The battles of the world

by J. Douglas Borthwick

Marshal St. Arnaud, alarmed for the safety of his soldiers, hundreds of whom were lying dead around him, so fatal were the volleys from the Russian guns and so sure the aim of the riflemen, hastily despatched an aide-de-camp to the English commander, calling upon him to bring his troops into action without a moment’s delay. “We are massacred,” was the message—certainly not the words which Napoleon, or Murat, or Ney, would have used when attacking an enemy considerably less in force than themselves; for, be it remembered, Menschikoff still held the centre of the position with the main body of the army, which had not yet been brought into action. At half-past one o’clock the order to advance was given to the English army. The soldiers, who had been lying down, so as not to expose themselves unnecessarily to the fire of the enemy, sprang to their feet, and rapidly formed into line. Sir G. Brown’s Light Division, and the Second Division, under Sir De Lacy Evans, were the first to dash into the stream, and through a perfect shower of balls from the riflemen concealed in the gardens, and heavier missiles from the batteries above, reached the opposite bank.

Since the commencement of the French attack, our artillery had been throwing shot into the Russian redoubts, and under cover of this cannonade, and the accurate fire of the Rifle Brigade, which protected our advance, the two leading divisions succeeded in crossing the stream, though not without great loss. The Russians had previously marked out the range of their guns, so that they were enabled to pour their volleys into our brigades, as they advanced to the stream, with fatal precision. The burning village of Burliuk, in front of the position occupied by Sir De Lacy Evans, necessitated the separation of his division. General Pennefather led the First Brigade and a portion of the Second across the river to the right of the village; the remainder, under General Adams, crossing to the left. The Light Division struggled manfully up the bank, which was rugged and precipitous. The ford was deep and dangerous, and as the men, drenched with water, scrambled up the banks, scores of their number fell back into the stream pierced by the fatal rifle bullet. But the blood of the gallant fellows was flowing hotly in their veins; those who, in other times, had borne the shock of battles, felt renewed the old spirit which had made them conquerors at Vimiera and at Waterloo; those who for the first time trod the fatal field felt an indescribable and fierce courage, which the sight of danger and of death infuses into most men. Six months of inaction and passive suffering were about to be consummated by a glorious victory, which should crown them as conquering heroes or immortalize their death. They had stood long “like greyhounds on the slips, straining upon the start;” now “the game was afoot,” and the old fire of English chivalry was rekindled, and burnt with as glowing a flame as of yore.

Quickly forming into line, and opening a sharp fire of musketry, the gallant Light Division rapidly advanced towards the conical hill opposite to which they had crossed, and immediately beneath the guns of the great redoubt. As they passed through the vineyards, the soldiers plucked and eagerly ate large bunches of the luscious Crimean grapes, which allayed their burning thirst, and somewhat cooled the mad fever of their excitement. Sir George Brown gallantly led the charge, and, mounted on a white horse, was a conspicuous mark for the enemy. The 7th Royal Fusiliers and the 23rd Welsh Fusiliers were among the first in the mad career. “Hurrah for the Royal Welsh! Well done! I will remember you!” shouted Sir George Brown; and animated by his voice and example, the gallant regiment dashed up the hill. Then there opened a sheet of fire, and when the smoke lifted, the 7th was broken, and a long line of dead marked the path of the fatal missiles. For a moment the brave soldiers struggled onwards, and then, blinded and confused, fell back to re-form. The Welsh Fusiliers, regardless of the fierce volleys, still pressed onwards. Once they paused, as Sir George Brown fell at their head, and rolled heavily on the blood-stained ground. In an instant he was up again unhurt, and cheering the men to the charge. His horse had fallen, pierced by eleven shots, but he was unhurt! They had reached the first stockade, had even planted their flag upon the works, when a shout was heard—“Cease firing; the French are in front!” Their gallant chief, Colonel Chester, rushing to the front, exclaimed, “No! no! on, lads!” As he spoke he fell mortally wounded. Then the regiment, confused by the contrary orders, and disheartened, did fall back; and the Russians, returning to the guns from which the brave fellows had driven them, opened a fire which left a long line of dead through their columns. Nine officers and about one hundred men were stretched upon the field. The other regiments of the Light Brigade, the 19th, 33rd, 77th, and 88th, emulated the courage of the gallant Welshmen, who, after a moment’s breathing-time, re-formed, and joined once more in the heroic assault.

Onward swept that magnificent charge, officers and men vying with each other who should be foremost to avenge their comrades’ death. But before they reached the guns, Prince Menschikoff had formed a compact mass of Russian infantry on the summit of the hill, which now advanced with level bayonets against our exhausted battalions. Breathless from their rapid charge up the hill, diminished in numbers, and fatigued from their almost superhuman exertions, they were unable to resist the shock, and, desperately contesting every inch of ground, slowly yielded to the enormous weight of the Russian columns. The gallant 33rd, the Duke of Wellington’s regiment, displayed a prowess excelled by none. Their colours were borne proudly to the last, and ever in the spot of the greatest danger. The Queen’s colours, when the fight was over, showed fourteen bullet-holes, and the regimental colours eleven. Nineteen sergeants fell around their standards, defending to the last the honour of their regiment, and preserving the fame so identified with the career of the departed warrior whose name it bore.

While the heroes of the Light Division were thus nobly performing their part, Sir De Lacy Evans and General England were gallantly bringing their divisions into action. They had forced a passage, with great difficulty, and exposed to a most destructive fire, somewhat to the left of their compatriots of Sir George Brown’s division, and, breaking through the obstacles which awaited them on the bank, rapidly advanced up the hill. The 55th and 95th encountered a tremendous fire, which they returned with vigour from their muskets, while our artillery did good service by an energetic discharge of shot and shell into the enemy’s lines. Major Rose, Captains Butler and Scham, fell to rise no more, and many other officers were severely wounded; 123 killed and wounded were the contribution of this regiment to the day’s slaughter.

As the 95th charged up the hill, one of the most affecting episodes of that fierce encounter—so full of incidents, of unsurpassed courage, and pathetic scenes—occurred. Early in the charge, Captain Eddington, a young officer, fell wounded, a ball passing through his chest. The regiment, unable to stand against the scathing fire to which they were exposed, fell back to re-form, and left the wounded officer on the ground. In full view of the regiment, a Russian rifleman advanced, and kneeling by his side, appeared to be about to offer his canteen to his lips. A thrill passed through the ranks, at the spectacle of a soldier exposing his own life thus for the purpose of alleviating the sufferings of a dying enemy. No gun would have been pointed against that man, no bayonet levelled at his life. It seemed one of those incidents that show the better feelings of humanity are not quite extinguished by the breath of war. But what was their horror when the rifleman, laying aside his canteen, levelled his piece and deliberately blew out the brains of the dying man! Among those who witnessed this cowardly assassination was a younger brother of the captain who had recently exchanged into the regiment, that he might share death and danger with his brother, whom he tenderly loved. Maddened by the spectacle of his brother’s murder, the young lieutenant sprang forward, shouting with frantic energy to the men to follow and avenge the deed. One loud yell of execration burst from the lips of the soldiers, and bounding onwards, they rushed after their leader. Waving his sword above his head, the gallant young man was a conspicuous mark, and in another moment fell headlong, pierced by a dozen bullets. Thus the two brothers, so fondly attached in life, mingled their blood on that fatal hillside—among thousands of the slain perhaps the most generally and deeply mourned.

At length Sir De Lacy Evans, who had received a severe contusion on his shoulder, rallied his men, and led them victors to the summit of the hill, silencing one of the batteries which had done such execution upon the gallant fellows of the Light Division. Sir Richard England’s division had fought—to use the language of one who shared in that charge—“like devils,” and surmounting every impediment, though not without dreadful loss, joined their gallant comrades. Everywhere the Russians were driven back by the irresistible bayonets of the British, and the conquerors literally marched through paths of blood to victory.

As yet we have not detailed the part borne by the magnificent First Division,—the very flower of the British army. The Duke of Cambridge had led his Guards and Highlanders across the Alma, to the left of the Light Division, and rapidly advanced to its assistance. As they ascended the hill, they encountered Sir George Brown’s regiments slowly yielding to the immense impetus of the Russian charge. Opening their ranks, they allowed their comrades to pass and re-form in their rear, and then the enemy for the first time was confronted with the most redoubtable infantry soldiers in the world. Then began the most desperate hand-to-hand conflict yet witnessed. The Scots Fusiliers had hurried to the rescue without waiting to form properly, and for a brief space were confused. But the individual courage of the members of that distinguished corps never for an instant was found deficient. Surrounded by the enemy, they fought with undaunted valour. Viscount Chewton, a distinguished young captain, who had gained renown in both services, having been originally a midshipman, and having borne an honourable part in the Indian campaign, dashed forward, and, waving his bearskin, shouted to them to advance. Thirteen other officers, with reckless bravery, followed his example, and in a few minutes eleven of their number were wounded. The gallant Chewton had his leg broken by a ball, and fell within fifty yards of the redoubt. Before he could be rescued, several Russians attacked the fallen man, and beat him savagely with the butt-ends of their muskets, others stabbing him at the same time with their bayonets. A strong man, he struggled desperately; and when at length rescued and borne from the field, his body was found to be almost covered with wounds. He lingered for a few days, and then expired. Two young officers, Lieutenants Lindsay and Thistlethwayte, who bore the colours, were surrounded by the enemy, and, except the four colour-sergeants, isolated from their comrades. The sergeants were one by one struck down; and then these gallant young men, back to back, kept the foe at bay, and, almost miraculously escaping unhurt, cut their way through and carried their colours safely to the top of the hill.

Meanwhile the Light Division had re-formed their lines, and now returned to the charge, in the footsteps of the dauntless Guards. In vain broad sheets of fire poured through the ranks—no man flinched. The flag which the Fusiliers had planted on the redoubt was still there, and pointed out the path they were to tread. Their royal leader proved himself worthy of his charge, and encouraged by his example the valour of his men. The Russians quailed before the tremendous onset; and when the Highlanders, who had reserved their fire, came dashing up to the front, and, after discharging a tremendous volley, charged at the bayonet’s point, the rout was complete. Thu enemy fled terror-stricken, and the Guards and Highlanders together leaped into the redoubt, the gunners precipitately hastening after their flying comrades.

At the summit of the hill a brief stand was made, and it seemed as if the contest were about to be renewed; but the Highlanders, levelling their bayonets, advanced at a rapid pace, and the enemy, dashing down their accoutrements and arms, fled, like frightened sheep, down the declivity.