Well, to my story; the morning of the 20th found us once more on our legs. Marshal St. Arnaud rode along our line; we cheered him most heartily, and he seemed to appreciate it; in passing the 88th, the Marshal of France called out in English, “I hope you will fight well to-day;” the fire-eating old Connaught Rangers at once took up the challenge, and a voice loudly exclaimed “Shure, your honour, we will, don’t we always fight well?” Away we then went at a steady pace, until about mid-day—the Light and Second Divisions leading, in columns of brigades. As we approached the village of Burlark, which was on our side of the river, or what was called the right bank, the blackguards set fire to it, but still we pressed on; we by the right, the Second division by the left. We now advanced into the valley beneath, in line, sometimes taking ground to the right, then to the left, and presently we were ordered to lie down to avoid the hurricane of shot and shell that the enemy was pouring into us. A number of our poor fellows lay down to rise no more; the enemy had the range to a nicety. Our men’s feelings were now wrought up to such a state that it was not an easy matter to stop them. Up to the river we rushed, and some,—in fact all I could see,—got ready for a swim, pulling off their knapsacks and camp kettles. Our men were falling now very fast; into the river we dashed, nearly up to our arm pits, with our ammunition and rifles on the top of our heads to keep them dry, scrambled out the best way we could, and commenced to ascend the hill. From east to west the enemy’s batteries were served with rapidity, hence we were enveloped in smoke on what may be called the glacis. We were only about 600 yards from the mouths of the guns, the thunderbolts of war were, therefore, not far apart, and death loves a crowd. The havoc among the Fusiliers, both 7th and 23rd, was awful, still nothing but death could stop that renowned Infantry. There were 14 guns of heavy calibre just in front of us, and others on our flanks, in all some 42 guns were raining death and destruction upon us. A number of our poor fellows on reaching the top of the slippery bank were shot down and fell back dead, or were drowned in the Alma. The two Fusilier Regiments seemed to vie with each other in performing deeds of valor. General Codrington waved his hat, then rode straight at one of the embrasures, and leaped his grey Arab into the breastwork; others, breathless, were soon beside him. Up we went, step by step, but with a horrid carnage. When one gets into such a “hot corner” as this was, one has not much time to mind his neighbours. I could see that we were leading; the French were on our right, and the 23rd Fusiliers on our left. This was Albuera repeated—the two Fusilier regiments shoulder to shoulder—only the French were on our right as Allies, whereas in the former battle they were in front as bitter foes.
The fighting was now of a desperate kind. My comrade said to me “We shall have to shift those fellows with the bayonet, old boy,” pointing to the Russians. We still kept moving on, and at last General Sir G. Brown, Brigadier Codrington, and our noble old Colonel, called upon us for one more grand push, and a cheer and a charge brought us to the top of the hill. Into the battery we jumped, spiked the guns, and bayoneted or shot down the gunners; but, alas, we were not strong enough, and we were in our turn hurled, by an overwhelming force, out of the battery, and down the hill again. The old 7th halted, fronted, and lay down, and kept up a withering fire upon the enemy at point-blank range, which must have told heavily upon their crowded ranks. Help was now close at hand. Up came the Guards and Highlanders. His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge was with them, and he nobly faced the foe. He had a good tutor in that hero of a hundred fights, Sir Colin Campbell. They got a warm reception, but still pressed on up that fatal hill. Some will tell you that the Guards retired, or wanted to retire; but no, up they went manfully, step by step, both Guards and Highlanders, and a number of other regiments of the 2nd Division, and with deafening shouts the heights of Alma were ours. The enemy were sent reeling from them in hot haste, with Artillery and a few Cavalry in pursuit. If we had only had three or four thousand Cavalry with us, they would not have got off quite so cheaply; as it was, they got a nasty mauling, such an one as they did not seem to appreciate.
After gaining the heights—a victory that set the church bells of Old England ringing and gave schoolboys a holiday, we had time to count our loss. Alas, we had paid the penalty for leading the way. We had left more than half our number upon the field, dead or wounded, and one of our colours was gone, but, thank God, the enemy had not got it; it was found upon the field, cut into pieces, and with a heap of dead and wounded all around it. Kinglake, the author of “The Crimean Campaign,” says in the boldest language that “Yea and his Fusiliers won the Alma.” As one of them, I can confirm that statement—we had to fight against tremendous odds. The brunt of the fighting fell upon the first Brigade of the Light Division, as their loss will testify. At one time the 7th Fusiliers confronted a whole Russian Brigade and kept them at bay until assistance came up. Our poor old Colonel exclaimed, at the top of the hill, when he sounded the assembly, “A colour gone, and where’s my poor old Fusiliers, my God, my God!” and he cried like a child, wringing his hands. After the enemy had been fairly routed, I obtained leave to go down the hill. I had lost my comrade and I was determined to find him if possible. I had no difficulty in tracing the way we had advanced, for the ground was covered with our poor fellows—in some places sixes and sevens, at others tens and twelves, and at other places whole ranks were lying. “For these are deeds which shall not pass away, and names that must not, shall not wither.”
The Russian wounded behaved in a most barbarous manner; they made signs for a drink, and then shot the man who gave it them. My attention was drawn to one nasty case. A young officer of the 95th gave a wounded Russian a little brandy out of his flask, and was turning to walk away, when the fellow shot him mortally; I would have settled with him for his brutish conduct, but one of our men, who happened to be close to him, at once gave him his bayonet, and despatched him. I went up to the young officer, and finding he was still alive, placed him in as comfortable a position as I could, and then left him, to look for my comrade. I found him close to the river, dead; he had been shot in the mouth and left breast, and death must have been instantaneous. He was now in the presence of his glorified Captain. He was as brave as a lion, but a faithful disciple. He could not have gone 100 yards from the spot where he told me we should “have to shift those fellows with the bayonet.” I sat down beside him, and thought my heart would break as I recalled some of his sayings, particularly his talk to me at midnight of the 19th; this was about six p.m., on the 20th. I have every reason to believe that he was prepared for the change. I buried him, with the assistance of two or three of our men. We laid him in his grave, with nothing but an overcoat wrapped around him, and then left him with a heavy heart.
In passing up the hill I had provided myself with all the water bottles I could, from the dead, in order to help to revive the wounded as much as possible. I visited the young officer whom I saw shot by the wounded Russian, and found he was out of all pain: he had passed into the presence of a just and holy God. The sights all the way were sickening. The sailors were taking off the wounded as fast as possible, but many lay there all night, just as they had fallen. Dear reader, such is war. I rejoined my regiment on the top of the hill, and was made Sergeant that night. We remained on the hill until the 23rd, and lost a number of men from cholera.
The 21st and 22nd were spent in collecting the wounded—both friend and foe. Ours were at once put on board ship and sent to Scutari; some hundreds of the enemy were collected in a vineyard on the slopes, the dead were buried in large pits—and a very mournful and ghastly sight it was, for many had been literally cut to pieces. It was a difficult matter really to find out what had killed some of them. Here men were found in positions as if in the act of firing; there, as if they had fallen asleep; and all over the field the dead were lying in every position it was possible for men to assume. Some of those who had met death at the point of the bayonet, presented a picture painful to look upon; others were actually smiling. Such was the field of the Alma.
The first battle was now over, and as I wrote to my parents from the heights, I thanked God I was still in the land of the living, and what’s more with a whole skin (except an abrasion on the head caused by a stone), which a few hours before had appeared impossible. The three regiments that led the way suffered fearfully, the 7th Royal Fusiliers on the right, the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers in the centre, and the 33rd on the left. Any one of these three Regiments suffered more than the whole brigade of Guards or Highlanders combined; not that I wish to speak disparagingly of the gallant Guards or the noble Highlanders, I only wish to show on whom the brunt of the fighting fell.
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I saw the Heights of Alma on the 20th September, Then the maiden British army first faced the foe, Then the Russian bear, with all his ugly cubs, Was taught to use his heels, as fast as he could go. |
Volumes could be written upon the Alma—the battle that opened the guns of France and England in unison, but I must confine my narrative to what actually passed under my own eyes, or in my own regiment. Canrobert, a French Marshal, might well in the excitement exclaim, “I should like to command an English Division for a campaign, and it would be the d—— take the hindmost; I feel that I could then attain my highest ambition!” A Russian wounded General, in giving up his sword, as prisoner of war, stated that they were confident of holding their position for some days no matter what force the Allies could bring against them, adding that they came to fight men and not devils. Prince Menschikoff quitted the field in a hurry, for he left his carriage behind and all his state papers. He, poor man, had to eat a lot of humble pie, and we are told that he was furiously mad. He had been over confident that he could hold us in check for three weeks, and then put us all into the sea; he just held the heights for three hours after the attack commenced. Ladies even came out of Sebastopol to witness the destruction of the Allies; but I fancy their flight must have been most distressing, while their feelings were not to be envied.
The Russian officers were gentlemen, but their men were perfect fiends. The night after the battle and the following morning, this was proved in a number of cases, by their shooting down our men just after they had done all they could for them. Our comrades at once paid them for it either by shooting or bayoneting them on the spot; this was rough justice, but it was justice, nevertheless; none of them lived to boast of what they had done.