Many a loving wife embraced her fond but rough-looking husband. The dear children did not in many cases know their long-bearded fathers. Mothers that had come for miles fell fainting into the arms of their soldierly but affectionate sons: many brothers and sisters, too, had come great distances to meet and welcome long absent brethren,—all helped to swell that mighty throng that were only too happy to welcome home the conquering sons of Albion. As for sweethearts, I will leave my young readers to guess all about that, for the “pretty little dears” were as warm-hearted and had as long tongues in 1856 as they have now; but we could not get on well without them. The whole nation appeared to have made up its mind to do honour to the Crimean Army. Hundreds, yea, thousands had previously come home maimed, and many had since found rest in the quiet grave, but all were looked after by the nation at large. Her Most Gracious Majesty shewed a kind motherly feeling, shedding many a tear as she looked at her maimed soldiers. This evidence of Her Majesty’s sympathy was most touching, and as a rough loyal old soldier from the Emerald Isle called out at Aldershot, after the Queen had said a few kind words to the troops, and thanked us for doing our duty, “Where is the man who would not fight for such a Queen?” I would re-echo that cry and add “Where is the Briton who would not do or die to uphold our glorious old flag?”
One of the most touching scenes, that melted many to tears, was witnessed on the 18th of May, 1856, when Her Most Gracious Majesty, accompanied by the late Prince Consort, the then young Prince of Wales, the Duke of Cambridge, and a host of others, assembled to witness the presentation of the Crimean Medals to a number of Officers, Non-commissioned officers and Men that had faced the foe on many hard-fought fields. Her Majesty betrayed much emotion, her whole frame indicating the deep throbbing of her heart. When each maimed warrior was brought into the presence of Her Majesty, the whole mighty assembly gave utterance to their feelings, but not in cheers; it was as if an audible throb broke from the heart of Queen and people at once; the people felt that they had a Sovereign worth battling and bleeding for. Three officers were wheeled up in chairs, Sir Thomas Troubridge, of the 7th Royal Fusiliers, was the first; he had lost both his feet at Inkermann; that kind motherly heart could not stand that, it was too much for her, and she burst into tears. The other two were both of the Light Division, Captain Soyer of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, and Captain Cuming of the 19th Foot. During this scene Her Majesty must have been amused by Jack’s dumbfounded expression and bearing—he appeared to be out of his latitude, but there was no mistaking his proud look after receiving the distinction. A number of officers and men had to move slowly along by the aid of a stick, or the assistance of a comrade; others could only approach Her Majesty on crutches. Queen and people were deeply affected.
And now, before closing this narrative, as far as the Crimean campaign is concerned, I wish just to relate a few amusing incidents that came under my own observation, and in which I was an actor.
ANECDOTES.
Paddy isn’t half such a fool as he is often taken to be. During the Crimean campaign, a genuine son of the Emerald Isle was brought before his Commanding officer for stealing his comrade’s ration of liquor. Being (as most of his countrymen are) witty, he was not at a loss for a defence when brought before the green baize covered table, and the charge was read out to him. His Commanding officer asked him what he had to say for himself. “Well, sur, I’d be sorry indade, sur, to be called a thief. The Quartermaster sergeant put the liquor into the same bottle that mine was in, and shure enough I was obliged to drink his, to get at my own. Och! shure sur, I’d scorn the action; a thief I never was.” This ingenious defence got him over it, with a fool’s pardon.
Another, a man of my company, was continually getting himself into trouble. He had proved himself, from the commencement of the campaign, a valiant soldier. About a month before Sebastopol fell, I gave him some money with which to go and purchase some soap; at the same time Pat asked for the loan of a couple of shillings. He did not turn up any more that day. Next morning he was a prisoner in the guard tent. We all knew that he was on his last legs; but as he was a general favourite with the company, the men pitied him. Some were of opinion that his wit would not forsake him when brought before the Commanding officer, and he told the man who brought his breakfast to him that morning that he would get over it with flying colours. In due course he was brought before the tribunal and the charge read out—“Absent from camp, from 10 a.m. on the 15th August, until 5 a.m. 16th August.” “Well, Welsh, you have heard the charge. What have you got to say for yourself?” The old rogue pulled a long face, and then commenced: “Shure, yer honour, the whole regiment, you know, was very fond of our poor old Colonel Yea, that was kilt on the 18th of June, and shure, yer honour, I wouldn’t tell ye a word of a lie, but I wint and sat on the poor old jintleman’s grave, and I sobbed and sobbed, till I thought my heart would break, for sur, he was a sodjur every inch of him; and shure, I fell asleep and slept till morning, and then got up and walked to the guard tent.” “Now Welsh, are you telling the truth? for you know I promised you a Court Martial, if ever you came before me again for absence.” With both hands uplifted, he exclaimed—“Och! shure yer honour, never a word of a lie in it.” Some of the young officers came to the rescue, and stated that they had frequently seen men standing and sitting around the Colonel’s grave; and thus he got over it without punishment.
Private Patrick Lee was a “Manchester Irishman,” that is to say, his parents were both from the “land of praties and butter-milk,” but he himself was born at Manchester. He was a powerful athletic fellow, and knew well how to use his hands, feet, or stick. Some six months after Sebastopol had fallen, I was Sergeant in charge of the Quarter Guard. Pat had, contrary to orders, gone into the French camp to look up some cognac, for he was fond of “his drops.” It appears that he had paid for two bottles of liquor, but could neither get the liquor nor his money returned. But Paddy was not such a fool as to put up with that without knowing the reason why, so he quickly took the change out of the Frenchman by knocking him head-over-heels, and with the unearthly row the delinquent Frenchman made, he soon brought others to the rescue. In less time than it takes me to write it, Pat had some half-dozen Frenchmen sprawling on the ground like a lot of “nine-pins.” They had each received one straight from the shoulder. Pat then armed himself with a good cudgel which he had picked up, as by this time he was surrounded by enough “frog-eaters” to eat him. They appeared determined either to kill him or take him prisoner, but he fought his way through them all, and like a deer bounded into our camp and gave himself up a prisoner to me. He was covered with blood, and appeared much exhausted. Next morning he was brought before the Commanding officer on the charge of trying to obtain liquor in the French camp. Some fifteen or sixteen Frenchmen, with their arms in slings, and their heads bandaged, appeared to testify to Paddy’s rough usage; and a French officer stated that some of his men had been so fearfully kicked and knocked about, that they were unable to appear against him. The man was sentenced to be severely punished, and the Frenchmen left our camp apparently satisfied. But when Pat came out of the tent from the presence of his Commanding officer, he gave the Frenchmen such a horrible look that one needn’t ask how men appear when they are frightened. After the Frenchmen had cleared our camp, the prisoner was recalled and asked why he had disgraced himself and his Regiment in such a manner, when he told the whole story in true Irish brogue—“that the blackguards robbed him, and then set to to bate him, but he floored them all as fast as they came up to him. They wanted to take him prisoner. He found it was getting rather hot, so he gave them all leg bail, and ne’er a one, nor the whole French army, could catch him.” The Colonel then told the prisoner that, had he allowed himself to be taken prisoner by the French, he would have tried him by Court Martial, but as it was he mitigated his punishment.