| Woollen coats or frocks | 53,000 | |
| Pairs of worsted socks or stockings | 33,000 | |
| 〃 | lamb’s wool socks or stockings | 2,700 |
| 〃 | drawers—lamb’s wool | 17,000 |
| Good blankets (single) | 16,000 | |
| 〃 | palliasses (single, for hospitals) | 10,000 |
| 〃 | rugs (single) | 3,750 |
| 〃 | cloaks, well lined with flannel | 2,500 |
| Pairs of boots (ankles) | 12,880 | |
| 〃 | shoes, for hospitals | 1,000 |
Eight other ships were also lost, with nearly all hands on board, that night. The value of their freights has been estimated at £1,500,000. But the value of the stores and outfits for the army was incalculable. From that date the deplorable condition of the army commences. Yet there were thousands of tons of stores lying at Balaclava, rotting. The Commissariat had completely broken down. All that was wanting, was someone with a head on to put things straight—all was higgledy-piggledy and confusion. The cavalry horses, that had cost an enormous amount, sank up to their knees in mud at every step, until they dropped exhausted; and all the way from the camp to Balaclava were to be seen dead horses, mules, and bullocks in every stage of decomposition. And our poor fellows, who had fought so well at the Alma, Balaclava, and the two Inkermanns, were now dying by hundreds daily. The army was put upon half rations, viz:—half-a-pound of mouldy biscuit, and half-a-pound of of salt junk (beef or pork); coffee was served out, but in its raw green state, with no means of roasting it. No wood or firing was to be had, except a few roots that were dug up. Men would come staggering into the camp from the trenches soaked to the skin and ravenously hungry, when a half-pound of mouldy biscuit would be issued, with the same quantity of salt junk, so hard that one almost wanted a good hatchet to break it. The scenes were heart-rending. The whole camp was one vast sheet of mud, the trenches in many places knee deep; men died at their posts from sheer exhaustion or starvation, rather than complain, for if they reported themselves sick the medical chests were empty. And amidst all these privations the enemy kept peppering away at them. A bright but melancholy proof was then given of what Britons will endure before they give up. But, perhaps, one of the most mortifying pills that our poor fellows had to swallow was the knowledge that, although they were dying by wholesale for the want of shelter, clothing, and food, the huts had arrived in safety at Balaclava, or were floating about the harbour and being stolen by those handy little fellows, the Zouaves, to make fire-wood of; the overcoats lay in lighters; while food and nourishment, and every comfort that could be thought of by a kind-hearted people—such as potted meats of all descriptions, ground coffee, preserved soups, good thick warm flannel shirts, comforters knitted by ladies at home, flannel drawers, and good fustian jackets, waterproof coats and leggings, and tobacco in tons—were rotting in the harbour or stacked up upon the shore. A few men who were stationed at or near Balaclava got the lion’s share. The Guards had not much to complain of after they were sent down to Balaclava, for they were in clover—little or nothing to do—and if they did not exactly live upon the fat of the land, they ought to have done so. As for the unfortunate divisions that had, day after day and night after night, to face the foe in the trenches, hardly an officer, or man but was suffering from diarrhœa or dysentery. And, to make things worse, medicine could not be had. Some of our regimental doctors actually begged the chief medical authorities, for humanity’s sake, to let them have some medicine for diarrhœa or fever; but, no! the answer was “We have none.” “Have you any medicine for rheumatism?” “No! we have none.” Thus, our fellow-countrymen were left to die, whilst tons of medicines of all descriptions were close at hand, floating in the harbour of Balaclava! But I must be honest, and say plainly that a vast deal of the sickness was brought on by the men themselves by excessive drinking. We were allowed three (and sometimes four) drams of the best rum daily; but from the manner in which it was issued it would not intoxicate the men, for it was divided into three or four parts, and in camp it was mixed with lime juice. But there were hundreds not satisfied with that, who would go anywhere and do anything to get more; and then in all probability fall down, and, if not noticed by some one, the extreme cold soon settled up their account—frost-bitten or frozen to death. Thus, it was not all the fault of the authorities. The whole army was in rags and filth, and half frozen in the trenches in front of the enemy. Not one, but hundreds, were stricken down by starvation. They were only about eight miles from plenty, and yet were dying of hunger; there were clothing and medical stores in ship-loads, but no organization. And yet, with all this wretchedness, our men fought with undaunted bravery whenever the enemy attempted to trespass upon the ground they were told to hold.
In January, 1855, after thousands had died, the warm clothing was served out, but blankets were still short. And—would you believe it, reader?—when men who had died in hospital were taken to their last abode rolled up in a blanket, on arrival at the grave or pit, the unfortunate dead, perhaps a loving son of some poor heart-broken mother, was rolled out of the blanket into his grave in a state of nudity, and at once covered up with a few shovels-full of earth, the blanket being brought back and washed, and becoming the property of one who had helped at the interment. I knew of a very painful case. One of our sergeants named G——s, had buried two poor fellows on a cold bleak morning in the month of January, 1855, but through some mistake had left them in their blankets. On returning to camp he met our Colonel, who inquired what he had been doing; and when the poor fellow said that he was returning from the cemetery, and that he had just interred two men, the Colonel roared out—“Then where are the blankets, Sir; go back and get them, and parade them before me when washed.” A kinder-hearted man, or a braver soldier than our Commander never faced the foe; but orders must be obeyed. Some regiments were reduced to a single company, and had to be sent out of the field, yet had not suffered much from the enemy. The Guards left home 2,500 strong, and reinforcements amounting to 1500 had joined them; but by the end of 1854 they could only muster about 900 fit for duty. Lads were sent out and died almost as soon as they landed; one night in the trenches was quite enough for them—they either crawled back to camp and died, or were sent home again, or to Scutari or Malta. A number of poor fellows were almost daily sent down to Balaclava on litters—one on either side of a mule—they formed a ghastly procession; many died before they reached the port. Death was stalking all over our camp, on every side was cholera in its worst form, dysentery, diarrhœa, rheumatism, catarrh, and scurvy. Men were positively forbidden to take off their boots, as it was found impossible to get them on again; while some might be seen limping about the camp in the snow (two or three feet deep) with no boots of any sort; others with boots up to their knees, which they had borrowed from some dead Russian. Some of our critics (newspaper correspondents) were at a loss to find out to what regiment a man really belonged, or even what nation, as during the worst part of the winter no two men were dressed alike. Some had hay bands bound round their legs, others had long stockings outside their rags or trousers, some had garters made from old knapsacks, others had leggings made from sheep skins, bullocks’ hides, buffalo hides, horse hides—anything to keep the extreme cold out. Some had got hold of a Russian officer’s overcoat, which was almost a load to carry. As for Joseph’s coat of many colours, I do not think it would have taken a prize for patchwork by the side of some of our men’s clothing. They say patch beside patch looks neighbourly, but our men’s coats were nothing but rags tacked together. As for head dress, some had mess-tin covers that could be pulled down well over the ears; others had coverings for the head made out of old blankets four or five times doubled. Yet there was but little murmuring so long as the men could get sufficient to eat, and in the midst of all their troubles they were loyal to the backbone, and would sing aloud “God save the Queen.” Some of their beards and moustaches were almost two feet long, and sometimes these were so frozen that they could not open their mouths until they could get to a fire and thaw them. As the reader may imagine, they were a queer-looking lot; but nothing but death could subdue them. They were not very “illigant” in their appearance, but one could read in their countenances that they meant death or victory. During January, 1855, the men were informed that Her Most Gracious Majesty had been pleased to grant a medal with three clasps for the Crimean campaign, thus—one for Alma, one for Balaclava, and one for Inkermann. Little Inkermann was not named; and some of the officers, non-commissioned officers, and men, who had fought there, were not at all satisfied. Some of our men inquired what we were to get for the town. Why, a star, of course! A crack of the head more likely. This was in January, 1855; we little dreamt then that we should have nine months’ more continuous fighting before Sebastopol fell, and that much more of the best blood of Britain was to be spilt long before then. I have often thought since that my getting those two nasty pokes at Inkermann was the means, in the hands of God, of saving my life; for I thus escaped the hardships of the months of November and December, 1854, and January and February, 1855. During my absence from the camp there was not much fighting going on, except at the “ovens,” as our men called them; for the enemy could not stand the intense cold any more than our men; though they had the best of us, as they had good shelter huts until our guns knocked them about their ears.
THE SOLDIER’S DEATH.
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Nobly he led them to the strong redoubt, And gallantly they put the foe to rout; He coveted the thickest of the fight, Where bullets whistled, and where blades gleamed bright. Where foes were fiercest he was sure to be, His strong arm dealing death, for naught cared he; And while around he heard his comrades’ cheer, Bravely and well he fought, unknown to fear; But just as o’er the hill-tops sank the sun, And shouts of vict’ry told the day was won, Watching with triumph the retreating foe, A random shot was fired which laid him low. And there upon the battle plain he lies, The light of vict’ry beaming in his eyes; And at his side his gallant fellows stand, Anxious once more to clasp their leader’s hand. But see! a smile lights up the pallid face; And hark! he speaks with military grace: “I’m done for, lads; ’tis hard to leave you all, And just as we have won the day to fall. Ill-luck was ever mine; I’m forced to go The moment we have driven back the foe. Perhaps ’tis best; there’s One above who knows, For in His hand He holds both friends and foes; But, lads, when safe you reach old England’s shore, Home, sweet, sweet home, which I shall see no more. Just seek out father, mother, sis, and tell Them all that I have done my duty well; Good-bye, brave lads; my freed and happy soul Now answers to the heavenly muster roll. You’ll think of me, when far across the wave, As sweetly slumbering in the soldier’s grave.” |
[CHAPTER IV.]
More Trench Work—Meeting with Capt. Vicars—My Letter of the 15th March, 1855—Night Attack in the Trenches—Capt. Vicars’ Death—A few Remarks showing his Noble Character—My Letter Descriptive of the Fight—Storming Rifle Pits—More Trench Duty—Supplementary Letter—The Taking of the Quarries and Circular Trench—Desperate Fighting before Sebastopol, the 7th and 88th Leading—My Letter Home, 8th June—Continued Fighting—First Assault on the Town—Its Bloody Repulse—The Poor Old Light Division Cut to Pieces—The Fusiliers again Led the Way—My Letter of the 18th—Waiting to be Revenged—A Terrible Night—Attack by the Enemy and its Bloody Repulse—My Letter of the 28th June describing the Fight—Death of Lord Raglan, much felt through the Allied Army—The Battle of Tchernaya, 16th August—The Enemy’s Last Throw for Victory Defeated—My Letter Home of the 18th Aug.—Creeping Closer and Closer to the Doomed City—The Last or Terrible Bombardment—A Nasty Blunder, our own people pitching into us—My Letter Home, 2 a.m., 8th Sept.—P.S. to it announcing my Death—My P.P.S. after I had recovered.
Our heavy guns still kept at it. I soon found my way into the trenches again, and had a very narrow escape, not of being wounded, but of being “taken in and done for,” or killed on the spot. In the dark, after posting some sentries, I took a wrong turn and went almost into the midst of the enemy. They could have shot me; but just then, I am sorry to say, we had a number of men deserting to the enemy, and I believe they thought I was one of that class, but they soon found out their mistake, for I was off as fast as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction. As need scarcely be remarked, I did not wait to look behind me until I got close up to our own people, then I turned about and faced them.