"CHRISTMAS IN THE CRIMEA.[ToC]
"How it was Celebrated near Balaclava in 1854.
"By Lieut.-General Laurie, C.B., M.P.
"In some of his Christmas annuals Charles Dickens delighted to portray the misanthropic grumbler who hated to see others enjoy themselves, and always laid himself out to be especially miserable at Christmas time, exaggerating the effects of the season by assuming a frozen aspect, and like an iceberg, chilling all around him; yet as the same iceberg when swept into the Gulf Stream finds the surrounding air and water by which it is enveloped will not admit its retaining its frigid isolation, it gradually melts and mixes with the warmer current, so Dickens brought his surly and crabbed man in contact with those who had set themselves to see everything under its brightest aspect, and under these softening influences he gradually thaws out and becomes the merriest amongst the merry, carried away by the joyous influences that are associated with the keeping of Christmas. And in all English-speaking countries, and especially in our old home, England, it is looked upon as a season to be given up entirely to pleasure in the present and bright hopes for the future. Memory takes me back to a Christmas which hardly came up to the ideal, and the contrast of then and now, of trials and miseries endured then, as compared with present comforts, may make us more satisfied with, and thankful for what we now enjoy. Twenty-nine years ago England had contributed as her share of the Crimean invading force over 35,000 men, of whom a scanty 8,000 were on Christmas Day, 1854, available for duty; many of the remainder had helped to fill the huge trenches hastily dug for graves on the fields of Alma and Inkerman, or slept below the innumerable little mounds which surrounded our camp hospitals, and inside the canvas walls of these the number of sick exceeded the total of those who still stood in the ranks, although none were received into hospital as long as they were able to carry themselves and their rifles. During the greater part of December we had been reduced to half rations, and sometimes to no meat at all; half a pound of biscuit; one blanket, and threadbare suit of uniform contributed but small support and protection to meet a climate not unlike that of Nova Scotia. And we were entirely without fuel, other than the roots of small alder bushes, which were grubbed up with pickaxes carried off from the trenches, and sometimes the pickaxe handles were used to warm a canteen of water for tea. But soon these became so scarce that we were without a single fire in the camp of my regiment for three days. In spite of all, however, Christmas was at hand, and we all set ourselves to be jolly. Even the celebrated Mark Tapley would have considered the circumstances were fairly creditable. The authorities also considered it incumbent on them to make an extra effort, and it was announced with great pride that the commissariat had secured some live cattle in honour of the season, and we were to receive an issue of fresh meat. But this was the extent of their ambition, and their pride met with a fall, for, after waiting till after three o'clock, our pioneers, who drew the rations, returned with the melancholy intelligence that there was nothing for us that day. 'The Zouaves,' so said the commissariat officers, 'had stolen the bullocks.' It is often mentioned as one of the advantages of live cattle as food for an army that they require no transport, but carry themselves. But we learnt that there is another side to this quality—they sometimes carry themselves away, as they did on this occasion. Whether our gallant allies really ate our dinner as well as their own that Christmas Day I know not, but African warfare had taught them to take care of No. 1, and they formed a convenient and not unlikely peg on which to hang the deficiency; and deficiency there was, for our supply department, relying upon their fresh meat, had not brought up any salt meat from Balaclava, and we were left with only our ration biscuit for our Christmas dinner. Just as we received this pleasant intelligence the orderly sergeant handed me the order book warning me I was for guard duty in the trenches that night. Our regiment, which had gone out from Edinburgh in the spring over 1,000 strong, and had received a reinforcement of nearly 100 men, was at this time reduced to 68 men available for duty. So but one captain and one lieutenant (myself) were detailed to take charge of this poor remnant of what had been, three months before, a magnificent battalion. Captain Patrick Robertson, well known to Haligonians as Colonel Robertson-Ross, Adjutant-General of Canadian Militia, was to be my companion. A new colonel had just been sent to us from a West Indian regiment, who took as much interest in his new command as if he had served all his life with us, and employed his chargers and his grooms to transport any possible comforts for his men. Six months afterwards he was struck down when directing the fire of his men on the Russian gunners to keep down their fire and cover our attack on the Redan. By chance he heard us warned for guard, and at once went to his tent and returned with a ham knuckle. 'It is all I have,' he said, 'but those going on duty must have the first chance of some food on Christmas Day. Sit down on your rug and make the best of it.' He was in earnest, so we ate up his dinner and polished the ham bone; but I had determined to keep Christmas as an Englishman should with a real plum pudding. I had collected the ingredients in the course of a couple of trips among the Maltese and Greek settlers at Balaclava and from the stewards of some of the transports; a few raisins, a little sugar, some butter (so called by courtesy); and of course my ration rum came into play. I could not get any flour, so purchased some biscuit at Balaclava. It was mouldy and full of weevils, and had been condemned as ship's stores and sold to some camp followers, but to us at half a crown a pound it was a treasure. I pounded a quantity of this as fine as possible, and mixed the material in my tin shako case, which did duty as bucket, etc., and tied them up in one of my two towels, and, having secured a tent bag full of freshly dug alder roots, the pudding was put on to boil. As we were going on guard, dinner was early, perhaps too early for the pudding. We had no holly, and could not spare spirits enough to make a blaze, but my servant brought in the pudding quite as triumphantly as if we had been in baronial mansion in old England. It was reserved for me to open the towel, which I did with no little pride at having the only plum pudding in camp. I had buttered the towel so that it should not stick to it; it did not, but it did not stick together either. It would not stand up, but fell apart like very stiff porridge. I believe it wasn't bad to eat, but it wasn't exactly what we understand to be plum pudding. My vanity was cruelly mortified after all my efforts to excel. I have never attempted to make another plum pudding. The Russians were considerate that night. They gave us very little annoyance, and Robertson and I walked up and down in rear of the trenches where our weary and worn-out men were lying quiet, getting a welcome rest in a half-wet, half-frozen ditch. We talked of home and how we had spent other Christmases, but I do not think we either expressed or held any other thought for the future than when we should bring our discomforts to an end and wind up the siege by a determined attack on Sebastopol. Little we expected that after long separation our paths would again come together in America, serving the Canadian Government in the organization of its militia. And amongst the sad memories which intertwine with the pleasures of this present Christmas is that of my poor comrade, a brilliant out-post officer and a gallant man, who, after facing every form of danger as a soldier should, died a few months since from violent seasickness, brought on in crossing the English Channel. Memory conjures up the past at this season. Friends who have left us are present in spirit. We associate the past with the present more at Christmas than at any other time of year. It colours our thoughts and influences our acts unknown to us, and brings out kindly feelings and hope, as much in 1883 as my reminiscences show it did in 1854."
GENERAL LAURIE AND HIS THREE SONS IN 1901.
In Trenches,
Christmas Day, 1914.
Here we are, on Christmas Day! We have had a curious time of it. Last night, about eleven o'clock, the enemy (100 yards only from us) put lanterns up on the parapet and called out: "Do not shoot after twelve o'clock, and we will not do so either." One of our men ventured across; he was not fired upon, and was given a cigar and told to go back. A German officer came out next, and asked for two days' truce from firing, but we said, "Only one day." Then we saw both sides, English and German, begin to swarm out to meet each other; we thought it wiser to keep our men in, because we did not trust the Germans, so I rang up the General to tell him this. We had to station sentries on the trenches to keep the men back; they were so eager to talk to the Germans. Then I offered to go across myself and learn what I could, and finally the German General asked me to send one of our officers over to them. This I did, and gave the latter as an ostensible reason the Daily Telegraph of December 22nd, which I had got hold of, and which contained a very fair account of the troubles in Austria-Hungary and Berlin. He went out with this paper, met some German officers, and discovered a certain amount. They were very anxious to know if the Canadian Division had arrived, whether our trenches were very muddy, and told him that our rifle fire was good. We said that our rifle fire in general was our weak point, etc., etc. So now this is the queer position of affairs: we fire a pistol shot off at 12 midnight to-night by arrangement, and they reply with some shots over our heads, after which things continue to hum as before. You have no idea how pleasant everything seems with no rifle bullets or shells flying about. I need hardly tell you that we have kept our men ready in the trenches all the same, as we do not trust our friends further than we can see them. As to other matters. (1) The pheasants and the partridges arrived in time, and we lunched off them sumptuously to-day; many thanks. (2) The chocolate arrived, and was distributed this afternoon to the men. (3) I enclose three Christmas cards. They are very hard to get, and you had better keep them as mementoes of this war. I am sending one to my Mother. (4) Only 500 lbs. of plum pudding arrived for our men this afternoon. If more does not turn up to-morrow, I will write to the A.D.C. of General Rawlinson to find out what has happened to the remainder. Whilst we are peaceable, the guns are booming out now and then some miles away on our left and right where the French are fighting. I suppose we all thought from the Germans' behaviour that they had something up their sleeves and are looking out for squalls. They said that their army was in Moscow, and that the Russians were beaten, and, moreover, that the war would be over in two, or at most three weeks, so we are expecting a push....