane by their unholy presence, my sister and I had to remain on the other side of the altar, the monks most good-naturedly drawing aside curtains, and trying to give us as good a view as possible.
The evening had by this time become cool and pleasant, so we strolled down the cliffs to look at the ancient chapel, the hanging gardens, and the renowned spring. Excepting its antiquity, the former possesses no interest; it is a very small stone building, supposed to have been erected by the Genoese when they occupied this country, but both in form and decoration it is remarkably simple.
The stream poured forth from the rock with delicious freshness, dashing, in a series of tiny cascades, from terrace to terrace, ever sprinkling with a shower of brilliant drops the mosses and tender ferns that grew on its banks, until, on reaching the good monks’ gardens, it flowed decorously through appointed channels. Then, its duties over, it gave one glad bound, as a miniature waterfall, over the rocks into the sea, and was lost in the embrace of its mighty mother. The terrace-gardens are beautifully kept, for the monks labour in them unceasingly. The good fathers are the principal doctors of the district, and grow, therefore, not only vegetables for their own use, but most of the plants and herbs required for medicinal purposes.
It was late before we returned to Sevastopol, but the drive back in the cool night air was very refreshing. As we descended the heights into the town, we could see the bright lights of our many-coloured little Turkish lanterns shining a cheerful welcome to us from the yacht. It is worth while to feel very tired, in order to experience the inexpressible feeling of comfort that comes over one when, on getting on board, we find the tea-table invitingly prepared on deck, the samovar bubbling merrily under the teapot, the little kitten ready for a game of play, and everything speaking of the snugness and rest of home.
The country immediately around Sevastopol looks rather pretty, and is pleasant enough in fine weather. The air on the heights is fresh and invigorating, and the clearness of the atmosphere gives a charm to the distant views both over sea and land. A very few hours’ rain, however, makes the place quite detestable, for it is impossible to move out, either in the town or beyond it, without having to wade through a perfect slough of sticky white mud. The misery and illness that must have prevailed in the camps, after days of continued down-pour, can be easily imagined.
Our first visit to Marshal Pelissier’s head-quarters was made on one of these melancholy days. A Scotch mist, that had been driven in from the sea, gradually changed into a steady, soaking rain, but we were too far from home to turn back, and being fortunately well cloaked and shod, in forlorn procession we waded through puddles and mud from graveyard to graveyard. To the credit of the French nation, they are far better tended than ours. Still the scene was gloomy enough to suit the gloomy day. The huts, formerly inhabited by the troops, have fallen into ruins, and the wood is rotting on the ground. Here and there are huge mounds of broken bottles and other refuse, and near them again are great pits, where infected clothing, &c., were burnt during the time the cholera was raging. The French head-quarters seem to have been very well placed, for though on a commanding height, they must have been in a great measure protected from the cruel north wind that blew with such bitter severity into the English tents on Cathcart’s Hill.
Even black clouds and depressing rain could not make us insensible to the beauty of the valley of Tchernaia. It lies deep amongst rocks, with a fine range of chalk hills in the distance. The long white lines on their rugged sides looked like snow whenever a straggling ray of light fell upon them through the dark and heavy mass of clouds. Quite at the upper end of the valley, where it turns to the right towards Balaclava, are two low hills, covered with the ruins of Sir Colin Campbell’s camp. The long flat piece of ground beneath these will be ever memorable as the scene of the famous charge of cavalry. The little plain forms a sort of amphitheatre, as it is partly surrounded at one end by a series of hillocks or rising ground. On these commanding positions were posted the Russian guns. Even an inexperienced eye could see at a glance that the devoted regiments must have been rushing to certain death. It seems marvellous that men can be so trained to passive obedience, that, without a murmur, they hurry to their doom. Every officer, at any rate, was probably aware that the heroic effort could but be a useless sacrifice of human life. What must have been the agony of those who were forced to look on at such frightful and unnecessary carnage, powerless to prevent, and powerless to aid?
Balaclava is a quaint little place, completely shut in by hills and rocks. The entrance to the harbour from the sea is very difficult to find even when quite close to it, so curiously does the channel twist and turn about. It must have been once a better-class village than any we had yet seen, for the church, though in a dilapidated state, is large, and the houses, though partly in ruins, are of good size. Some have been repaired, and most are inhabited, but everything speaks of ruin and discouragement. The landing-place is rotting in the water, the warehouses made by the English are rotting on the shore, and the dirty, dreary-looking people seem as if they were decaying away in their poverty and hopelessness.