But the roll of brave men in the Royal Welsh is not exhausted by the mention of a single name. We are about to narrate the incident which forms the subject of the accompanying engraving, copied with no mean fidelity from that admirable collection of Mr. Desanges lately, in the Crystal Palace, known as the Victoria Cross Gallery. The incident here depicted occurred at the storming of the Redan on the 8th of September, 1855. Two hundred men of the Royal Welsh took part in that attack, and their loss in killed and wounded was very great. After the men of the 23rd had retired, it was found that Lieutenant and Adjutant Dyneley, an excellent young officer and a general favourite, was missing. It was reported that he had been struck down in the heat of the engagement, and some of the men described the spot where they had seen him fall. They would gladly have assisted him if they could have done so, but soldiers, while engaged, are expressly forbidden to leave their ranks for the purpose of carrying the wounded off the field.
The Highlanders, when first raised, were constantly in the habit of doing this; they could not stand by and see the sons of their chiefs dying on the field of battle without attempting to assist them. No man knew their character or habits better than the late Lord Clyde, and it was in allusion to this practice that he spoke these simple words while his men were still in column at the Alma with the enemy in front:—“Now, men, you are going into action. Remember this: whoever is wounded—I don’t care what his rank is—whoever is wounded must lie where he falls till the bandsmen come to attend to him. No soldiers must go carrying off wounded men. If any soldier does such a thing, his name shall be stuck up in his parish church.”[2] The perfection of discipline is to make every unit in a regiment or an army act in unison with the whole like a piece of machinery, and it is evident that if every soldier were to follow out his own will the result would be inextricable confusion. It is hard for a man to see officer or comrade struck down by his side on the field of battle without being allowed to assist him; but on such an occasion he has no choice—the pleadings of humanity must yield to the voice of duty; he may turn aside his head in sorrow, but he must still advance. It was so with the Royal Welsh as they advanced against the Redan; they saw their gallant young adjutant fall, but there was the dark parapet in front, and their first duty was to gain that. And when our men were hurled from the ramparts into the ditch, where they were slaughtered without being able to offer any resistance, it was only natural that all their thoughts should be concentrated on themselves, and that the fate of young Dyneley should be forgotten. But it was different when the attack was over: there was a general feeling of regret for one whom all had loved. While they were lamenting his fate, it occurred to some of the officers that he might not yet be dead, and, while they were deliberating what should be done, Corporal Robert Shields volunteered to go out to the front from the fifth parallel and bring the body in. It was a daring act of courage, all the more deserving of admiration that it was dictated solely by a feeling of humanity without any expectation of reward. The difference of rank does not always prevent friendships from springing up between officers and men, and young Dyneley had found the way to the hearts of all who knew him. Corporal Shields was not blind to the danger he incurred; he knew that he carried his life, as it were, in his hand, but he was prepared to risk everything to save his officer. In the Homeric age it would have been said that some invisible goddess watched over him and turned aside every hostile blow. He groped his way over the field, covered with the slain, till he reached the spot where poor Dyneley lay. Our engraving represents the discovery of the body. The poor lieutenant is lying on his back, still alive, but with the tide of life ebbing fast away; the corporal, with sorrow and sympathy depicted in every feature of his manly, bearded face, is bending over him, with one hand outstretched and the other grasping his rifle. He would willingly have raised the boyish figure in his arms and borne him back to his comrades, but it was too late; all that he could do was to hurry back in search of medical assistance. He passed through a heavy fire of musketry unhurt, and reached the trenches, where he found Dr. Sylvester, the assistant-surgeon of the regiment, who at once consented to return to the spot where Dyneley lay. He was still alive, but human skill could avail him nothing; all that the tenderest friendship could do was done by Sylvester, who dressed his wounds and supported him with stimulants. Shields returned to the trenches and persuaded some of his comrades to accompany him and to assist in carrying off the body of the dying adjutant. The Emperor of the French, on hearing of this heroic action, conferred on Corporal Shields the Cross of the Legion of Honour, and our Queen bestowed on him the Cross which bears her own name. No one will grudge it to him or to Dr. Sylvester. Mere bravery may often border on bloodthirstiness; but valour combined with humanity is the most godlike of all virtues. Such a man as Corporal Shields is an honour to the British army, and he deserves to receive honourable mention amongst the most fearless of England’s soldiery.
An officer who is just, kind, and considerate will never find his men ungrateful. Instances are on record where soldiers have laid down their own lives to save those of officers they loved, and have thus sealed their affection with their blood. On one occasion, when Lord Cornwallis was giving orders to charge the French in Canada, a Highland soldier rushed forward and placed himself in front of his officer, who asked him what he meant. “You know,” said the Highlander, “that when I enlisted to be a soldier, I promised to be faithful to the king and to you. The French are coming, and while I stand here neither bullet nor bayonet shall touch you, except through my body.” It was with difficulty that he could be persuaded to resume his place in the ranks. An equally striking proof of faithful attachment was exhibited at the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom by the servant of an officer of the name of Fraser. The latter had directed his servant to remain in the garrison while he conducted his men to attack a battery belonging to the enemy. The night was pitch dark, and the party had such difficulty in proceeding that they were obliged to halt for a time. As they moved forward, Captain Fraser felt his path impeded, and putting down his hand, seized hold of a plaid, the wearer of which was grovelling at his feet. Imagining that it was one of his own men trying to escape, he drew his dirk and tightened his grasp, when he heard the voice of his servant imploring for mercy. “Why, what brought you here?” “It was just my love for you,” said poor Donald. “But why encumber yourself with a plaid?” “Alas! how could I ever show my face to my mother,” she was Fraser’s foster-mother, “had you been killed or wounded, and I not there to carry you to the surgeon or to Christian burial? And how could I do either without a plaid to wrap you in?”
Our soldiers have not degenerated, and there are still in the ranks of the British army men who want only an opportunity to show the same courage which has already entitled their comrades to wear Victoria’s Cross.
CHAPTER V.
OUR HIGHLAND REGIMENTS.
About a century ago the Highlanders were regarded as little better than a race of savages. Their dress, their language, and their manners were the subject of ridicule among their Southern neighbours, and their well-known attachment to the house of Stuart excited the suspicion and the distrust of the government of the day. “When the English thought of the Highlander at all,” says Macaulay—“and it was seldom that they did so—they considered him as a filthy, abject savage, a slave, a papist, a cut-throat, and a thief.” The great historian then proceeds to show that this estimate bordered very closely on the truth, and that the Highlanders were little better than they were represented to be. He seems to feel a cruel pleasure in exposing the weaknesses of those whose blood flowed in his own veins, and he, doubtless, meant to display in his picture of Highland manners a proof of his own impartiality. He gives implicit credence to all that he finds in “Burt’s Letters,” without reflecting that the author, from his very position, must have felt and written like a partisan. Burt was an officer of Engineers employed under General Wade in constructing those roads which opened up the Highlands to the advance of the English forces. He remained in the North from 1726 to 1737, and amused his friends in the South with those letters, in which he professed to describe the manners of the alien race among whom he was placed. There is no reason to believe that he was wilfully untruthful, but the work in which he was engaged rendered him hateful to the Highlanders, and he hated them cordially in return. He was probably unconscious of this feeling himself, but it is perceptible in almost every line he wrote. Johnson carried with him to the Highlands all the prejudices of his countrymen, and a good many others peculiar to himself; but his rugged nature was softened by the hospitality he everywhere met with, and he occasionally gives forth a grunt of approval. The reaction produced by the publication of his “Tour to the Hebrides” was increased by the appearance of the poems and novels of Scott, which created a sort of furore in favour of everything Highland, and rendered the land of the mountain and the flood almost classical. Royalty itself condescended to listen to the songs which it would once have been treason to sing aloud; the garb of old Gaul was assumed by many who had no right to wear it; the tartan became a favourite article of dress with both sexes; every nook and corner of the North was explored; the land of Ossian became the land of romance, and its inhabitants were invested with every possible virtue.