This hero joined the army in 1808, and few lived to see more hard fighting—he was a regular fire-eater. He started from humble life, and, by dint of rough soldiering and an unconquerable spirit, fought his way to the top of the tree; and I may say honestly that few officers in our army, or any other, have been in half the number of battles. From 1808 to 1858 his was one continual blaze of triumph in all parts of the globe. We trace him from the field of Corunna, on which his noble countryman, Sir John Moore, met a soldier’s death, to the final relief and capture of Lucknow. Neither Sir De Lacy Evans, Sir George Brown, Sir Charles Napier, nor the great Dukes of Marlborough and Wellington, ever fought more battles than Lord Clyde; and I might almost challenge the admirers of the great Napoleon I. to show such a catalogue of victories as this gallant son of Scotland. In his maiden fight he proved he was of the right sort of stuff to make a soldier. He was cool and collected, and evidently determined to achieve victory or perish in the attempt. He joined the Walcheren expedition, participating in the cruel sufferings that destroyed nearly the whole army. It was an ill-fated enterprise, and badly commanded—so much for favouritism; but the less we say about it the better. However, even here Sir Colin Campbell contrived to reap some “glory”—as our neighbours delight to call it. From 1809 to 1814 he served under Wellington, in the Peninsula, upon field after field, from Vimiera through such fights as would make the much-lauded heroes of Tel-el-Kebir blush. We trace him through all the great conflicts that won for his commander a dukedom, and compelled the nations of Europe to respect our glorious old flag. The so-called “invincible” sons of France had to yield the palm to the sons of Albion, and in struggle after struggle their much-vaunted battalions had to give way before our irresistible wall of steel. Shoulder to shoulder with Napier, Evans, and Brown, Sir Colin Campbell was among the foremost in the forlorn hope at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz, and at the deadly breach of San Sebastian,—leading on to almost certain death; and, although repeatedly wounded, nothing could daunt, nothing dismay, this valiant Highland Laddie. He was ever prominent, and helped very materially to achieve some of the grandest victories ever won by British soldiers. But he was poor, and little notice was taken of him; it was recorded of him that he had done his duty, and there it ceased. Nevertheless, he carved out for himself a name that will not readily be forgotten. The hero of San Sebastian, Chillianwallah, Alma, Balaclava, and Lucknow will be remembered, I fearlessly assert, not only in Scotland, but throughout the British Empire, with pride for ages to come; for he was ever prominent wherever hard knocks were to be served out, and he was acknowledged by those who were competent to judge to be a most brilliant, heroic, and dashing soldier. He led no end of storming parties, and some of the most desperate forlorn hopes that ever man undertook, in all parts of the world. Repeatedly wounded, as I have said, his spirit was not subdued. This gallant soldier appeared to have a charmed life, for he always turned up at the right time and place, to have the lion’s share of the fighting. He had a good share of fights in India, as Colonel Campbell, under Lord Gough. It was he who decided the doubtful field of Chillianwallah by leading the 61st regiment on to a rapid, though prolonged and headlong, bayonet charge. He was wounded, but kept his post, as he had often done before. Again, on the field of Goojerat he fought with the same dauntless courage, which elicited the highest applause from the hero of Barrosa, Lord Gough. We next find him beside the conqueror of Scinde, Sir C. Napier. We shortly after trace him up to Peshawur, fighting the lawless hill tribes, subduing them, and returning to England just in time to take part in the Crimean expedition. At the Alma, he gave the finishing stroke to the Russians, exclaiming, with all the fire of youth, and waving his sword high in the air—“We’ll have none but Highland bonnets here.” After the enemy had been routed, Lord Raglan, in thanking him for his conduct, asked him if there was anything he could do for him, and his only request was to be allowed to wear a Highland bonnet, which was granted. And ever after that, Sir Colin might be seen wearing his Highland bonnet (to the great delight of the Highland regiments) instead of the usual head-dress of a General. He fought throughout that campaign, and returned home—one would have thought, to end his days in peace, having spent nearly half a century in the service of his country; but no, in 1857 the Indian Mutiny broke out. The brightest gem in Her Most Gracious Majesty’s diadem was threatening to break loose. It was held only by a few desperate men, who might die, but would never surrender. Men of Sir Colin’s stamp were wanting. He was sent for; and when asked how long it would take him to prepare to proceed to India to assume the command, his answer was—“In twenty-four hours;” history will tell how he rolled back the Mutineers on field after field—all had to yield to his conquering sword. He left the Empire safe, and won for himself a Field-Marshal’s baton and a Peerage. But his end was now fast approaching; he had fought his last fight and made his way to the top of the tree in his old days. The only thing that had kept this grand old hero back, had been, as they say in India, “pice, pice,” or money, money. Red-tape is never friendly to the poor man, no matter how brave, or what his talents are. Sir Colin Campbell had displayed a dauntless contempt of danger, wherever his country’s honour was at stake; and he lived to receive from his countrymen addresses of the highest thanks and some of the most eloquent eulogies that were ever penned or spoken about a British soldier. But at last he had to ground his arms to King Death; and we may be sure he was ready for the change.
LIEUT.-GENERAL SIR GEO. CATHCART.
It can be truly said of him that he was another of Britain’s bravest sons. He was born in the year 1794; at the age of sixteen he joined the army, and was appointed to the 2nd Life Guards, remaining with them a little over one year, when he exchanged into the 6th Dragoons, or Carabineers. His whole soul was alive to the honour of the flag of Old England, and he seemed to long to measure his sword with the enemies of that flag. Napoleon Buonaparte was then at the summit of his power; and, as he was backed up by upwards of 1,000,000 bayonets, it took brave hearts with strong arms to subdue him. We first find young Cathcart in Russia, by the side of his father, who had been appointed British Ambassador to the Court of St. Petersburg. He went out as aide-de-camp to his sire, and as such had various duties to perform. During the invasion of Russia by Napoleon in 1812, young Cathcart attended upon the Emperor, and engaged in some exciting and important scenes. He was continually employed carrying despatches at the peril of his life, and during that momentous period was never known to shirk his duties, but ever courageously pressed forward, having frequently to swim his horses across deep and rapid rivers, and to ride them until they dropped dead beneath him. The Emperor of Russia often expressed both his astonishment and his approbation at the fortitude of our young hero. At the battles of Lutzen and Bautzen he showed prodigious strength, activity, and courage. At the battle of Dresden he fought desperately, and was by the side of one of the greatest generals of the day (Moreau), when he met a soldier’s death. Lieut. Cathcart had now shared in eight pitched battles, and any number of combats. Napoleon had at last been baffled by Russia’s snow and England’s gold, had to bow to the dictates of combined Europe, and retire to the Isle of Elba, with the empty title of Emperor. Lieut. Cathcart, although of a noble stock, had no friend in the red-tape office, and the excuse for not promoting him was that he had not served with the British army—although the Russian, Prussian, and Austrian armies had been kept in the field by means of British gold. But when the disturber of the world broke from his prison-house, on the Isle of Elba, young George was again called upon to face his old enemy, and we next find him on the fields of Quatre-Bras and Waterloo. For his valor he was promoted, as was the hero of Washington, into a West India or black regiment. But he was as true as steel; he was skilful in times of peace, and as brave as a lion in the presence of the foe. He well-merited the highest eulogy that could be bestowed upon a Briton. He had only just returned from the Cape of Good Hope, after subjugating the lawless Kaffir tribes, when the Crimean War broke out. He had served his country for forty-four years, had passed through many a hard-fought field, and had lived to trample beneath his feet and silence some of the red-tape gentlemen. Sir George was now well-known, and those at the head of affairs appointed him to command a division in the East. He had been made a Knight Companion of the Bath, and had only just time to pay his homage to Her Most Gracious Majesty and depart. His division was not engaged at the Alma, but at Inkermann it fought courageously, and it was on this field that our hero met a glorious death. He fell while engaged in repulsing one of the bloodiest attacks made by the enemy on that memorable field. Thus fell, in the hour of victory, one of Britain’s bravest sons; and if a chariot of fire had been sent to carry him to the skies, he could not have departed in a brighter blaze of glory.
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Oh! forget not the field where he fell The truest and best of the brave. |
Sir George had sprung from a family of warriors, who had often cheered their men on to victory; and in him Britain lost a true hero, while posterity will point to the field on which, for England’s home and glory, General Sir George Cathcart victoriously fell. Inkermann will never be forgotten.
Before I close this branch of my subject, I must say a few words about another of the commanders, and then my non-military readers will be able to see more clearly the advantages which money and position in life could secure in our army.
The Earl of Cardigan did not enter the army until he was about twenty-seven years of age. He joined the 8th Hussars, in May, 1824, and had scarcely learnt his drill when he was promoted Lieutenant; in eighteen months more was advanced to a Captaincy (but not in a black regiment). He smoothly passed through the different grades, and in six years from the date of joining, found himself a Lieutenant-Colonel and commander of a regiment. He had never smelt powder, and, in fact, had never seen the enemies of his country; influence and money had done the whole. I think the reader will agree with me that it was not a bit too soon that the purchase system was discontinued. When the army was formed for Turkey, in the early part of 1854, this distinguished veteran of the ball-room was selected to command our light cavalry brigade; and right gallantly did he lead that brigade at Balaclava, October 25th, 1854. It was a dashing piece of work, and he did it well; but that was the sum and substance of his lordship’s services in the field, and of which we shall never hear the end. Poor old Sir George Brown, Sir De Lacy Evans, Sir Colin Campbell, Sir George Cathcart, and a host of others too numerous to mention, had gone through and seen ten times as much service long before they had reached the ripe age of twenty-one. So much for money and position.
Punch, in 1855, might well put it that the Crimean army was an army of lions led by donkeys. More than half the officers did not know how to manœuvre a company; all, or nearly so, had to be left to non-commissioned officers; but yet it would be impossible to dispute their bravery, for they were brave unto madness. The writer has seen them lead at the deadly bayonet charges, and at the walls and blood-stained parapets of Sebastopol, as freely as they would have led off in a ball-room; and our officers at Inkermann let the enemy see that they knew how to fight as well as to dance, for there was no manœuvring, nothing but plain hard-hitting, and fair English fighting (not cooking).