Deeming, also, their position impregnable, the Russians were probably paralysed by the suddenness and vigour of the attack.
Another almost equally fatal error was committed later in the day. Several Russian regiments, instead of waiting to receive the enemy on the commanding position they occupied on the Heights, rashly descended to a sort of second terrace, a few feet below the summit of the cliff; a most disastrous move on their part, for when the Zouaves and light infantry swarmed up the rocks the miserable Russians were bayoneted and cut down without a chance of retreat.
In fact most accounts tend to show that want of organization, and the want of supreme military power on the spot, contributed quite as much as the vigour of the attack to the loss of the battle of the Alma, and the subsequent fall of Sevastopol.
The Russians do full justice to the dauntless courage and brilliant military talents of their foes, but the destruction of Sevastopol lies heavy on their hearts, for the higher classes think her fall was as much brought about by faults at home as by the intrepid valour of the besiegers.
In the early part of the war, intrigues, it is said, were rife at the Russian Court, and the plans of the Crimean generals were constantly interfered with and made of no effect by contradictory orders from St. Petersburg. It was believed by the Emperor that the garrison in Sevastopol was so immense that in itself it formed a large and efficient army. It was believed that stores and all other requisites were there in such abundance that the town was capable of sustaining unassisted a protracted siege of even years, whereas so great had been the venality practised that many regiments, supposed to be fully manned, barely existed but in name.
So far from being able to support a long siege, the vast store-houses were more than half empty, and with respect even to ammunition and arms the supply was lamentably inadequate. It is said also that some of the cannon and shells were made of wood.
When all the present generation has passed away, and when the history of the Crimean war will only be classed among the histories of the past, many who read the story will feel a deep compassion for the mighty Emperor whose heart broke when he at length knew the fatal truth. His cherished town—his impregnable fortress—the pride of Russia—the key-stone, as it were, to all his ambitious projects, must fall into the hands of the enemy for want of troops, food, ammunition—for want of the very things with which he supposed it had been so well supplied. Supplies were sent, troops were sent, but in what condition could they arrive after having traversed a country the width of Europe, in the depth of winter, without railways, and nearly without towns?
The Russians are essentially a brave and noble people; it is impossible to live amongst them and not admire and like them. They love their sovereign with a personal devotion almost beyond bounds, and they can and have fought for their country to the death, but they know their system of government is very faulty.
Late events especially have led them to see how the present system tends to much oppression and venality, and that though the Emperor really labours earnestly and unweariedly for the welfare of his subjects, yet it is impossible any one man can sufficiently superintend and legislate for so vast an empire.
On the gentle slope of a pretty grass hill, where a flock of sheep were peacefully grazing, is the simple stone erected to the memory of the noble 23rd Welsh Fusileers, and a few feet from it are a number of long, narrow trenches, the edges roughly marked by stones, the graves of their gallant enemies.