The 97th seemed to feel his loss keenly, and over his grave strong men wept like a lot of children who had lost a fond father, and then vowed they would revenge him the first opportunity.[4] The Captain was a general favourite throughout the Light Division, for he used to go, when off duty, from regiment to regiment doing all he could to point poor thoughtless sinners to the Lamb of God.
Such were some of the men who helped to unfurl the Standard of old England on the blood-stained walls of Sebastopol; and, while some were struck down to rise no more, in the first action; others were permitted, apparently with a charmed life, to go from field to field. I am not one of those who believe that all is left to chance, on the contrary, I am convinced that all our lives are in God’s keeping. I know that I have been mercifully watched over through seen and unseen dangers of no mean sort. Besides those events that I have here narrated, I have yet to tell of nineteen years’ life in India with sword and pestilence scattering death all around me.
The following is my letter describing the fighting of the 22nd:—
Camp before Sebastopol,
March 24th, 1855.
My Dear Parents,
I hardly know how to commence this letter. Since mine of the 15th, we have had a terrible fight. Thank God, I have been spared once more. I do think that I am out of their debt. To describe the fight adequately, would be impossible. I will try and do a little to it. A good strong party of us, under command of Captain the Hon. C. Brown, went into the trenches on the 22nd. It blew a perfect hurricane, with rain and sleet; it came down just anyhow. We were standing up to our ankles in mud and water, like a lot of half-frozen, half-drowned rats, when, about 10.30 p.m., the enemy attacked our Allies. It was as dark as the grave, and in fact, we could not see one yard in front of us. We had strong parties of the Light Division in our advanced works. The enemy got right in the midst of us before we knew anything of their whereabouts, and then we set to work with the bayonet. It was charge and re-charge, officers shouting to their men “This way, this way, Fusiliers!” “Come on, 90th!” “Now, at them, 97th!” We had to grope for them the best way we could, stumbling over friend and foe. Up and at them again. Officers fighting with desperation, shouting all the time, “Come on my lads, stick to them.” Our Captain was killed, and one of our Lieutenants (a Mr. Henry) wounded. He was a man of about six feet two-and-a-half inches, and before he fell he let the enemy know what metal he was made of. You remember a Captain of the 97th, that I have spoken about (Captain H. Vicars, I mean): I am sorry to have to inform you that he received his death wound while nobly leading the 97th and us, shouting with all his might, “This way, 97th; come on, Fusiliers.” Our men took a terrible revenge for his death. A number of our bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning; and all around where that noble Christian fell, the enemy lay thick, one on the top of the other. They fought with desperation; but that never-failing weapon, the bayonet, was too much for them. They tried to blow up our small-arm magazine, but the fellow who made the attempt was at once despatched. The sights next morning (the 23rd,) were awful. I do believe, for the time it lasted, it was worse than Inkermann: it was nothing but butt and bayonet, and some of our Lancashire boys did not forget to use their feet. Thank God, I got out of it without a scratch worth mentioning. I managed to lose my cap, a shot went through the collar of my coat, and one through my trousers. We buried our officers last night, and there was hardly a dry eye when poor Captain Vicars was lowered into his grave. I feel confident that he has gone to that Home that is prepared for all those who are faithful to the end. This army has lost a cool, determined officer, and there is one Christian less in this sin-blighted world. He had won the affections of the whole Light Division. The 97th might well be proud of him. It is only a few days since I was with him at one of his meetings; but, dear father, he is not lost, but gone before. He can now sing, with all his manly heart, while he views his glorious Master without a veil between.
It is bitterly cold here at present, and I for one do wish they would let us go at the town. We know well that it will be a hard nut to crack, but it must be done, the honour of Old England and France is at stake, and take it we will some day. I do not wish you to publish my letters, for the simple reason that sometimes I speak a little too plainly, and it might hurt me; if anything should happen to me here, you can then please yourself. Take care of them all, as they may come in handy some day, if only to read to friends near and dear to us. I must conclude. Thanks for the papers.
Believe me ever, dear Parents,
Your most affectionate son,
T. GOWING,
Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.
SUDDEN DEATH.