It was very early; the morning breeze was deliciously cool and fresh, and as we lazily reclined on our comfortable seats, listening to the soft sound of the water as it rippled against the bows of the boat, or to the merry voices of the children as they chattered to their favourite Domenico, it seemed as if life could offer nothing pleasanter than to be thus gliding away in the summer sunshine towards unknown scenes and beauties. Whatever might have been the worthy Domenico’s faults with respect to his masters, he was admired and adored by every child who came near him.
He had an art, quite peculiar to himself, for turning everything he saw into something not intended by nature. Leaves, flowers, sticks, stalks, became astonishing musical instruments after passing through his cunning hands, and he would weave rushes, leaves, and flowers into garlands, baskets, and a variety of pretty things, with a rapidity and skill that was quite marvellous, and of course to the intense delight of the little folk around him. His pipes and whistles, also, blew better and with greater shrillness than any pipes and whistles that ever were known. Should occasion require he could be an admirable cook; he could sing buffo songs with a talent worthy of San Carlino itself; he could make clothes; he could improvise clever verses; but unfortunately his inspirations would come to him at unlucky moments, and while he was meditating a stanza more sublime than usual a pile of plates or dishes would fall from his hands, and his soaring spirit would be brought back to earth by an energetic remonstrance on his carelessness.
Happily he had not been in a poetic vein when he packed the breakfast basket. The only thing omitted was some fruit, a want that was soon supplied, for we passed a small house where the trellises were absolutely laden with grapes, and we bought a large basket of them for something under half a rouble.
We continued our course up the river, passing between water-meadows that had quite a park-like appearance from some fine old trees that had happily escaped destruction. The many ranges of hills also that could be seen as the valley opened were very beautiful, for though hardly lofty enough to deserve the name of mountains, the line of the more distant was rugged and bold, and in the clear atmosphere tier upon tier could be seen, till the last faded away in the blue distance.
While we went to look at the ruined village of Inkerman the sail was taken in, and as, owing to the large beds of rushes, the stream was rapidly narrowing, we took to the oars again, until we arrived opposite a small church and a few little houses that had been hewn out of the cliff itself.
The Tcherné divides here into several channels, all too shallow for the boat, so we landed, and establishing ourselves under some large trees, found a pleasant shelter from the sun, whose rays had now become both fierce and overpowering. We spread our breakfast on the grass, close to a delicious little ford, where the water, quite put out of temper by the impeding stones, dashed and tossed itself about in sparkles of brilliant rage. At length, throwing itself down in a fierce little set of passionate cascades, it recovered its calmness, and quietly subsided into the gentle stream beneath. Can anything be more beautiful than such a stream? and what delight greater than to rest thus under the shadow of great trees, watching the sunshine as it plays on bank, and tree, and meadow, and to know also one is far away from the working, weary troubles and pleasures of the world?
Seated on the warm, dry turf, we passed a couple of hours very luxuriously, and somewhat idly. In fact, some of the party indulged in a little slumber, a weakness quite to be forgiven, for the day and place seemed alike made for repose. Not a breath stirred the air, the leaves hung motionless on the trees, the bees hummed drowsily among the flowers. The very birds were silent, the reed-sparrow alone sending forth her monotonous piping note from some neighbouring bushes, and the tinkling sound of the falling water made the most soothing music imaginable. However, after a time we crossed the stream by means of the little ford, and ascended the cliff to the church and village; but church and houses were alike deserted. The door of the former was locked and the houses were empty. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere. We hunted about some time in hopes of finding the key—for we had been told the chapel was well worth seeing, and contained some curious old pictures—but in vain. The door was so old and shaky that a vigorous blow would have broken it open, but not thinking so felonious a mode of entrance suitable to the character of the edifice, we walked back towards Inkerman by a path that gave us beautiful views of the valley and mountains.
The village of Inkerman no longer exists; a few blackened walls alone mark its site.
The battle was fought on the rising ground immediately above the valley, and the earth still retains many memorials of the bloody strife. Half buried in the soil, close to a low wall, we found part of a broken sword; and any number of flattened bullets, buttons, and portions of soldiers’ decorations could be easily had by digging up the earth with parasol handles or sticks. On the highest point has been placed a simple stone monument to the memory of all the combatants who fell in that terrible struggle. English, French, and Russians there share alike in the honour of that fatal day; and truly a soldier’s glory seems but a very little thing.
A short walk along the rising ground brought us to all that is now left of the Malakoff. There are two ditches round it, but neither of them is as deep as that which surrounds the Redan. The fort itself, however, is very much larger, and in the centre are the ruins of a low, flat tower. It was originally bomb-proof, but the French blew it up when they obtained possession, and now barely half of the building remains standing.