One of the most painful things during the battle was the number of wounded horses. Some of the poor creatures went grazing about the fields, limping on three legs, one, perhaps, having been broken or carried away by a shot. Others were galloping about wildly, screaming with terror and fright. At times two or three horses would attach themselves to the staff, as if desirous of company or for human protection. One poor beast, who had its nose and mouth shot away, used to edge in amongst the staff and rub its gory head against their horses’ flanks. He was at last ordered to be put out of his pain, being in this more fortunate than many poor soldiers, who lay out for several nights in their agony.
It was a day or two after that the best shot in the British Army was killed. Lieutenant Tryon, of the Rifle Brigade, was shot through the head when in the act of firing at the retreating Russians. He was a great loss, much beloved by his men. It is stated that he had himself killed over a hundred Russians. At the Battle of Inkermann he employed himself the whole day in firing at the Russian artillerymen. He had two of his men to load for him, and they say that he knocked over thirty Russians, besides wounding several more.
General Canrobert issued a general order eulogizing the conduct of our Rifles, and lamenting in just terms the death of Lieutenant Tryon.
This must be the first occasion on record of a French General particularizing the bravery of a British officer of Tryon’s rank.
There is a story told which proves that Russian Generals were not dead to a sense of humour.
A Mr. C——, an officer in an English regiment, was taken prisoner in a sortie of the Russians, and was sent on to Simferopol. A day or two after his arrival there he received some letters from England which had been sent in with a flag of truce. One of these letters was from a young lady who was engaged to Mr. C——. In this letter she wrote:
“I hope, dearest, that if you take Prince Menchikoff prisoner, you will cut a button off his coat and send it to me in a letter, as you know how fond I am of relics.”
All these letters had been opened and translated at the Russian headquarters, as is usual. Prince Menchikoff was shown this letter, which amused him not a little; so he wrote to Mr. C——, saying how much he regretted he was unable to pose as a prisoner, when it was the other way about; but he had much pleasure in sending him the enclosed button off his best coat, which he trusted Mr. C—— would forward to the young lady with his compliments.
By December the whole army was suffering, worn out by night work, by vigil in rain and storm, by hard labour in the trenches, by cholera and short allowances. For nine days there was no issue of tea, coffee, or sugar to the troops. Food, corn, hay were stowed in sailing-vessels outside the harbour. A hurricane arose. To the bottom went provender and food for twenty days of all the horses. You could hardly tell an officer from a corporal. They were all hairy and muddy, filthy, worn, mounted on draggle-tailed ponies. Yet withal we are told they were the noblest, cheeriest, bravest fellows in Europe—ready to defy privation, neglect, storm, and wounds. Letters, it is true, sometimes came from the Crimea in which the writer showed a righteous indignation against those who mismanaged affairs and caused so much unnecessary loss and suffering. In one of these we read: