It was now three o’clock. Judging only by the results as a whole the allies had to count more disappointments than successes. The English had been beaten back at the Great Redan. The central bastion withstood all attacks. And finally, in the Karabel faubourg the Little Redan, already carried, had just slipped from our grasp. But, notwithstanding, there was more joy than depression amongst those surrounding the commander-in-chief. All eyes were turned obstinately towards the Malakov. Were the Malakov safely held, not only would the other checks be made good but the advantage of the day would rest with the allied army; for the occupation of this dominant position would render all further resistance impossible. Now, according to all accounts MacMahon was keeping safe hold of his prize and strengthening himself there.
He had maintained his position, God only knows at what cost of valour. We have related how the terre-plein fell into the hands of the allies, and how this brilliant success had determined the great attack. But inside the work, fortified and improved with so much care during the long days of siege, the Russians had thrown up a multitude of traverses beneath which were their bomb-proof shelters, which formed all over the fort so many trenches easy of defence. The salient-angle once occupied, it would be necessary to carry one by one these traverses behind which were drawn up what remained of the Modlin regiment and the Praga and Zamosc battalions. Happily General MacMahon had recalled the 2nd, Vinoy’s, division. Thanks to these reinforcements he had been enabled to force back the enemy, dislodge them from their positions and drive them towards the gorge of the redoubt.
There an engagement had taken place more terrible than any throughout the day. Driven to bay at the extremity of the work, the Russians had, by a series of heroic rushes, attempted to retake the fort, the veritable palladium of their city. Whilst MacMahon hastily ordered up Wimpfen’s brigade, and the zouaves of the guard, in short all the reserves, the Muscovite officers sacrificed themselves one after the other in their efforts to avert a total defeat. First it was General Lisenko with a few remnants of the Warsaw, Briansk and Ieletz regiments; then General Krulov with four battalions of the Ladoga regiment, lastly General Iuverov with the same men newly led on to battle. Lisenko was mortally wounded, Krulov dangerously so, Iuverov killed. In the end the Malakov gorge was ours. The engineers began at once to put it in a state of defence: the capitulation of the little garrison of the tower, isolated in the midst of the fort, completed the victory. A supreme effort made a little later by General de Martinau with the Azov and Odessa regiments only served to demonstrate the powerlessness of our enemies to wrest the magnificent prize from us.
And magnificent it certainly was. The corpses heaped around the fortress showed plainly enough the Russians’ obstinate intention to defend or recapture it. Notwithstanding the fact that our triumph was complete the fusilade had not ceased. There were still certain volunteers risking their lives around the Mamelon, meditating some desperate stroke. “Give us cartridges,” they cried: “Let someone lead us again to battle.” But nearly all their officers were either dead or in the ambulances, and the remainder scarcely troubled to answer them. Not that they were indifferent to so crushing a defeat, but after such desperate fighting an immense weariness had overtaken them, and, having done all they could to avert their fate they now submitted to it impassively.
Towards four o’clock Prince Gortchakov arrived on these scenes of confusion and woe. On receiving the first intelligence of the assault he had crossed the roads and had been able to follow all the varying chances of the fight. For a long time he surveyed the Karabelnaia, as if to gauge the defensive strength of the faubourg; for a yet longer time he contemplated the Malakov, so lately the pride of the Russians and now lost to them. Neither the still hot firing which killed one of his officers at his side, nor the time which pressed availed to cut short this searching examination.
At last, judging that the town was no longer tenable he decided on consummating the sacrifice. The moment seemed to him a favourable one, for two reasons: the success gained at the Great and Little Redans and at the safeguarded central bastion, had established the honour of the Muscovite arms; whereas the extreme weariness of the allies guaranteed that the remainder of the day and the ensuing night would be allowed by them to pass without further offensive action. The Russian commander-in-chief therefore resolved to evacuate Sebastopol and to make all his troops cross over to the northern bank. The idea once conceived he hurried to the Nicholas battery to secure the immediate execution of his orders.
At his post of observation on the Green Mamelon, Pélissier had learnt of MacMahon’s signal success, and this great advantage, somewhat counterbalanced it is true by the checks received in other engagements, filled all hearts with hope. Nevertheless, by reason of this multitude of engagements, victory appeared to be, though probable, still uncertain. Would MacMahon be able to maintain his position at the Malakov? Might not some exploding mine change the triumph into a catastrophe? Would not the defeated Russians defend themselves from behind their second enceinte, in their streets, in their houses even? And would not the battle of September 8 have a yet more bloody morrow? No answer was forthcoming to these questions, and faces that had begun to brighten grew troubled.
Things were at this stage when, towards the end of the day, General Martimprey turning his glasses towards the town thought he detected an unaccustomed movement on the great bridge spanning the roads. Glasses were passed from hand to hand and, despite the first shades of evening, long processions of soldiers, waggons, carriages, guns, could be distinctly seen wending their way towards the northern bank. The bridge gave under the weight, and shaken by a high wind swayed beneath the swell which from time to time submerged and almost swamped it. In spite of this hindrance the march continued, whilst ferry-boats filled with people crossed to the northern bank, and then returned empty to fetch other passengers. The rapidly falling darkness prevented further observation, but the spectators felt no doubt that they were watching the retreat of the Russians.
Prince A. M. Gortchakov