Though soldiers recover from their wounds at the moment, they are often very dangerous afterwards. The brain is often injured, and the disease goes on till the man loses his reason, or drops down dead. A poor fellow was hit on the crown of the head by a piece of shell in one of the trenches before Sebastopol. He was stunned at the moment, but thought so little of it that he did not even report himself wounded. For eight years he felt no pain, but one day, while on guard, he was seized with a sudden giddiness, and became insensible. He was conveyed to hospital in a cab, and on recovering his consciousness he found that he was suffering the most intense pain on the crown of his head. His sufferings were very great; the only relief he could obtain was through the application of chloroform.
We write all this knowing that English boys feel deep sympathy with, and profound admiration for, our soldiers, and to show that their powers of endurance, when disabled, equal in heroic worth their gallantry upon the field.
Not all our readers, perhaps, have seen the Victoria Cross. It is not very beautiful nor very valuable in itself. A fac-simile of it appears at the commencement of this chapter. It is a simple piece of bronze, shaped like a cross, and its intrinsic value may be about threepence. Its intrinsic value! but who can tell the price a soldier puts upon it? He had rather have that piece of bronze on his breast than be made a Knight of the Garter, and have his banner hung up with those of the other K.G.’s in the Chapel of St. George at Windsor. To obtain that small piece of bronze of the value of threepence he will lead the forlorn hope, be the first to storm the breach, and ever ready to expose his life to any danger. The Victoria Cross is as much to a soldier as the gage d’amour the knight-errant in the days of chivalry received from his lady-love, and swore never to part with. The pledge of her affection might be a soiled and tattered glove, worth even less than the cross “For Valour,” but it was dearer to her lover than life itself. O that the day may never come in this country when we shall judge of things by the Hudibrastic principle—
“The price of anything
Is just as much as it will bring!”
for badly then will it fare with Old England. When our soldiers come to value their crosses at threepence each, the price they will fetch at a marine store, we shall not long survive as a nation. But there is little danger of such an eventuality. There are things—God be thanked—which we do love and value more than life itself—things which gold can not purchase. The Victoria Cross is one of them; and we are about to relate how three gallant officers of one of our most distinguished regiments came to be decorated with the priceless meed “For Valour.” One was a commissioned officer; the other two were sergeants. Though different in rank, they were equal in bravery; their bravery was equally rewarded. Most people—thanks to Mr. Kinglake’s history, and other sources of information—are now tolerably familiar with all the details of the Battle of the Alma. They know how the gallant Welsh Fusiliers, after forcing their way to the heights, and seizing the colours on the Russian battery, were so cut up by the enemy that they were forced to retire. They fell back in obedience to orders. It so happened, however, that as the word, “Fusiliers, retire!” was given, the Scots Fusilier Guards were charging up the heights, and the officer in command of them, hearing the order, thought that it was intended for his own men, and commanded them to fall back. This fact is not mentioned by Mr. Kinglake, but there are many witnesses still alive who heard this second order given, and acted upon it. Now, it is very difficult to retire before an enemy without falling into confusion; and it so happened that the Welsh Fusiliers came rushing down like a torrent. One gallant regiment opened their ranks, allowed them to pass through, and then closed again; but the Scots Fusiliers were not so fortunate. They did not open their ranks, because they received no order to do so, and were already falling back, when the crowd of Welsh Fusiliers came rushing upon them, broke through their ranks, and threw them into disorder; and, in the midst of this, the Russians made a dash at the colours of the regiment.
Captain Lloyd Lindsay, Scots Fusilier Guards, saving the regimental colours at the Alma.
Now, it is not needful to dwell on the fact that it would be as disgraceful for an English regiment to lose its colours as it would have been for an old Roman centurion to have lost his shield. The colours are usually intrusted to one or two subalterns and several sergeants, who form a sort of guard of honour over them, and are held responsible for their safety. When they are in danger the bravest men in the regiment rally round them, and it is held unworthy not to follow them wherever they are seen. They are the same to our soldiers as the white plume of Henry of Navarre was to his men, or the bronze eagles to Rome’s Tenth Legion. Knowing this, officers have sometimes thrown the colours into the very midst of the enemy, sure that their men would die rather than lose them. No sooner, therefore, was it known that the colours were in danger than the bravest men of the regiment tried to reach them, but only a few succeeded. They did not come too soon; the men intrusted with the colours fought like lions, but one officer was struck down, and only two sergeants survived the fearful contest. But the colours were safe, and the men might proudly say, with Francis I. after disastrous Pavia, “Tout est perdu, hors l’honneur.” The regiment wiped out the memory of the misfortune at the Alma (it was no disgrace to obey orders) on the bloody field of Inkermann, and a grateful country did not forget the men who loved their colours better than their lives. The officer who was struck down died of his wounds on the voyage home; Death was envious of the honours that awaited him. The other officer still survives, and wears on his breast the cross his sovereign bestowed upon him. He is, or will be, one of the wealthiest men in England, but we are sure that he values that small piece of bronze of the value of threepence more than all the money he has at his banker’s.