I was close to one of our generals, who stood watch in hand,[7] when, suddenly, at 12 o’clock, the French drums and bugles sounded the charge, and, with a shout of Vive l’Empereur, repeated over and over again by some 50,000 men—a shout that was enough to strike terror into the enemy—the French sprang forward, headed by the Zouaves, at the Malakoff, like a lot of cats. On they went like a swarm of bees, or rather, like the dashing of the waves of the sea against a rock. We in our old advanced works had a splendid view—it was grand but terrible; the deafening shouts of the advancing hosts told us they were carrying all before them. They were now completely enveloped in smoke and fire, but column after column kept advancing, pouring volley after volley into the breasts of the defenders. They, the French, meant to have it, let the butcher’s bill be what it might. At about a quarter-past 12, up went the proud flag of France, with a shout that drowned for a time the roar of both cannon and musketry.
CAPTURE OF THE REDAN.
And now came our turn; we had waited for months for it, and at times almost longed for it. But it was a trying hour. As soon as the French flag was seen upon the Malakoff, our stormers sprang forward, led by Col. Windham; the old Light Division leading, consisting of 300 men of the 90th, about the same number of the 97th, and about 400 of the 2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade; and with various detachments of the 2nd and Light Division, and a number of Blue Jackets, carrying scaling ladders. Our men advanced splendidly, with a ringing British cheer, although the enemy poured a terrible fire of grape, canister, and musketry into them, which swept down whole companies at a time. We, the supports, moved forward to back up our comrades, but anyone with “half an eye” could see that we had not the same cool, resolute men, as at Alma and Inkermann; though some of the older hands were determined to make the best of a bad job; and I am happy to record that the old Inkermann men took it very coolly; some of them lit their pipes, I did the same. A brave young officer of ours, a Mr. Colt, told me he would give all he was worth to be able to take it as comfortably as some of our people did—it was his first time under fire—he was as pale as death and shaking from head to foot, yet he bravely faced the foe. The poor boy (for he was not much more) requested me not leave him; and he fell dead by my side, just outside the Redan.
COURAGE DEFINED.
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The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But he whose noble soul its fear subdues And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from. As for your youth whom blood and blows delight, Away with them; there is not in their crew One valiant spirit. Joanna Baillie. |
Our people were now at it in front; we advanced as quickly as we could, until we came to the foremost trench, when we leaped the parapet, then made a rush at the blood-stained walls of the Redan—we had a clear run of over 200 yards, under a murderous fire of grape, canister, and musketry. However any one ever lived to pass that 200 yards seemed a miracle, for our poor fellows fell one on the top of the other; but nothing but death could stop us. The musket balls whistled by us more like hail than anything else I can describe, and the grape shot cut our poor fellows to pieces; for we had a front and two cross fires to meet. It seemed to me that we were rushing into the very jaws of death, but I for one reached the Redan without a scratch. While standing on the brink of the ditch, I considered for a moment how best to get into it, for it appeared to be about twenty feet deep, with no end of our poor fellows at the bottom, dead and dying, with their bayonets sticking up; but the mystery solved itself, our men came rushing on with a cheer for Old England, and in we went, neck or nothing, scrambled up the other side the best way we could, and into the redoubt we went with a shout truly English. The fighting inside the works was desperate—butt and bayonet, foot and fist; the enemy’s guns were at once spiked; some of the older hands did their best to get together sufficient men for one charge at the enemy, for we had often proved that they were no lovers of cold steel, but our poor fellows melted away almost as fast as they scaled those bloody parapets, from a cross-fire the enemy brought to bear upon us from the rear of that work. The moss of that field grew red with British blood.
The struggle at the Redan lasted about an hour-and-a-half, and the reader may form some idea of the fighting from our loss, which was as follows:—Killed and wounded of all ranks, 2,472, and 176 missing.[8] The mistake that our generals made was in not sending sufficient men. Twenty thousand men ought to have been let loose; we should not then have lost anything like the number we did, as very many officers and men were killed when retiring; but we had handled the enemy so roughly that they did not further attempt to molest us. The French officers and men were in ecstacies of admiration at the doings of our people at the Redan, and exclaimed, “English, you have covered yourselves with glory this day!” And I now fearlessly assert that the handful of men who undertook that blood-stained work earned a rich wreath of laurels that day. Yet we were but a handful when compared with the vast hordes of the enemy.[9] But with all their strength they hesitated about coming to close quarters. Had we had even ten thousand men with us, the Russians would have gone into the harbour at the point of the bayonet, or else been made to lay down their arms. But no; men were sent up in driblets, to be slaughtered in detail! The few hundreds who did enter that blood-stained fortification fought with butt end and bayonet, and not many returned without securing some token in the shape of wounds more or less severe. Still the few who did meet the enemy taught them to respect us, for they no more dared to follow us than they would a troop of lions. We had not been beaten, though we were crushed by cross-fires and heavy masses of men; yet all the time our trenches were crowded with men eager to be let loose at the enemy! We had a Wolseley with us, it is true, but he was only in a subordinate position. We wanted such a man as he, or Sir Colin Campbell, or a Roberts, and we should have carried all before us. Then, in all probability, we should have had a star, but not without some hard work for it. As it was, we got no star, though we had for twelve long dreary months to be continually fighting—and the fighting was such as would almost make the much-vaunted heroes of Tel-el-Kebir blush: not that I wish to rob them of the honours that a grateful country has bestowed upon them.
THE FALL OF SEBASTOPOL.
The night of the 8th September, 1855, is one long to be remembered. Our camp was startled by a series of terrible explosions, and we could not make out what was up, but at length discovered that the enemy were retiring under cover of the blowing up of their vast forts and magazines. Oh! what a night! It baffles all description. Many of our poor fellows were then lying on the ground, having been wounded in all sorts of ways, with the burning fortress all around them! The Redan was blown up, and a number of our men went up with it, or were buried alive! Reader, try and imagine the position of the wounded lying just outside the Redan. The renowned Redan Massey was there weltering in his blood, together with a number of others, while hundreds of tons of powder was exploding within 300 yards of them! Those of the wounded who managed to reach the camp were well looked after; our doctors worked incessantly, they threw their whole heart and soul into it, and all appeared to do their best. Men were continually being brought home to camp with every description of wounds. I myself was carried thither, having received five wounds in different parts of the body, my left hand shattered, and two nasty wounds in the head. I was totally unconscious when taken out of the Redan, and for some hours afterwards. At about 6 p.m., I found myself in our front trench, with a dead 33rd man lying across me; I got him off the best way I could, and then tried to get up, but found that I could not stand, for I had almost bled to death. Dr. Hale, V.C., did all he could for me; I then had to remain and take my chance or turn of being carried to camp, where I arrived about 7·30 p.m., when my wounds were dressed, and a good cup of beef tea revived me; there I had to remain for upwards of three months, but, with careful attendance, and a good, strong constitution, I was, by that time, ready for them again.[10]