In the British trenches similar scenes were being enacted, the same coolness under fire, and resolute contempt of danger being displayed by all ranks and nationalities.
“One day there was a cluster of us together,” wrote a Highland soldier to his parents, “when a shell fell close by. The fuse was not exhausted when John Bruce up with it in his arms and threw it over the trench.”
Such incidents were by no means rare, and in this wise the summer wore on with varying fortune. In May the command of the French army was taken up by General Pélissier, and on the 28th June the master-mind of the British army was removed—Lord Raglan, beloved and mourned by all ranks, dying of cholera after a brief two days’ illness. Kinglake has recorded how on the morning on the 29th, the commander-in-chief of the four allied armies visited the chamber of death, and how the iron frame of the staunch General Pélissier shook with grief as he “stood by the bedside for upwards of an hour crying like a child.”
On board the Caradoc the body of the Field-Marshal was conveyed to England, and all ranks mourned for one whom they had learnt to trust, admire, and almost love—“so noble, so pure, so replete with service rendered to his country.” For seven miles the route of the procession to the Caradoc was lined at either side by double ranks of infantry, and, says the historian of the war, during the melancholy march “French and British refrained from inviting by fire the fire of Sebastopol, and whether owing to chance, or to a signal and grateful act of courtesy on the part of General Ostin-Sacken (now in command), the garrison also kept silence.”
So died Lord Raglan, and the command of the British troops now vested on General Sir James Simpson, a veteran of the Peninsular.
On the morning of the 5th September, the final bombardment of Sebastopol commenced, and the terrific cannonade continued till the 8th. The French were the first to open fire, and they did so with a will. Once more the deafening thunder of the heavy guns and shrieks of shell and mortar were heard about Sebastopol, and ere long the cannonade wrought fearful havoc with the “churches, stately mansions, and public buildings of the still imposing-looking city.”
From nearly three miles of batteries poured forth the devastating fire, and a storm of iron swept across the doomed town. Buildings could be seen crashing down, large spouts of earth rose high into the air, and, with the glasses, stretcher-bearers could be seen busy at every point.
British and French alike were soon engaged, the Russian return fire being for a long time paralysed by the fury of the onslaught. The Redan and the Malakoff were the particular objectives of the British fire, and soon the faces of these mighty works were seen pitted “as if with the smallpox.”
At night a musketry fire was kept up to hinder the Russians from repairing their shattered walls and bastions, till, by the 8th, all was ready for a final and vigorous assault.
The assault was to be in two portions; the French were to capture the Malakoff, and, on attaining this their object, were to signal by rocket fire the fact of its accomplishment. The British were then to assault the Redan, which was connected to the Malakoff by a series of trenches.