A mother’s love—how sweet the name,
What is a mother’s love?
A noble, pure, and tender flame
Enkindled from above,
To bless a heart of earthly mould;
The warmest love that can grow cold,—
This is a mother’s love.
James Montgomery.
“The gates of mercy shall be all shut up:
And the fleshed soldier,—rough and hard of heart,—
In liberty of bloody hand, shall range
With conscience wide as hell: mowing like grass
Your fresh fair virgins and your flowering infants.”
Shakespeare.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN.

On the morning of the 5th November the enemy attacked us in our trenches in broad daylight. Our heavy guns gave it them prettily, and mowed down their dense columns by wholesale; but still they came on, until they felt the bayonet. Then, after some stiff fighting, which lasted more than an hour, they were compelled to beat a hasty retreat, our heavy guns sweeping lanes through them, and we plying them with musketry both in front and flank. We found they could run well, only too glad to get under cover. A sortie has no chance of success unless the besieging army can be taken by surprise; but no doubt this attack was made in order to distract our commander’s attention from the vital point.

The ever-memorable battle was then raging on our right rear, and by the shouts of the combatants and the tremendous firing, we knew that something very serious was going on, so as many of us as the General could spare were ordered to march as fast as our legs could carry us to the assistance of our comrades, then at the dreadful fight raging at Inkermann. As we had just drubbed the enemy terribly, our blood was up, but we were hungry: many of us had had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours, and were wet through to the skin. They say an Englishman will not fight unless his belly is full; that’s all bosh: let him once be roused, and you will soon see whether he will or not. Well, to the field we went, and the sights were something horrible, but there was not a desponding voice; the fog was so dense that at times we could not see twenty yards. Our men were falling very fast, for the enemy were in overwhelming strength, particularly in guns. But it is impossible to disguise the fact that the crafty Muscovites in the darkness and fog had stolen a march upon our commanders; that the Allies were taken completely by surprise; and that only the intrepidity of the picquets of the Light and Second Divisions saved the entire Allied Armies from an overwhelming disaster. We can now say without boasting that the heroic conduct of a mere handful of Britons were, and are to this day, the admiration of all. The determined rushes of the Muscovites were hurled back time after time. Their princes boasted that they would drive us all into the sea. So they would, perhaps, if weight of numbers could have done it; but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. At this critical moment the startling intrepidity of the sons of Albion, side by side with the heroic boys of the green isle, came out in all its native splendour, to shine by the side with that displayed at Trafalgar, Albuera, and Waterloo. Their deeds are to-day stimulating their descendants on the banks of the Nile, and will do till the end of time, or as long as we have an enemy to face, whether they are to be found on the burning plains of Egypt or the frontiers of Afghanistan. The queen of weapons was used with deadly effect, the drunken massive columns of the enemy were pitched over the rocks by men who might die but never surrender, and who had a strong objection to a watery grave. Our highest martial interest, honour, was at stake; but, reader, it was safe withal, from our much-respected Commander-in-Chief to the drummer-boy. They had all made up their minds to conquer or to die. Children yet unborn will exclaim “all honour to that band of heroes.” The odds were heavy, but from the brutes we had to face we had no mercy to expect. Our Fourth Division—composed of the following regiments, the 20th, 21st, 57th, 63rd, 68th, and 1st Batt. Rifle Brigade, under Cathcart—fought at a disadvantage, having been armed with the old Brown Bess musket, against the Needle-Rifle which the enemy were armed with. Our weapons were almost as much use as a broomstick. Yet with all these disadvantages we smote the enemy with a terrible slaughter, and there was seen again with what majesty the British soldier fights. Our loss was heavy: three generals fell and every mounted officer, but our men fought to the bitter end, and stood triumphant on the rocky ridge, cheering for victory—the unconquerable heroism of the handful of men we knew would set the church-bells of old England ringing and clashing for victory, and give schoolboys a holiday. All regiments vied with each other, as the following will prove:—At the Alma and Balaclava we had fought for victory; but at the fight that was now raging, a mere handful of Britons were contending for very existence, for to be beaten here meant an ignominious death at the hands of a lot of fierce brutes, mad with drink—Dutch courage had to be poured into them to make them face our ranks. The drunken yells of their massive columns were answered by volley after volley at point-blank range, and then, with a clear and distinct cheer for old England, we closed upon them with the bayonet, and stuck to them like wax until they were hurled from the field. We had no supports or reserves, but every man, as fast as he could reach the field, went straight at them, with a shout that seemed to strike terror into them; and so the fight went on, hour after hour. In many parts of the field it was a horde of half-drunken madmen attacking cool and collected Britons, determined to conquer or die. Our Guards were the admiration of the whole army; their deeds at Inkermann will never fade. Led by His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, they repeatedly buried themselves in the Russian columns, as cheer after cheer went up in defiance to the enemy’s unnatural yell. The Guards, all must admit, set a glorious example, for if they had to die, they acted upon the old 57th motto, “Let us die hard.” The daring, courage, and obstinacy of our Guards was grand; the terrible odds that they faced on this field puts Hougoumont in the shade, and ranks beside the unconquerable heroes of Albuera, fully justifying their high prestige in the army.

THE BATTLE OF INKERMANN.
The memorable foggy morning, 5th November, 1854.