The British have been more careful and more thoughtful in preserving the remembrances of their share in the campaign than either of the other nations, and the cemetery and other spots identified with their men are preserved in perfect order under the direction of Douglas Young, the British consul, who also looks after American interests at Sevastopol.
A trolley line encircles the city of Sevastopol, and extends into the suburbs, with open cars which are more comfortable than carriages, because of the rough stone pavements in the streets. There is a military and naval club, many attractive shops, and several churches, including a replica of the Temple of Thesus at Athens.
There are several good hotels, the chief one being close to the passenger landing. It is neat and well kept, and has an excellent cook, but the charges are as high as those of the Waldorf-Astoria in New York, or the Savoy in London, with petty extortions that exasperate travellers, particularly Americans, to the limit of patience. No one objects to a straight bill at so much per day, even if the total is excessive, but when you are charged for candles and soap that you don’t use, for the use of towels and the bed linen, for the ordinary stationery that is always supplied free elsewhere, and for the use of the newspapers in the public reading-room, a righteous indignation is excited.
These impositions, which are common all over Russia, are merely a gamble. If a guest objects to them they are stricken off the bill; but if he pays them without protest rather than make a row, as most Americans do, the landlord is so much ahead. And what makes it more aggravating than all is to realize that you are being purposely imposed upon simply to test your forbearance.
The battlefield of Balaklava is carpeted with flowers, and the poppies are so thick upon the meadow where the charge of the Light Brigade was made that it looks like a field of blood. There are patches of purple flowers whose name I do not know, and the road which winds around the battlefield has a hedge of sweetbriar roses, which are covered with pink blossoms. You cannot imagine a more peaceful landscape than the gentle slope of that beautiful valley, lying between two low ridges, which on the morning of Oct. 25, 1855, was covered with 40,000 spectators—Englishmen, Frenchmen, Russians, Sardinians, and Turks, involuntary and astonished witnesses of one of the most reckless exhibitions of human courage ever seen, and one of the most useless sacrifices of human life. No arena could have been arranged for a better view of the spectacle. And to-day the landscape is precisely as it was then, except that the valley is now dotted with several farmhouses surrounded by groves of locust and shrubbery and a Chicago windmill stands in the centre.
The spot where the dragoons started, where Earl Cardigan, the impetuous young Irishman, who commanded the Light Brigade, gave his one and only word of command during the charge, is marked by a marble shaft and the pedestal is inscribed:
“Erected by the British army to the memory of their comrades who fell at Balaklava.”
That word of command was: “Left wheel into line! Forward, march!” Not a word was spoken after that.
Where stood the battery which was the object of assault is now a cherry orchard.
Water is very scarce upon the battlefield of Balaklava; all the farmers have is pumped up by the Chicago windmill, and hauled in casks to the neighbouring houses. Every drop used to water the English cemetery is hauled half a mile.