The ground to which the struggle was now confined was hilly and covered with thick brushwood, sloping towards the harbour, the ships in which, moored so as to command the English lines, poured a destructive fire into our ranks. The brigade of Guards, forced by the enormous odds to quit the Two-gun Battery, after such a terrific contest, were now engaged in hand-to-hand conflict with nearly ten times their number of the enemy. It was impossible, from the fierceness of the contest and the nature of the ground, to preserve military order. The battle was a series of detached groups, sometimes a few dauntless Guardsmen, bareheaded and back to back, disputing every inch of ground, and with their bayonets inflicting terrible execution on the enemy; sometimes a young officer, rallying a few of his men around him, dashing with a ringing cheer at a phalanx of the foe, and as their dense mass was broken by the impetuosity of the attack, falling pierced by a dozen bullets, with his last breath cheering on his men to the charge. So fell Lieut.-Colonels Mackinnon and Cowell; so fell Sir Robert Newman; and so fell many another brave soldier and good man. The Duke of Cambridge, affected almost to tears by the sight of so many lying in their blood, was everywhere in the thick of the fight, urging on his men, and setting them an example of the most daring courage. Almost alone, he dashed into the mêlée, amid a shower of bullets from the Russian rifles. Once he had nearly fallen a victim to his own enthusiasm and contempt of danger. Conspicuous by his uniform and fine person, he presented a prominent mark for the aim of the ambushed enemy. Reckless of the danger, he disdained even ordinary precautions. In this emergency, Dr. Wilson, anxious to lend his professional services to the wounded, saw the peril of the Duke, and collecting a handful of men, dispersed the enemy’s riflemen, and rescued the too daring leader. Nothing could exceed the deadly nature of the combat. The Guards fought as only men can fight, when utterly desperate. There seemed but small probability that one of that noble brigade would leave the ground unhurt. The Russians, strong in their numbers, inspirited by intoxication and fanaticism, poured their legions in vain against the resistance of such unquenchable heroism. Heaps of dead covered the ground, and the assassin Muscovites, unable to subdue the living, wreaked a miserable vengeance on the fallen, bayonetting and madly disfiguring with their clubbed muskets every prostrate antagonist. When the battle was over, many a brave fellow, who had fallen wounded, was found an unrecognisable mass of mangled flesh and blood. Rendered nearly mad by the sight of such devilish atrocity, the survivors redoubled their almost surpernatural efforts, and though pressed on every side, maintained the struggle with unfailing valour, still the same invincible Guardsmen, so terrible at Alma, so heroic at the fight for the Two-gun Battery.
The Light Division meanwhile maintained its reputation in the vigorous struggle in which they were now engaged. Sir George Brown, their General, was severely wounded, and borne from the field, his white hair streaming in the wind, and his face deadly pale, from the acuteness of his suffering. A five-gun battery, under the direction of Sir Thomas Troubridge, Major of the 7th Fusiliers, did good service against the advancing columns of the enemy; but the brave fellows who manned it suffered terribly from the fire from the batteries of the town. Sir Thomas himself had his right leg and left foot carried away by a thirty-nine pounder from the Round Tower, or Malakoff. Notwithstanding the severity of the injury, and the excruciating agony he must have endured, he refused to permit his men to carry him to the rear; but ordered them to lift him to a gun-carriage, whence, streaming with blood, he continued to give the word of command, nor quitted his post till the enemy were routed.
Seeing the desperate nature of the contest, Sir George Cathcart conceived the idea that by descending the side of the hill, he might take the enemy in flank, and so relieve the Guards from the unequal struggle in which they were engaged. He despatched General Torrens, with portions of the 46th and 68th regiments on this duty. They advanced rapidly, but from either hand rained the bullets of the Russian riflemen, concealed in the brushwood. The horse of General Torrens fell pierced by five bullets, and on every side, the number who were struck down attested the severity of the fire to which they were exposed. Torrens himself received a ball through his lungs, and was carried senseless from the field. Sir George Cathcart, seeing the fierce opposition which his brigade sustained, immediately dashed forward with the remainder of his men, and fearlessly charged the enemy. Too late he saw the error into which he had been led. He was perfectly surrounded by the enemy, who held the high ground commanding the valley into which he had led his brigade, in the hopes of making a vigorous flank attack. For some time, his little band returned sharp volleys to the enemy’s rifles. Then a cry was raised that their cartridges were exhausted. There was no retreat, and the fierce fire poured like hail into their ranks. “You have got your bayonets!” shouted their dauntless leader, and dashed forwards followed by his men. As he raised himself in his stirrups, a bullet pierced his brain, and the heroic Cathcart, the subduer of the Cape savages, fell headlong from his horse, quite dead. By his side fell Colonel Seymour, Adjutant-General of the Fourth Division, sharing his leader’s fate. He was wounded before Sir George, but concealed his hurt. When the General fell, Colonel Seymour dismounted to render him assistance. The brigade had swept on, unable to pause in their career, and then the enemy rushing on the wounded Seymour cruelly murdered him, as he stooped over the body of his friend, and consummated their infamy by basely stabbing with their bayonets the insensible body of the noble Cathcart.
It was now eleven o’clock, and it seemed impossible that the English could much longer withstand the terrible assault. They were driven back exhausted by the long struggle; hundreds of their best and bravest had fallen heroically; and the enemy was still pouring fresh legions into the fray. The fog and drizzling rain obscured the scene of action, so that it was impossible for the Generals to concert a scheme of operations, or even to know accurately the state of affairs: it was rather a series of battles than one action. Lord Raglan and his staff were eagerly watching the fray, but unable to control the movements of the troops. Nothing could save the entire army but the self-devotion and valour of the men: tactics were unavailable, and generalship useless. Now, however, came the crisis of the struggle. General Bosquet had by this time discovered that the threatened attack on Balaklava was but a feint; and warned by the thunder of cannon and the roll of musketry of the real point of attack, hastened to, the rescue. Two troops of horse-artillery were speedily despatched, and took up a position whence they could effectively play upon the Russian guns. Hastening to the spot, with his dashing regiments of Zouaves and Chasseurs Indigènes, he precipitated himself upon the left flank of the Russian hordes. General Canrobert, too, at the same time, ordered up several French regiments of the line to the assistance of the English Second Division, on the left.
Wearied, wounded, and almost disheartened, the English heroes were gradually giving ground to the foe, when their ears caught, above the din of battle, the rapid tread and loud shouts of advancing troops, and perceived through the mist the forms of massive columns, moving at a rapid pace, whether friends or foes they scarcely knew. In a few moments, a joyous “Hurrah!” rang from the broken lines, and a mighty cheer was echoed through the fog: then they knew the French were there to help them. A new life seemed to animate them; no longer they retreated, but summoning up the last flashes of their failing fire, charged the foe anew. The Russians, staggered by the fresh assault, surprised by the sudden appearance of the warriors of Africa, hesitated and gave way. Then, uniting their ranks, the English and the French, with mingled shouts, loud “Hurrahs!” and “Vive l’Empereur!” dashed into the paralyzed columns, and drove the bayonets home through many a Russian breast. The Zouaves leaped through the tangled brushwood, and, with wondrous activity, scattered the confused and retreating battalions. Then came the tremendous fire from the ships in the harbour, and the guns from the heights, which almost swept them from the field, and forced them for a brief space to pause in their career. It was but for an instant. Renewing their charge, English and French once more dashed at the flying foe, and at the bayonet’s point, with fearful slaughter, drove them, a disorderly mob, down the hill-side.
The moment had now come when Lord Raglan could effectively exhibit his generalship: for hours he had sat in his saddle, in a most exposed situation, unable to control the fluctuating fortunes of the day. Under his direction, General Strangways had opened a heavy fire of artillery upon the Russian guns upon the opposite hills, with the hope of silencing their fatal volleys. This was all he had been enabled to perform for the succour of the troops engaged. Many fell around him, but the brave old General refused to move from his exposed situation, anxious for the time to arrive when he might be enabled so to manœuvre his forces as to drive back the enemy. General Strangways was within a short distance of the Commander-in-Chief, when a shot, which had actually passed between the legs of Lord Raglan’s horse, shattered his leg, and he fell to the ground. He was borne carefully to the rear, where, in a few moments, the gallant old man, who had survived the dangers of Leipzig, and a fearful wound at Waterloo, breathed his last; meeting his fate with a calm heroism that affected to tears many a brave man fresh from the honours of that sanguinary field. The Russians had left on the field two 18-pounder guns, and Lord Raglan now ordered them to be brought up to the front. Colonel Dickson had already anticipated the order, and the guns had been dragged by main strength to the fitting position on a ridge front of the Second Division. Assisted by Captain D’Aguilar, a well-aimed fire was poured into the Russian batteries; the guns were overthrown, the gunners killed, and the fire for an instant quelled; but the fertility of the enemy’s resources did not fail them even now: fresh gunners supplied the places of those struck down by the English fire, and the deadly duel was resumed. Then came the retreating infantry—a headlong mass, and the fiery Zouaves and reanimated British in hot pursuit. Three times were the artillerymen swept away from their guns; as many times their places were supplied. Then, under cover of fierce volleys from the town and ships, they succeeded in carrying off their guns. The French batteries now advanced to the crown of the ridge, and opened fire on the retreating masses, flying pell-mell towards the heights. Hundreds fell beneath the deadly volleys—the thunders of the death-dealing artillery drowned alike the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the triumphant shouts of the victors, and the battle of Inkermann was won!
About 8000 English and 6000 French had thus utterly defeated more than 50,000 of the enemy, with the disadvantage of being taken by surprise. The English were enfeebled by sickness, imperfectly fed, and inadequately provided with necessary equipments and ammunition. The Russians were mostly fresh troops, prepared for the attack, and supported by the tremendous batteries of the town and ships. It is to the French unquestionably that we were indebted for the victory: no human courage could much longer have withstood such disproportionate odds. The gallant Bosquet, by his promptitude and the dashing valour of his African soldiers, saved not only the fortunes of the day, but the very existence of the English army. Our loss was 462 killed, including 43 officers, 1952 wounded, and 198 missing; giving a total of 2612 casualties. Three generals were killed—Cathcart, Goldie, and Strangways; and three—Brown, Torrens, and Bentinck—were wounded. If we reckon that only about 8000 were engaged, these numbers show that nearly every third man was killed, wounded, or fell into the hands of the enemy. The Russians admit a loss of 2969 killed, of whom 42 were officers; and 5791 wounded, including 206 officers; giving a total loss of 8760. There can be no rational doubt that their real loss was nearly double, and the number of Russians killed or wounded was at the least equal to the entire English and French forces engaged in the battle. Our brigade of Guards alone lost twelve officers killed on the field, besides many wounded. Truly the daring courage of the English gentleman has not deteriorated in these latter days! The chivalric valour which placed the officers in the very front of danger was nobly seconded by the unquenchable spirit of the men whom they led; they were mostly fasting, when they hurried to the scene of conflict, and for ten long hours were engaged in one of the deadliest struggles the military historian has ever recorded. Some were sick, all were gaunt and emaciated. It was Agincourt once more. The starved legions met and overthrew five times their number. Such was the bloody battle of Inkermann!”
IPSUS, BATTLE OF.—Fought B.C. 301. Between Seleucus and Antigonus, King of Asia. On the side of Antigonus was his son, whilst Ptolemy, Lysimachus and Cassander were ranged on the side of Seleucus. The army of Seleucus consisted of 70,000 foot, and 10,000 cavalry, with 75 elephants. The other army amounted to 64,000 infantry, and 10,500 horse, with 600 elephants and 120 chariots. Antigonus and his son were signally defeated.
IRUN, BATTLE OF.—Between the British auxiliary legion, under General Evans, and the Carlist forces. It was fought, May 17th, 1837. On the 16th, the legion marched from St. Sebastian to attack Irun, which, after a desperate resistance, they carried by assault. Great exertions were made by the British officers to save the lives of the prisoners from the fury of the soldiers of the legion, their minds having been exasperated by the frequent massacre of such of their comrades as had from time to time fallen into the hands of the enemy. The town was pillaged.
ISLE-AUX-NOIX.—In the Richelieu River, Lower Canada.—Commands the entrance to Lake Champlain. Fortified by the French, in 1759. Captured by the English, in 1760. Taken by the Americans, in 1775 (from which place they issued their proclamation to the Canadians). It rendered important service in the war of 1812–1814.