Poor Captain Monk of ours was the talk of the whole regiment that evening. It appears that a Russian presented his rifle at him, close to his head. The Captain at once parried it and cut the man down. A Russian officer then tackled him in single combat, and he quietly knocked him down with his fist, with others right and left of him, until he had a heap all round him, and at last fell dead in the midst of them. Sir G. Brown’s horse was shot from under him just in front of us, but that fire-eating old warrior soon collected himself, jumped up waving his sword and shouting, “Fusiliers, I am all right, follow me, and I’ll remember you for it!” and then, as Marshal Ney did at Waterloo, led the way up that fatal hill on foot, animating the men to the performance of deeds of valour. Britons, where is the man who would not respond to such a call? The eyes of the civilized world were upon us. Up the hill we went, for our blood was up, and the strength of all the Russians could not stop us; they might call us red devils if they liked, we were determined to do our duty for Queen and country. We remained on the heights until the 23rd. The 57th joined us there, just too late for the battle; but the old “die-hards” left their marks upon the enemy at Inkermann and throughout the siege of Sebastopol.
The following letter, written immediately after the battle, will, perhaps, prove interesting here:—
Heights of Alma,
September 20-21, 1854.
My Dear Parents,
I wrote you from Turkey that I would most likely tell you a little about the enemy before long. Well, we have met them and given them a good sound drubbing at the above-named place; and thank God, I am still in the land of the living, and, what’s more, with a whole skin, which a few hours ago appeared impossible. To describe my feelings in going into action, I could not; and I hope you will excuse my feeble attempt at describing the terrible fight we have just passed through. As soon as the enemy’s round shot came hopping along, we simply did the polite—opened out and allowed them to pass on—there is nothing lost by politeness, even on a battle field. As we kept advancing, we had to move our pins to get out of their way; and presently they began to pitch their shot and shell right amongst us, and our men began to fall. I know that I felt horribly sick—a cold shivering running through my veins—and I must acknowledge that I felt very uncomfortable; but I am happy to say that feeling passed off as soon as I began to get warm to it. It was very exciting work, and the sights were sickening; I hope I shall never witness such another scene. We were now fairly under the enemy’s fire—our poor fellows began to fall fast all around me. We had deployed into line, and lay down, in order to avoid the hurricane of shot and shell that was being poured into us. We still kept advancing and then lying down again; then we made a rush up to the river, and in we went. I was nearly up to my arm-pits; a number of our poor fellows were drowned, or shot down with grape and canister (that came amongst us like hail) while attempting to cross. How I got out I cannot say, as the banks were very steep and slippery. We were now enveloped in smoke, and could not see much. Up the hill we went, step by step, but with a fearful carnage. The fighting now became very exciting, our Artillery playing over our heads, and we firing and advancing all the time. The smoke was now so great that we could hardly see what we were doing, and our poor fellows were falling all around. It was a dirty, rugged hill. We got mixed up with the 95th. Some one called out, “Come on young 95th, the old 7th are in front.” The fighting was now desperate.[1] General Sir George Brown, Brigadier Codrington, our noble Colonel Yea, and, in fact, all our mounted officers, were encouraging us to move on; and, at last, with a ringing cheer we topped the heights, and into the enemy’s battery we jumped. Here we lost a great number of our men; and, by overwhelming numbers, we, the 23rd, 33rd, 95th, and Rifles, were mobbed out of the battery, and a part of the way down the hill again; and then we had some more desperate fighting. We lay down and blazed into their huge columns as hard as we could load and fire; and in about twenty minutes, up came the Guards and Highlanders and a number of other regiments; and, with another ringing cheer for Old England, at them we went again and re-topped the heights, routing them from their batteries. Here I got a crack on the head with a piece of stone, which unmanned me for a time. When I came round I found the enemy had all bolted.
Do not let anyone see this, as they would only laugh at my poor description of our first battle. The poor old Fusiliers have suffered very heavily. My poor comrade was killed just after getting out of the river. He is the one whom I have often spoken about. I am confident that he is gone to a far better home than this. Dear parents, what a sight the whole field presents! I would again thank God with a sincere heart for protecting me, I hope, for some good purpose. I hope that you will be able to make out this scrawl, as the only table I have is a dead Russian. I went down the hill yesterday evening and found my poor comrade dead. The wounded Russians behaved worse than the brute beasts of the field; they shot some of our officers and men just after they had done all they could for them, but they did not live long to talk of what they had done, for they were at once shot or bayoneted. On some parts of the field the killed of the poor old 7th, 23rd, 33rd, and 95th, lay thick. You will notice that I could not finish this letter yesterday. I hope you will excuse the paper (it’s the best I have) and likewise my poor description of our maiden fight. You may tell them in Norwich, or anywhere else, that your poor boy led the way up this fatal hill—for it was the 7th Fusiliers, 23rd Fusiliers, and 33rd Duke of Wellington’s, 95th, and Rifles, that led the van. The Guards and Highlanders, and the entire 2nd Division, backed us up well. We have still that horrible disease—Cholera—amongst us. One of my company died with it last night, after storming the heights. Please send a paper. Direct, Sergeant T. Gowing, Royal Fusiliers.
Good bye, dear parents, and God bless you all.
From your rough, but affectionate son,
T. GOWING, Royal Fusiliers.
ON THE WAY TO SEBASTOPOL.
The morning of the 23rd saw us early on our feet, and en route for the fortress known by the worldwide name of Sebastopol. We marched all day, our men fast dropping out from sickness. Our first halting place was at Katcha, where we had a splendid view. Our friends the Cossacks kept a little in front of us. On the 24th away we went again; nothing particular occurring, except that our Unseen Enemy—cholera—was still in the midst of us, picking off his victims. The Commander-in-Chief of the French, the gallant and gay Marshal St. Arnaud, succumbed to it. But we pressed on; the honour of three nations being at stake.