The British Expedition to the Crimea

by Sir William Howard Russell

Early on Saturday morning a flag of truce was sent in by the allies with a proposition to the Russians for an armistice to bury the dead, lying in numbers—five or six Russians to every Frenchman and Englishman—in front of the Round Tower and Mamelon, and after some delay, an answer in the affirmative was returned, and it was arranged that two hours should be granted for collecting and carrying away the dead on both sides. The news spread through the camps, and the races which the Chasseurs d'Afrique had got up in excellent style were much shorn of their attractions by the opportunity afforded of meeting our enemies upon neutral ground. The day was beautifully bright and warm. White flags waved gently in the faint spring breeze above the embrasures of our batteries, and from the Round Tower and Mamelon. Not a soul had been visible in front of the lines an instant before the emblems of peace were run up to the flagstaffs, and a sullen gun from the Mamelon and a burst of smoke from Gordon's batteries had but a short time previously heralded the armistice. The instant the flags were hoisted, friend and foe swarmed out of the embrasures. The Riflemen of the allies and of the enemy rose from their lairs in the rifle pits, and sauntered towards each other to behold their grim handiwork. The whole of the space between the Russian lines and our own was filled with groups of unarmed soldiery. Passing down by the Middle Picket Ravine, which was then occupied by the French, and which ran down in front of the Light Division camp, I came out upon the advanced French trench, within a few hundred yards of the Mamelon. The sight was strange beyond description. French, English, and Russian officers were walking about saluting each other courteously as they passed, and occasionally entered into conversation, and a constant interchange of little civilities, such as offering and receiving cigar-lights, was going on. Some of the Russian officers were evidently men of high rank and breeding, their polished manners contrasted remarkably with their plain, and rather coarse clothing. They wore the invariable long grey coat over their uniforms. Many of the Russians looked like English gentlemen in face and bearing. One tall, fine-looking old man, with a long grey beard and strangely shaped cap, was pointed out to us as Hetman of the Cossacks in the Crimea. The French officers were all en grande tenue, and offered a striking contrast to many of our own officers, who were still dressed à la Balaklava, and wore uncouth head-dresses, cat-skin coats, and nondescript paletots. The Russians seemed to fraternize with the French more than with us. The men certainly got on better with our allies than with the privates of our regiments who were down towards the front.

A BREATHING SPACE.

While this civility was going on, we were walking over blood-stained ground, covered with evidences of recent fight, among the dead. Broken muskets, bayonets, cartouch-boxes, caps, fragments of clothing, straps and belts, pieces of shell, little pools of clotted blood, shot—round and grape—shattered gabions and sand-bags, were visible on every side. Through the midst of the crowd stalked solemn processions of soldiers bearing their departed comrades to their long home. I counted seventy-seven litters borne past me in fifteen minutes—each filled with a dead enemy.

At one time a Russian with a litter stopped by a dead body, and put it into the litter. He looked round for a comrade to help him. A Zouave at once advanced with much grace and lifted it, to the infinite amusement of the bystanders; but the joke was not long-lived, as a Russian came up brusquely and helped to carry off his dead comrade.

Some few French, dead, were lying far in advance among the gabions belonging to the advanced trenches, which the Russians had broken down, evidently slain in pursuit. The Russian soldiers were white-faced, many of them had powerful frames, square shoulders, and broad chests. All their dead near our lines were stripped of boots and stockings. The cleanliness of their feet, and of their coarse linen shirts, was remarkable. In the midst of this stern evidence of war, a certain amount of lively conversation began to spring up, in which the Russian officers indulged in badinage. Some of them asked our officers "when we were coming in to take the place?" others "when we thought of going away?" Some congratulated us upon the excellent opportunity we had of getting a good look at Sebastopol, as the chance of a nearer view was not in their opinion very probable. One officer asked a private confidentially in English how many men we sent into the trenches? "Begorra, only 7,000 a night, and a covering party of 10,000," was the ready reply. The officer laughed and turned away. In the town we could see large bodies of soldiery assembled at the corners in the streets, and in the public places. Probably they were ordered out to make a show of their strength. Owing to some misunderstanding or other, a little fusillade began among the riflemen on the left during the armistice, but it soon terminated. The armistice was over about three o'clock. Scarcely had the white flag disappeared behind the parapet of the Mamelon before a round shot from the sailors' battery went slap through one of the embrasures of the Russian work, and dashed up a great pillar of earth inside. The Russians at once replied, and the noise of cannon soon re-echoed through the ravines.

On the night of the 26th, Captain Hill, 89th Regiment, in proceeding to post his pickets, made a mistake in the dark, and got too near the Russian pickets. He was not very well acquainted with the country, and the uncertain light deceived him. The Russians challenged, "Qui va là?" "Français!" was the reply. The two pickets instantly fired, and Captain Hill dropped. There were only two or three men with him, and they retired, taking with them the Captain's great-coat. They went a few yards to the rear to get assistance, and returned at once to the place where Captain Hill fell, but his body had been removed, and the Russian pickets had withdrawn.

On Monday the 2nd of April, M. St. Laurent, Commandant of French Engineers in the right attack, was mortally wounded in the battery over Inkerman. One of the most important works of the right attack bore his name, and he did much to place that portion of our works in a most efficient state.

The Russians now frequently amused themselves by shelling the camp. On the 4th, when there was a large crowd of French and English, including some of the staff, in front of the picket-house, near the Mortar Battery, suddenly a shell fell right into the midst of the group. The greater part of the assembly threw themselves down and rolled away on the ground. At last the shell burst, and one of the fragments struck and wounded a French sentry about fifty yards off. Led horses broke loose or were let go and scampered off in all directions, and as the few officers who had nerve to remain and enjoy the discomfiture of the runaways were enjoying the joke, down came another shell into the very centre of them. The boldest could not stand this, and in a few minutes not a soul was to be seen near the ground. The Military Secretary lost his cap, owing to the eccentric evolutions of his frightened quadruped, but he speedily recovered it, and that was the only loss caused by the two shells, excepting the poor fellow put hors de combat for the time.

THE STRENGTH OF THE BRITISH.

"Cathcart's Hill," in front of the Fourth Division camp, was the favourite resort of sight-seers. The place derived its name from General Cathcart using it as a look-out station, and as his resort of a morning. The flag of the division, a red and white burgee, floated from a staff on the left front angle of the parallelogram, and two stands were erected for telescopes in front. A look-out man was stationed to observe the movements of the enemy. To the front of the flagstaff on the left was a cave in which Sir John Campbell lived. He found it a welcome refuge during the storm of the 14th of November. It was marked by a little wooden fence resting on cannon shot, around which there was an impromptu flower-garden. The General's marquee and the tents of his staff were close at hand. It commanded a view of the extreme French left towards Kamiesch, and of their approaches to the Flagstaff Battery and the crenellated wall. Taking up the view from this point on the left, the eye rested upon the mass of ruins in front of the French lines, seamed here and there with banks of earth or by walls of gabions, dotted with embrasures. This part of Sebastopol, between the sea at Artillery Bay and the Dockyard Creek, was exceedingly like portions of old London after the first burst of the Wide-Street Commissioners upon it. There was a strip of ruin the combined work of French and Russians, about two miles long and 300 or 400 yards broad, and it swept round the town like a zone. The houses inside were injured, but the tall white store-houses, the domes of churches, the porticoes of palaces, and the public buildings, shone pleasantly in the sunshine. Tier after tier of roofs rose up the crest of the hill. In front of this portion of the town the dun steppes were scarred all over by the lines of the French approaches, from which at intervals arose the smoke-wreaths of cannon or the puffs of the rifle, answered from the darker lines of the Russians in front of the city. At night this space was lighted up incessantly by the twinkling flashes of musketry. Cathcart's Hill commanded a view of the whole position, with the exception of a portion of the left attack.