Camp before Sebastopol,
June 28th, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

Just a few lines to inform you that we have got out of debt. My letter of the 18th told you of the terrible thrashing that the enemy gave us that morning. Well, we have met them again, and paid them off for it; and I think we have proved that we can hit just as hard as they can. On the 26th, about 11 p.m., they made a general attack all along our trenches—both French and English. We were ready for them, as they were for us on the 18th, and have paid them off in their own coin. It lasted about three-quarters-of-an-hour, and they have left close upon 4000 upon the field, dead and wounded; they boasted that they were going to put us into the sea; I for one, had a strong objection to this, as I cannot swim. I never before saw our men fight so spitefully. Volley after volley was poured into their advancing hosts, and then, with a ringing cheer for old England, we closed upon them with that weapon they so much dread. Some of our men’s bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks, which was a clear proof of the work we had been at. Although they beat us for once, we let them know that the Lion was on the war-path, and that he was well roused. I think out Allies got out of debt too, for they stuck to them well; we can always tell when they are winning, for they do not forget to shout. Our men are as quiet as a lot of lambs until the bayonet comes into play, and then it’s three British cheers, and sometimes three times three. The sights all over the field next morning, (the 27th), were horrible. We had a flag of truce out for about three hours, to allow the enemy to take away their dead and wounded, and during that time the greater portion of the troops that had been engaged returned to the camp. I got a slight scratch in the forehead, but nothing of any importance, so I have much to be thankful for. We did not lose many men, as we were under cover. We are creeping, bit by bit, up to the town; but the closer we get, the more bitter the fighting becomes. We have now plenty to eat and drink; there is all sorts of life in the camp, and duty is not half so hard as it has been. We have still the unseen enemy—cholera—with us, but upon the whole we keep up our spirits remarkably well. Our men appear to long for the day when we shall be let loose at the town—bombarding does not seem to have much effect upon their works—it must be taken with the bayonet, and whenever the day of reckoning comes, it will be a heavy one. Reinforcements keep joining us, both French and English, almost every day; and we have a splendid army, in spite of our heavy losses, ready at our commander’s call to advance with the flag of old England, and plant it on the proud walls of this noble fortress, which has put all others in the shade. Hardly a day passes but more guns and mortars are being mounted, and what the next bombardment will be I do not know. I will write as often as I can, but you must excuse some of my short notes; although I wear a red coat, I hope there is a warm heart beating beneath it. I must conclude with love to all, and double allowance for poor mother.

Believe me ever, dear Parents,
Your affectionate son,
T. GOWING,
Sergeant,
Royal Fusiliers.

Thus ended all the boasting of the Russians. The flag of truce was up for two hours, and then had to be renewed, for they had not all their dead and wounded removed. We acted with them as they did with us on the 18th. A chain of sentries was placed out about 60 yards in front of our trenches, and all that fell on the inner side of the chain were carried by our people and laid down for their friends to take away; their men were very sullen, and their officers sarcastic—inquiring as to when we were going to take the town. Some of our officers told them we should awake them some of these fine mornings when they little suspected us; and our people joked them in return by asking when they were going to put us into the sea. A number of their officers could speak French, but few could speak English. The repulse that they had just sustained damped their spirits considerably; but the moment the white flag was out of sight, we were at it again.

I had nothing particular to record for a time except trench work, and as we had plenty of men our duty was not heavy. The enemy continued to torment us as much as possible; and as we were now creeping closer to the town, almost every night there was something going on, and daily we lost a number of men and officers.

DEATH OF LORD RAGLAN.

And now we had something else hanging on our hands; we had lost our brave Commander-in-Chief. The camp was startled on the morning of the 29th June, 1855, by the sorrowful tidings of the death of our much-beloved Commander-in-Chief, Lord Raglan. Men who had been accustomed to meet death looked at each other as if they had heard of the loss of some near relative. We did not know, until he was taken from us, how deeply we loved him. The army had lost a true friend—a friend to the combatant ranks. Our beloved country, and our much-beloved Sovereign, had lost a good, honest, faithful, and devout servant. His courage knew no bounds, and it was backed up by true Christian piety. He was a perfect gentleman, and had proved himself a soldier of no mean sort on many a hard-fought field in Spain, Portugal, France, and the Netherlands. He had served his country faithfully for upwards of half a century; and now he had laid down his life in the performance of his duty to the flag he loved so well. He was lamented by all, both high and low. The enormous responsibility of that unparalleled siege, together with the disastrous failure on the morning of the 18th June, broke the dear old gentleman’s heart. But he died as he had lived—a true soldier in a twofold sense, for he was not at all ashamed of his Great Captain. We mourned him as our Commander who had repeatedly led us on to victory. We mourned him also as a Christian who had left a noble example behind him:—

We mourn for one whose honour’d name will stand
Foremost amid the valiant of our land;
Yet better far, we know to him ’twas given
To be a soldier of his Lord in the land of the living.
We mourn for one that’s now at rest
In the bright land of endless bliss.
Raglan, thou art gone! thy country mourns thee!
Thy watchword when on earth was ‘forward!’
But now, henceforth and for ever,
Thy watchword will be ‘victory!’