“Money is round, and rolls away,”
but the memory of a brave action has never perished.
But gallant deeds are the same whether they be done by officers or by men; and the two sergeants demand notice who were also, for the part they took in this affair, decorated with the Victoria Cross. We should not dwell upon their history if it were not that it points a moral, though it does not adorn our tale. Both of these sergeants were fine, handsome fellows; one of them is six feet two inches in height. When they returned to London, and walked forth in the streets, decorated with the memorials of their bravery, their appearance naturally attracted much attention. Foolish people stopped them in the street, and invited them to drink. Now, no man of sense or good-breeding will drink in this way with soldiers, and no man of good feeling will tempt soldiers to drink. Those who thus invited our sergeants, we believe, meant no harm, but only wished to give the sergeants a cheerful glass, and to make them light their battles o’er again. But soldiers who know how to resist the enemy in war are not always proof against temptation in times of peace. These two Victoria Cross men fell into irregular habits, such as could not be tolerated in the case of non-commissioned officers; every effort was made to save them, but in vain; their irregularities became so glaring that they were reduced to, and have ever since remained in, the ranks. They are steady enough now, but it is felt that they cannot be trusted, and they are not likely ever to regain their former rank. It seems very hard that brave men should lose their position through the mistaken kindness and thoughtlessness of their admirers, and we hope that those who feel sympathy with soldiers will find some better way of expressing it than by giving them drink. These two men, though serving in the ranks, have still much influence over their comrades, and that influence, we are glad to say, is generally exercised for good. The possession of the Victoria Cross carries with it a pension of 10l., which cannot be forfeited through misconduct; the pension for distinguished conduct in the field is 15l. per annum.
Many small pledges of affection were found on the persons of our soldiers who fell on the battle-fields of the Crimea. Sometimes a lock of hair, or a photograph, or a last letter from home, or a small Bible or Testament, was found concealed beneath the tunic of a dead soldier. Many of them carried their Bibles with them to the field as a sort of talisman to protect them from danger; and there is a well-authenticated case of one soldier having had his life saved from the bullet, which would otherwise have reached his heart, having lodged in his Bible. We should think that book would become a precious relic in his family, ever to be prized, never to be parted with, for it was literally the Word of Life to him. Another was found with his right hand so firmly clenched that it was difficult to open it. He had allowed the blood from his wound to flow upon his hand, so that, on closing it, his fingers became, as it were, cemented together. Inside the hand were found several sovereigns he had saved from his pay with the intention of remitting them to his wife at home. His last thought was, probably, of her, and her heart must have been touched when she received the money he had saved for her with his heart’s blood. Another man, who died of his wounds in hospital, had recourse to a singular expedient to save his watch, which he wished to be sent to his father in some remote country village. It was known that he was possessed of a watch, and there was no small uneasiness among the hospital orderlies when it could not be found after his death. Search was made for it in vain, and suspicion naturally fell upon the orderly who had been with him when he died. As this man, however, had always borne a good character, and there was no direct evidence against him, he was allowed to retain his situation, which must have been anything but a comfortable one. About ten days after the death of the soldier the mystery was cleared up. The effects of a dead soldier are usually sold by auction, and the proceeds, after paying all demands, remitted to his relations at home. It so happened that this man was possessed of a pair of good boots (a rare piece of good fortune in the Crimea), and these were purchased by a comrade for a few shillings. The purchaser, in trying on the right boot, found some obstacle in the toe which he imagined to be a pebble; on shaking it out he discovered the missing watch. The dying man, in the delirium of his last struggle, had contrived to secrete it in the place where it was found. It would be difficult to assign any reasonable motive for such an act; it was probably done in a moment of unconsciousness.
Commodore Wilmot has told us a good deal in his book about the King of Dahomey’s Amazons. These female warriors form his body-guard, and are three times as numerous as the men, whom they surpass in strength and bravery. They are very skilful in the use of firearms, and carry gigantic razors for shaving off heads—a very unladylike amusement, as all will allow. Now, in this country we have no regularly organized army of Amazons, though there is no saying what we may soon have in these days, when there are so many suggestions for the employment of female labour. It may be a prejudice on our part, but we confess we should not like to see nice young ladies firing off blunderbusses, or shaving off people’s heads. Still, women have been found serving in the ranks, both in France and in England, without their sex being discovered, and a good many soldiers’ wives accompanied our forces to the East. It is painful, but truthful, to add that most of these adventurous females had to be sent home, for reasons which we had rather not specify; four only were allowed to remain. These well-conducted Amazons weathered all the dangers of the campaign, watched over their husbands in the field and the hospital, did all the marketing, without knowing a word of “the foreign lingo” spoken by the natives, passed through many perils, and returned to relate their “accidents by flood and field” to their admiring friends.
Soldiers, as we have said, are very patient while enduring physical pain. A hospital presents a fearful scene on the day after a battle. It is surprising that no artist has selected such a subject to illustrate the horrors of war. Our army surgeons are brave men, or they would lose their presence of mind amid such scenes, for it requires less courage to kill than to heal. Every form of physical suffering is to be seen there; but a groan is rarely to be heard. It is only during the amputation of a limb, or the probing of a wound, that a sharp cry of pain is sometimes wrung from the sufferer, who generally turns aside his head, as if ashamed of such unsoldierly weakness. Wounded and dying soldiers like to be visited by their chaplains; they often say, “We have led a bad life; can there be any hope for us now?” They may have been bad men, but they are always truthful: they never try to make themselves out to be better than they really are. Their last thought is generally of home. Often in India and the Crimea a dying soldier has said to his chaplain, “You will write and tell them all about it. I hope I have done my duty, and nothing to disgrace my name.” If our chaplains did nothing but soothe the last hours of our soldiers, their mission would not be altogether in vain; and no class of men are more grateful for kindness, as our nurses in the East will testify. And here we detract not from the excellent intentions of those ladies in saying that, from want of previous training, they were, as a class, disqualified for the work they undertook; yet we have always heard them spoken of by the men with the deepest respect. We have baptized many a Florence Nightingale, and the feeling cherished towards this lady in the army is almost analogous to the Mariolatry of the Italian peasantry: it borders on idolatry. “Shure she is not a woman, but an angel of mercy,” said a poor Irishman whom she had nursed. “I could kiss the very earth she threads.” There are many others equally grateful, though less demonstrative and poetical in the expression of their gratitude. Florence Nightingale and the Queen are the two patron saints of the British Army. Our soldiers have not yet forgotten how her Majesty visited them in hospital on their return from the Crimea, and showed her sorrow and her sympathy as a woman best can show it—by her tears. And, after all, be we queen or soldier’s wife, drummer-boy or commander-in-chief, we are all members of the same family, with the same great heart beating within our breasts. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. Our Queen wept for her wounded soldiers, and there was many a soldier wept for our Queen when the great sorrow overtook her. Such tears are not lost; they bind us all together, and give us a deeper insight into that great law of love taught by Him who did not esteem it a weakness to weep at the grave of a friend.
