Chapter III · THE ALMA.

We have small space for much detail of the Crimean War, and so shall confine ourselves chiefly to the personal adventures of our dramatis personæ there. But it seems strange to think how after the lapse of a very few years the terrors, the tears, the sufferings, and the glory incident to that campaign, are already half forgotten, and the whole seems but as a tale that is told! Yet great were the endurance, steady the discipline, and noble the heroism of those who followed Raglan, our one-armed veteran, to the field; and there were men of all ages in his army, from those white-haired warriors who like himself had seen the night of horrors at Badajoz, and the corpse-strewn plains of Vittoria and Waterloo, down to the fair-cheeked boy-ensigns fresh from school; for when the death-lists of the Crimea appeared, many a name therein was recalled with pride and sorrow in the class-rooms and playgrounds of Eton, Harrow, and Rugby.

Yes, it is indeed all as a tale that is told—the night of our landing at Eupatoria, when without tents or baggage sixty thousand men remained on the bare ground, under torrents of rain, thus adding fearfully to the scourge of cholera next day; the march towards the enemy under a blazing sun; the maddening thirst, that thousands broke their ranks and rushed to quench in the Bulganac; the skirmish there with our advanced guard; the heights of the Alma bristling with cannon and bayonets; the death ride of "the Six Hundred" at Balaclava, when cannon blazed in front, on flank, and in rear of them; that dull November morning, when amid the grey mists the rumble of the Russian artillery was heard while Mentschicoff poured his hordes into the valley of Inkerman, and the butchery of our wounded there and in the quarries. Then came the half-frozen trenches and rifle pits, while the iron voice on the grassy slopes of the Mamelon, the lines of the Redan, and the mighty batteries of Sebastopol was never still; and though last, not least, the ghastly horrors of the great hospital at Scutari!

On the morning of the 20th September, the allied army was face to face with the Russians, led by Prince Alexander Mentschicoff, and then intrenched on the heights above the Alma, a stream which rises among the western slopes of Crim-Tartary, and falls into the sea twelve miles from Sebastopol.

Cyril Wedderburn had been on active service before in India, but this was to be Horace's first battle; and such was also the case with most of the young subalterns in the army.

High on the southern bank of the Alma rises a ridge of picturesque rocks, which terminate in a cliff which overhangs the Euxine; in the ravines of these rocks grew groves of turpentine and other trees, many of which had been felled to form abattis to encumber the advance of our troops. The Russian lines were formed along that ridge, two miles in length, and by the aid of field-glasses their flat caps, their spiked helmets, glittering bayonets, and grey-coated masses, could be seen as the allied columns came on. Every available point was mounted with cannon, trenches were dug, redoubts and breastworks thrown up, and on the Kourgane Hill, six hundred feet above the Alma, to protect his right, Mentschicoff had constructed an enormous triangular battery, mounted with heavy cannon and 24-pounder howitzers. There too was the great Kazan column with the holy image of St. Sergius, and also, oddly enough, a train of carriages full of ladies from Sebastopol and Bagtche Serai, "the Seraglio of Gardens," waiting to see the defeat of the "Island curs," as they termed the British, whom, strangely enough, they believed to be chiefly seamen.

The morning of the Alma was a lovely one. From the Black Sea, where our steamers—their smoke ascending high into the clear air—were creeping in shore to shell the Russian left, there came a soft breeze that played along the slopes, and whirled in wreaths the smoke from the blazing Tartar village of Burliuk. The leaves rustled pleasantly in the beautiful groves of olive and turpentine trees, and a peculiar fragrance that filled the air came from the leaves of a little aromatic herb (which grew there wild) when bruised by the feet of the marching column, or the wheels of the field artillery. Many places were covered with orange-coloured crocuses, growing thick as buttercups, in the fields at home.

"It was now that after forty years of peace the great nations of Europe were once more meeting for battle!"

The enemy was at last in front—those dark grey masses, so often spoken of, written of, and thought of—the hordes of half-savage Russia, and as the Fusileers (under Sir Edward Elton, who was mounted on his black barb Vidette, and looked every inch an English soldier) with the rest of their division halted, the altered demeanour of the officers and men became apparent to themselves. All foolish banter and idle conversation had ceased. There was indeed a cessation of sound—a kind of hush—over all the army, save when the neigh of a horse, or the clatter of a field-gun, woke the echoes of the rocks in front.

No man, unless a fool, goes into action, especially for the first time, in the same mood of mind with which he enters a ball-room, or joins a dinner party. Decent gravity pervaded the entire ranks, and many a heart was doubtless filled with prayer and thoughts of home and loved ones far away. Now and then a brotherly emotion of anxiety for Cyril occurred to Horace Ramornie, and to Cyril for him. Which might survive the day to speak of the other? If both fell, would they be buried together?

"Bother such thoughts!" muttered Horace, as he ventured to light a cigar in rear of his company.

They and others waxed a little more kind in their bearing to those about them; and one or two who had small coolnesses, shook hands or bowed and smiled in passing. Some, like Joyce the married captain, leant thoughtfully on their swords; and he, poor fellow, was thinking, no doubt, of the two little faces he had last seen, side by side and asleep in the dingy room at Chatham Barracks on the morning of the march.

Sir Edward sat motionless on his horse, till an aide-de-camp, passing at a quick trot—he was Nolan—the gallant and heroic Nolan—said—

"The General wishes the men to get loose their cartridges. This, Sir Edward, will be a field day for most of us to remember."

Elton repeated the order; and under their bearskin caps a grim kind of smile lit up the faces of the Fusileers, as they opened their pouches and loosened the ammunition from its packing paper.

In losing Mary Lennox, life had—for a time at least—lost much of its charm for Cyril Wedderburn; and somehow on this morning he felt as if danger and death had been for him divested of half their terrors; and he had the longing desire to do that which rarely falls to the lot of those of subaltern rank, something great and brilliant; something that would make his family and friends—aye, even the lost Mary—proud of him; yet with all this wild enthusiasm he seemed perfectly cool and unmoved.

But alas for poor Cyril! as we shall see in the sequel, he longed and hoped in vain for such distinction as he honestly coveted! And he looked wistfully at the armed and hostile heights with the thought that it would be hard to die there without leaving his mark upon the world—some footprint "on the sands of Time."

"Breathless and exhausting work this is, gentlemen," said Sir Edward Elton, taking off his bearskin to cool his forehead, for the heat was intense, and the troops had been some hours under it.

"It suggests vague desires of iced champagne," said Jack Probyn.

"Egad; it's mighty glad I'd be of a glass of pale ale, and a pipeful of birdseye or cavendish," added Beamish; "but here comes a Frenchman who has been on some final mission I hope to Lord Raglan."

"Colonel De la Fosse, by Jove!" exclaimed Horace, as that officer trotted past the British lines. "Good morning, Colonel—are we likely to come to blows soon?"

"Soon enough, it may be, for the Russians yonder, Monsieur," replied De la Fosse, pausing. "The moment I rejoin Bosquet the attack will commence. I have been pretty close to those Russian fellows already. They look resolute and determined; but what of that? We shall teach them that to win glory or die in the field, is all a soldier need care for."

"Well," said old Major Singleton, "I should prefer half-pay with a snug pension my self."

"Every man to his taste, mon camarade," replied the Frenchman gaily, as he laughed and galloped off to the right, of which the French had contrived to possess themselves, and an awkward post of honour they might have found it, close by the sheer cliffs which overhung the Euxine, had they been defeated, or had the British left been turned.

After two protracted halts, during one of which the French division of Bosquet, coolly cooked their coffee and made a comfortable breakfast; and after two consultations between Lord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnayd (who had taken the field in almost a dying condition), and after the troops had been irritated by seeing parties of Cossacks scouring the ground in front, while the flash of steel could be seen amid the olive groves and breastworks above the Alma, and at times a Russian standard brandished as if in defiance of the lines that were approaching, now wheeling, now deploying, extending and taking ground to the right or left—a roar of musketry far away on the right flank announced that the fiery French had begun the attack, and were pouring forward in impetuous masses under a terrible shower of missiles of every kind. These masses were chiefly the fierce and active little Zouaves, flushed with their victories in Africa, and they were seen to swarm up the heights at the point of the bayonet, in their blue jackets and baggy red breeches, till they formed in two lines, and with a truly French yell, rushed on to close with the enemy!

On went our columns to close with them too, opening fire at half-past one. By that time, the cannon shots fell thick and fast among our ranks. Bursting at times in mid air, the shrill whistling shells fell in iron showers among them; others ripped up the earth, scattering stones and splinters on every side. Now a bullet swept past unseen with a deep humming sound; the next might tear a man in two, or hurl him away, doubled up like a muslin scarf: another would bury itself deep in the ranks, making a lane of blood and death, of shrieks and agony.

"The slow ping, ping, ping of those Minie rifles—don't at all like it," said Probyn.

"Daresay not," replied little Meredyth Pomfret, whose face was flushed with boyish ardour and pride in carrying the Queen's colours. "But why particularly so?"

"It is such deliberate potting, always suggesting that every bullet takes a human life."

"Well, it is just what a soldier's work is," replied the boy, bravely. "By jingo; let us only get close to them!"

The burning village with its flaming stack-yards formed the centre of the British position.

To the right of it the 41st Welsh and 49th regiments forded the Alma under a heavy fire from Minie rifles of the Russians who there lay snugly perdue in rear of some vineyard walls, over which the purple grapes were hanging in ripe and heavy clusters; while on the left of Burliuk the whole Light Division under old Sir George Brown (who had first smelt powder at the capture of Copenhagen in 1807) dashed across the stream and proceeded to storm the heights, which were so steep in some places, that in several instances the enemy's bullets traversed the spinal column, as they were shot sheer down upon the assailants.

Cyril's regiment was in the same division with the 33rd, the Welsh Fusileers, the 19th, 77th, and 88th, all which pressed on with such fury that they speedily routed the Russian riflemen out of the vineyards, carrying the walls at the point of the bayonet, and pushing on beyond these, a few only pausing at times to snatch a handful of those grapes which proved so delicious to men furiously excited, and sorely athirst, after their long march in a hot and breathless morning.

Waving their caps and swords in front, their officers led them on, amid tumultuous cheers.

"Forward, the Fusileers!"

"Forward, Twenty-third!"

"On, on—Nineteenth and Seventy-seventh!"

"Forward, forward! aim under the crossbelts."

Such were the cries from officers and men on all hands, as the scarlet tide pressed upward; but they were mingled with many a shriek and groan, for the Russian shot fell thick as hail, and every moment the dead and wounded were dropping in the ranks. But now began that famous up-hill charge, by which the field was won; the dark Rifles meanwhile taking the hills in flank, as coolly as if at drill on Chatham Lines.

The supports were the Duke of Cambridge's Division of Guards and Highlanders.

Cyril could see before him but a cloud of smoke, amid which, at times half seen, half lost, were the figures of Sir George Brown, on a grey charger, and Sir Edward Elton, on his black one. A shower of lead, heavier than usual, tore through the ranks of the division. Colonel Chesters, of the Twenty-third, and eight of his officers, fell almost at the same moment, and their brave Welshmen were nearly decimated. Sir George Brown fell amid a cloud of dust, and, for a moment, it was supposed that he was killed.

The Royal Fusileers then wavered for a moment, but reformed, shoulder to shoulder, as Sir George sprang to his feet and again led on the whole. The first of Sir Edward's officers who fell was Captain Joyce; a bullet shattered his head and his body rolled down hill. The three next were Bingham, Jack Probyn, and young Pomfret. The first was literally cut in two by a round shot; the second was pierced in the heart by a ball, and bounded into the air ere he fell dead. The third had the standard-pole splintered in his hand by a ball, which penetrated his breast, and he was left behind to die in great agony. Ned Elton snatched the colours from his relaxed hand; but in a minute after he too fell, a leg being smashed by a Minie bullet. Relief after relief were shot under that fatal colour; but still the human tide went rolling upward and onward, cheering wildly as their growing enthusiasm became mingled with a thirst for vengeance, and a longing to grapple with the foe!

A roar, as of thunder, was in the air, and a hell of fire seemed in front of them.

Meanwhile, wounded officers and men, in hundreds, were being borne to the rear by bandsmen, on stretchers, or crawling to the river side to quench their thirst—in many instances the thirst of the dying. Though nine hundred of all ranks fell on the slope of the great redoubt, amid the vineyards and the perilous abattis of trees; and though the colours of the Twenty-third Welsh Fusileers were actually planted on it, and the Russians expelled by the bayonet, the victory was not yet decided.

From a higher range of the hills, there rushed upon our now breathless, blown, and shattered troops, a heavy double column of Russian Infantry—the regiments of Ouglitz and Vladimir; one wearing flat caps, the other with spike-helmets. A great, grey, solid mass, they come on with equal ardour and fury, strong in the belief of the conquest which the Bishop of Moscow had predicted would accompany the image they bore—that of St. Sergius—a hideous idol of carved and painted wood.

It was then that the British ranks began to waver, and even to fall back a little way, leaving in and near the redoubt several wounded, who were mercilessly bayonetted, or brained by the clubbed muskets of the advancing Russians, who, in some instances, hewed off fingers in their eagerness to possess the rings of those they murdered.

By this time, no less than nineteen Serjeants of the Thirty-third had perished, chiefly in defence of the regimental colours; and most fatal would the temporary repulse have been, but for the re-advance of that corps, with the Fusileers and the Guards and Highlanders of the Duke's division, when the conflict was renewed in all its fury.

The appearance of the Highlanders, in their strange costume, as their brigade advanced in successive echelon of regiments, with their tartans and black plumes waving in the wind, seemed to impart some superstitious terror to the Russians, who almost immediately began to waver.

A close and deadly volley was poured upon them. No sound in particular followed, save the yells of the wounded, while the Highlanders "cast about" to reload; but after their next volley, a strange rattling was heard, as the bullets fell fast among the tin canteens and kettles which the enemy carried outside their knapsacks, for they were all right-about-face now. Then a cry—a literal wail of despair—came from them, as they broke their ranks and fled, throwing away muskets, packs, caps, and everything that might impede their speed.

Holy Russia was no longer invincible! "The Angel of Light had departed from her, and the Demon of Death had come!" Three generals, seven hundred prisoners, and about seven hundred and fifty of their wounded, remained in our hands, according to Mr. Kinglake, though other authorities have given them as many, many more.

The Heights of the Alma were won; but three thousand three hundred of the Allies lay killed and wounded on their green slopes, which were dotted for miles by spots in scarlet, blue, or grey—each spot a human corpse, or a man in mortal agony from bayonet or gun-shot wounds!

Among the latter was Cyril Wedderburn!

At the very moment when his splendid, but sorely cut-up regiment, led by Sir Edward Elton, was rushing with the bayonet in pursuit of the foe beyond the Kourgane Hill, he was lying near the river, covered with blood and dust, and presenting a piteous spectacle. On two crossed muskets he had been borne there, to have his maddening thirst quenched and his wounds attended to.

When the troops were recoiling, after the capture of the great redoubt, he had found himself close to Horace Ramornie, who was endeavouring to assist a Russian officer of rank, as the number of his medals and stars evinced, and who was lying, half smothered, under his dying horse, in the chest of which a cannot-shot was imbedded.

They succeeded in dragging him out, and raised him to his feet; but the barbarian—in whom, with the speed of thought, Cyril recognised the spy of Varna, the pretended Captain, of Zouaves—drew a revolver from his belt, and, inspired by all the terror of capture, and the hatred of race and religion—for by these emotions his face, a handsome one, was quite distorted—he fired at both his protectors, and retired among his advancing men, escaping several shots that were sent after him by the exasperated Fusileers.

Horace escaped uninjured, but poor Cyril had his left arm wounded by one ball, while another penetrated his left breast. He sank into the arms of his kinsman, who uttered a cry of mingled rage and commiseration, and had him borne to the rear by two of the band; but he could do no more, having to lead his company, of which he was now the only surviving officer.

By this time, the Turks and French were in full pursuit of the enemy, whose last efforts were a few faint struggles, and a disorderly and scattered fire. Hereditary hatred and religious rancour alike inspired the Turks, whose shrill cries of "Allah, Allah Hu!" came, at times, upon the wind; for they still boast themselves to be the Assakiri Mansurei Mohamediyes—the "Victorious troops of Mohamed," and until the day of Balaclava they had always fought with honour.