A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War

“If that means marching straight to our front, without turning so much as an inch, then I says yes, I hope we shall,” Tony answered with a growl, assumed only to cover his excitement. “How else should Englishmen attack? Go straight for them is our way of doing business, and I reckon it’s the best.”

And this in fact seemed the only way of attacking the Russians successfully. Perhaps a flanking movement to the left might have proved successful, but even then the river must first be forded, no doubt in the teeth of a murderous fire. But this had not struck the British leader as possible, and the whole force marched on steadily, shoulder to shoulder, and with a martial tramp which seemed to shake the ground.

And upon them as they advanced was fixed the anxious gaze of some 50,000 Russians, horse, foot, and gunners, who marvelled at their boldness and seeming unconcern, and waited only for the long red lines of the British and the brisk-moving masses of French blue to come a little nearer, when they promised themselves that they would sweep them out of existence with a tempest of shot and shell the like of which had never been experienced. Yes, all was ready. Their guns were trained for the ground over which British and French must pass; but not for an instant did it occur to them that French and Turks might think of attacking the cliffs on their left. The narrow road, its steepness, and the proximity of their guns seemed to make such an attempt impossible, and, safe in the thought, they brought every piece they possessed to bear upon those slopes and vineyards across which the British were soon to march.

“Halt!” The command came hoarsely through the air and was emphasised by the shrill notes of a bugle.

“Now, what is going to happen?” asked Phil. “Ah! I see; we are to get into our proper formation, ready to march down to the river. Then I suppose we shall deploy till we have ample elbow-room, and afterwards make a dash for the Russian position.”

Ten minutes later the British divisions were swinging along over the green turf, their centre marching almost directly on the village of Bourliouk, and the whole face to face with Menschikoff’s huge army, and destined to bear the brunt of the fighting.

The French and Turkish troops took but a small part in the battle. Seeing the difficulty of the two cliff roads ascending the river-bank to the left of his force, Menschikoff had failed to occupy them, as has been mentioned, and had placed but few troops in the neighbourhood, for the guns of the allied fleets commanded the cliffs. Taking advantage of this, the lithe and active little Frenchmen were soon crowding the narrow road in their front, and in an incredibly short space of time their guns had been hauled to the top of the cliff, and from there boomed out at the Russian batteries and long lines of massed infantry, doing much execution and threatening them from their flank. Farther to the right the Turks swarmed up the other road, and having gained the cliffs, took up their position there.

Meanwhile the red lines of the British, who, it had been arranged, should not be launched at the main army till the French had commenced their flank attack, moved down the grassy slope, solemn and grand, and as steadily as a mass of moving rock, the front line composed of the Second and Light Divisions, the next of the Third and First Divisions, in column formation, while behind them the Fourth Division marched in echelon, with five regiments in rear as reserves.

Stretching for nearly two miles, with its right close to the village of Bourliouk and its left near that of Tarkhaular, the mass of men advanced slowly and evenly, with a cloud of skirmishers from the rifle battalions thrown out in front. Soon these became engaged with the Russian skirmishers posted in the vineyards and in Bourliouk, and the sharp rat-a-tat of musketry and an occasional hiss above the heads of the gallant men in red showed that the battle of the Alma had commenced. A grunt, almost a shout, of satisfaction and pent-up excitement, instantly went down the lines, and the regiments at a sharp order commenced to open out and deploy, the foremost line, composed of the Second and Light Divisions, stepping forward at a smart pace, which soon became almost a double, as the men eagerly advanced against the Russians.

Boom! The big battery had opened fire, and, as if this had been a signal, every gun on the Russian side blazed out and covered the slopes with smoke, while their shot searched the whole British front, tearing remorselessly through the ranks and crashing into the village houses.

“This is hot!” shouted Phil in Tony’s ear, as they squatted with their comrades upon the grass, awaiting the order to advance. “I’d rather march straight against that battery than sit here and be pounded into a jelly before having a chance of a smack at those beggars.”

“’Tain’t nothing,” grunted Tony reassuringly, tilting his bearskin back to dash the perspiration from his forehead. “Ah, that was a bad ’un!” he muttered hoarsely as, with an awful screech, a cannon-shot plunged into the men close at hand, laying five of the poor fellows dead and maiming two others in its flight.

But now the first line had reached the river, and, holding their pouches and rifles above their heads, they plunged in boldly, and were soon massed on the other side, where they waited, standing waist-deep in the water, and sheltered by the steep bank from the fire of the batteries above. But it was only a momentary halt. Dashing through the river, Sir George Brown put his horse at the bank, and, surmounting it, turned in his saddle and called upon the brave fellows to follow him, waving his sword in a manner that showed all who were out of hearing what his wishes were. And he had not to call a second time, for, hastily gulping down a mouthful of water, the thin red line climbed the bank with a shout, and, falling into their places with as much coolness as though on a parade-ground, advanced shoulder to shoulder up the slopes.

A glance at them, however, displayed the curious fact that the advancing troops were in no regular formation. Compelled to deploy and often make wide détours in passing through the vineyards on the other bank and in marching round the village, regiments had been split up into smaller portions, and in many cases men had lost sight of their comrades altogether. But still discipline and coolness were second nature to them. Without orders but of their own initiative they fell in, and forming a double line – the favoured formation for British attack, – they pressed up the hill; dark-coated riflemen and red linesmen intermingled, and were swallowed up in the clouds of eddying smoke.

Up, up they climbed, steadily and with heroic bravery, and, passing through a storm of hurtling iron and lead, at length flung themselves upon the deep columns of the Russians.

One moment visible, they were seen surging from side to side, desperately using their bayonets; and next moment, with an appalling roar, the batteries would open once more, and clouds of white smoke would swallow them up, only their excited cries, and the hoarse, encouraging voices of the officers nobly leading them, showing that they still survived.

“It’s grand to see them,” cried Phil, carried away by the excitement of the moment. “When will our turn come? They will be swept away by those crowds of Russian soldiers. Look at them, Tony! Now they are at close quarters, and the enemy is giving back. Hurrah, now we have them!” and, springing to his feet, he would have broken from the ranks and rushed to join the fighting-line had not Tony clutched him by the arm and dragged him to the ground, while a hoarse and well-timed “Steady, youngster, you’re tiring yourself; keep all your gristle till we come up against them,” from a veteran sergeant who sat close at hand, smoking calmly, served to quieten him again. But Phil was not the only man there who longed to be up and doing. Not one but was restless and chafing at the delay, especially at Phil’s last shout, for a turn had taken place in the tide of the battle which indeed gave the British a far better chance of victory. Awed by the mass of advancing men, the big Russian battery, which had done such damage in our ranks, suddenly limbered up and retired over the hill – a disgraceful retreat which proved disastrous to the enemy.

But though the attacking force had thus gained an important advantage, the masses of the Russians now poured down the slope and threw themselves upon the gallant British line. Bravely did the latter resist, and with desperate courage strive to continue their advance; but the enemy opposing them were equally brave and equally stubborn, and moreover had the advantage of position and numbers. For a few moments there was a seething mixture of red and grey coats, glittering bayonets, and darts of flame; and then, broken by sheer weight, the British retired upon the ranks of the now advancing second line.

Side by side Phil and Tony stepped forward with their comrades, and almost in a dream plunged through the river and climbed the opposite bank. But now the voices of their officers recalled their wandering senses, and, falling into their places, the brigade of Guards pushed on in perfect formation, with the Highlanders abreast of them.

What a scene it was! What excitement and what movement! A double line of stalwart Guardsmen as well-ordered and as rigidly erect as if drilling in the green parks at home; and in line with them brawny Highlanders, all dripping with water, deafened by the crashing artillery, and yet determined to a man to get to close quarters with the enemy. And retiring upon them, war-worn, bedraggled, and bareheaded, with faces and hands black with the smoke of powder, some limping heavily, and others even crawling, came the gallant first line, loth to turn their backs upon the foe, and yet compelled to do so by overwhelming numbers. Had the second line advanced earlier it would have supported them at the critical moment, but owing to the fact that Lord Raglan and his staff had already crossed the river and ridden close to Telegraph Hill, it received no direct order from him; and when it did advance, it was on the responsibility of the division commander. But now, opening its ranks for the moment to pass through the broken first line, it marched at a rapid pace, and immediately plunged into the tempest of bullets. Men fell to right and left, biting the dust and struggling in their agony, while others lay motionless, sometimes with contorted limbs and faces, and sometimes in peaceful repose as if asleep, stirring not from the position in which death had found them. Ah! it was war, red, cruel war, and well might that second line have wavered and turned back. But theirs was not that sort of courage. Determined to be beaten by nothing, they kept steadily marching up the hill, and soon disappeared, for volumes of smoke were pouring from the village of Bourliouk, which was now in flames, and, mingling with that from the guns, enveloped the combatants in a dense cloud.

And as the line advanced into the thick of the fight, and while rifle fire brought havoc to the ranks, the Russian skirmishers, still clinging to their positions amongst the trees of the river-bank, picked off all the stragglers, and even turned their volleys and the fire of a few light field-guns upon the main body.

“Keep together, mate. We’ll fight ’em side by side,” shouted Tony, closing up to Phil. “Got yer rifle loaded? Then keep yer charge till we gets to close quarters. It’ll come in handy then.”

“Right! I thought of that,” Phil shouted back. Then, closing up to their comrades, they advanced at a rapid pace and flung themselves upon the lines of grey-coated Russians.

To this day Phil cannot quite recall what happened. If you press him he will perhaps tell you that he recollects a young officer falling at his feet, while a huge Russian prepared to bayonet him. Next moment the man was down and Phil was standing over him, while Tony’s rifle laid low another who was in the act of dashing his friend’s head to pieces with the butt of his weapon.

On pressed the red line resistlessly and with never a pause, leaving behind them friend and foe strewn upon the grass, and on, ever in front, went the officers and the colours into the heart of the struggling mass of grey. There was no need to call to their men and beg them to follow. The British lion was aroused in desperate earnestness, and with grim and awe-inspiring silence the men rushed on headlong and regardless of bullet or bayonet. There was a crash, the bang, bang of an occasional shot, and the clash of steel upon steel, and then the trample of thousands of feet as the enemy gave way and fled.

Side by side Phil and Tony had fought their way into the middle of the famous Vladimir regiment, and as the Russians turned, found themselves mixed up with brawny Highlanders, who, with the light of battle in their eyes, were pressing resistlessly forward. Suddenly Phil caught sight of a figure in advance bearing a British colour. It swayed this way and that, now endeavouring to get closer to the Highlanders, and next moment swept forward as the retreating Russians slowly gave way and drove the bearer before them.

“The colour! the colour!” he shouted frantically, dashing forward with Tony at his heels. Scattering those who barred their path, they made their way to the flag, and falling-in on either side, fought grimly to help its bearer back to the ranks of the Highlanders.

“Thanks, my men!” shouted the young officer who supported the flag. “Now, help me, and we’ll get out of this hole. All together! Rush!”

With their weapons held well in advance, the three dashed at the enemy, while the Highlanders, seeing the predicament into which the colour had fallen, with a shout of wrath flung themselves in their direction. But though beaten, the Russians had in no way lost courage, and, turning fiercely, they bore the gallant Scotsmen back, while others opposed Phil and his comrades.

“Rally, rally! The colour!” shouted Phil, thrusting right and left with his bayonet, and turning just in time to discharge his rifle at a man who was attacking them in rear.

So fiercely did the little band of three fight that the Russians in their immediate neighbourhood gave way, and, standing in a circle round them, glared at the gallant red-coats who had thus far been too much for them.

A glorious picture they presented. At bay, with a host of the enemy surrounding them and glowering at them with fierce hatred, the officer and his two supporters indeed were men of whom Britain might well feel proud. With flushed faces and flashing eyes, which looked into those of the enemy with no signs of fear, but with keen glances of stem determination, they stood there a mere drop in an ocean of struggling men. Smoke-begrimed, dishevelled, and with bearskins tumbled in the mud, Phil and Tony clutched their rifles and looked ready and willing to fall upon the hundreds around them. Thoughts of home, danger of capture, or death by bayonet or bullet were lost in the delirious excitement of the moment. They thought only of the flag for which they fought, and, hemmed in and panting with exhaustion, they listened to the deafening din of the battle still raging a few feet from them, and nobly determined to die sooner than permit the Russians to capture it.

“We’re done, lads,” groaned the officer, sinking on his knee. “Corporal, take the colour. I’m hit, and can’t hold it any longer. Fight on for it!”

Phil grasped the staff, and, hoisting the flag still higher, looked round with proud defiance, while Tony, with a grim smile of exultation on his face, stepped nearer to him.

“Ay, well fight on for it, sir, never fear,” he muttered. “We’ll fight till we’re dead.”

Phil nodded.

“I’ll borrow your sword, sir,” he said, grasping the weapon as he spoke. “A rifle and bayonet are too heavy to use one-handed.”

“Look out, lads! Here come the cavalry!” the officer exclaimed at this moment; and almost instantly Cossack horses dashed through the Russian infantry, scattering them and surrounding the colour. There was one last desperate fight. Phil’s sword smashed in two at the first vicious cut, and for a minute he continued the defence by belabouring the horsemen with the colour-staff. Then that was dashed to the ground, and before he was aware of it a lasso-noose had been slipped over his shoulders, securing his arms to his side, and he was being dragged away.

The last backward glance as he was hurried away showed him a grand rush by the Highlanders. The grey-coats retreated precipitately, and amid hoarse shouts of exultation the rescued colour was borne back to the British lines.

Chapter Eleven.
A Russian Villain

The celebrated, the historical battle of the Alma was over almost as soon as Phil had been dragged away, for there was no stopping the British troops, and once the Russians had turned to retreat, our brave fellows pressed forward till the summit of the slopes was gained. They had fought magnificently against desperate odds, and without ever having need to call upon their reserves. And while the infantry had been busy, other arms of the service had been by no means idle. The cavalry protected the left, and the guns, after firing for some time across the river, had limbered up, and while some crossed by the bridge which carried the post-road, others plunged through the water to its right, and ascending close to Telegraph Hill, raked the Russian batteries and struggling infantry with their fire.

It was a sight to see – an example of the dogged pluck which characterises our nation; and an example which the French, perched upon the cliff on the right, did not fail to watch with admiration, and with a secret determination to emulate it on the first occasion.

And now that the enemy had retreated, the British guns still plied them with shot. Lord Raglan longed to convert their retirement into a rout, but the French had discarded their knapsacks before fording the river, and on the plea, that without their kits it was impossible to pursue, the marshal refused to agree to the plan. Consequently a hard-won victory, which might easily, by energetic action, have been changed into one of the greatest importance, proved of little use, and hardly affected the latter part of the campaign at all. It was a lamentable mistake, for had the Russian forces been driven pell-mell from the field, Sebastopol might have surrendered, and thousands of brave and valuable lives on both sides might have been saved. As it was, a glorious victory had been achieved at great cost to British and Russians alike, and all that could be said was that the Crimean campaign had opened favourably for the Allies.

The victorious army that defeats one portion of the enemy’s troops, and thereby causes the whole force to retire, achieves a success which, brilliant though it may be, is as nothing compared with that obtained when the whole of the opposing force is hopelessly crushed and afterwards captured or driven, a mere herd of terror-stricken beings, from the field. For the Allies the Alma was a glorious victory, but no more. The fact that the general and his staff were isolated from the attacking army at the critical moment, and that in consequence the troops advanced at wide intervals, while the reserves were never called into action, ruined all hopes of a really great and telling success. Had it been otherwise, had the British divisions been poured unceasingly upon the Russians, they would have engaged the whole of Menschikoffs great army, and so severely handled it as to hopelessly mar its future effectiveness.

It was a sad, sad army that bivouacked that night near the river Alma. Comrades and dear friends were missing; while the flickering lights hovering over hill and valley showed that the search-parties were at work, the doctors busy at their merciful and pain-relieving duties, and the burial-parties delving to prepare huge trenches for the reception of the dead. It was a terrible ending indeed to a glorious day, but one that ever follows the crash and turmoil of a battle. It is impossible to realise its sadness, its awful horror, till you stand beside one of these trenches, and, with helmet in hand and the bright sun overhead, read the last rites over your comrades of a few hours ago, who have been called suddenly, and by the aid of your fellow-men, from beside you.

For two days the Allies remained here, and then, loading arabas, they advanced by easy stages on Sebastopol. To attack the town and fortress from the northern side was impossible, for the harbour intervened, and in consequence the march was resumed till finally the British left approached the harbour of Balaclava; the rest of the allied forces extended along the slopes of the Chersonese heights surrounding the town, and prepared to throw up earthworks in readiness for a gigantic bombardment.

Meanwhile the Russians in Sebastopol were by no means idle. All civilians left the town and forts, and, under the great Todleben, their engineer, thousands set to work with pick and spade to improve their defences on the south and mount extra guns, relying on their huge army in the field to keep the allied enemy busy. Unlimited supplies poured into the town, and thus, though the Allies were besieging it on the southern side, and the harbour-mouth was blockaded by the opposing fleet, it was in a position to hold out for an indefinite period.

Meanwhile what had become of our hero?

A burly, grey-clad Cossack had charge of Phil, and noticing that he was exhausted after the struggle in which he had been engaged, he turned and spoke kindly to him.

“We will go along easily till you have got your wind,” he said. “You must be tired after such a fight. My word, what gluttons you English are for hard knocks and desperate battles! I watched from the summit of the hill and saw you and your comrade rush to the rescue of the flag. It was a mad act, Englishman, but bravely done. But come, I am forgetting. You are a comrade in distress. Take a sip from this bottle. It is vodka with a little water added, and will put new life into you.”

Phil thanked him heartily, and as soon as they were out of range of the British batteries, sat down on a boulder and took a pull at the Cossack’s flask.

“Thank you, my friend!” he exclaimed earnestly. “A short rest here will do me a world of good. Have we far to go to-night?”

“What! You speak our language, Englishman! Good!” and the Russian’s broad and rugged face lit up with a kindly smile. “Yes,” he continued, “we have a long way to go. But you are tired. Give me your word that you will not attempt to throw me, or get the better of me, and I will let you mount behind on the crupper. Come, there is no one about, and before we join the squadron again you can dismount.”

Phil readily gave the required promise, and, vaulting up behind the friendly Cossack, they pushed on amongst the retreating infantry.

“What has become of my comrades?” asked Phil after a pause, for he was terribly afraid that Tony and the officer were killed.

“Comfort yourself, Englishman, they too are prisoners, and you will meet them at the camp; but I doubt whether they will reach there so easily as you, for Alexoff has charge of your soldier friend, while the brave wounded officer walks by the side of our commander, who is not too kind to us, and hates all Englishmen bitterly. Yes, I fear it will go hard with him, for we have lost heavily, and Stackanoff will not easily forget it.”

“And is Stackanoff your commander?” asked Phil.

“Yes, that is his name. His excellency rules us with a rod of iron. Ah! my English comrade, there is a little girl waiting for me about half a verst from Moscow town, and I long to break from this life and return to her. I have served my time, and should have been free long ago, but Stackanoff keeps me. Ah, how I hate him! Some day, perhaps, I shall repay him, and meanwhile I will fight for my country, for she has need of us all.”

“Yes, it will be a big struggle,” agreed Phil, “and if your comrades fight as pluckily as they did to-day, Russia will need many brave men to fill the gaps.”

The Cossack gave a hearty grunt of satisfaction, for, though longing to reach Moscow, he was at heart a patriot, and liked to hear his brothers-in-arms well spoken of.

“We are friends from this day,” he said, grasping Phil’s hand. “But prepare to get down. We are nearing our bivouac, and it would not do to let Stackanoff see you mounted behind me. Wait, though, I will tell you when to jump off.”

Putting his horse into a gentle trot the Cossack jogged towards a collection of tents and horsemen. Suddenly there was a shout from behind them, and just as Phil and his captor joined a squadron of Cossacks, a small, fierce-looking man, with a bristling moustache and a face deeply pitted by smallpox, cantered up, dragging beside him an unhappy captive, who was scarcely able to retain his feet.

Phil’s blood boiled, for he recognised in an instant that the prisoner was the officer who had so bravely carried the colour.

Pulling his horse in with an angry jerk close alongside Phil’s captor, Stackanoff – for it was none other than he – glared at him, and in a harsh voice, and with many an oath, snarled: “How is this, Vilnoff! What do you mean? Are these cursed prisoners then to ride upon his majesty’s horses? Come off, you Englishman!” and, dropping his reins, he stretched out his hand, and, clutching Phil by the shoulder, hurled him to the ground.

It was not very far to fall, but Phil came an undoubted cropper, and the sudden and unlooked-for jar, and a yell of derision which rose from the Cossack ranks at the sight, set his blood aflame still more, for he had not yet shaken off the excitement of the recent battle. His eyes flashed angrily, and, picking himself up, he was within an ace of throwing himself upon the brutal Stackanoff when better counsels prevailed.

The Cossack commander eyed him suspiciously, and then, with a malicious glance at Vilnoff and the remark, “You, beast that you are, I will deal with you to-morrow,” dug his spurs into his horse with such force that the animal sprang forward so suddenly as to upset the unhappy English officer and drag him along the ground.

“Come, get up, you weak-kneed fool,” cried Stackanoff, striking at the poor fellow with his riding-whip.

It was a brutal act, and even the Cossack horsemen were ashamed of it. As for Phil, a blind and unreasoning rage seized him, and, dragging the lasso-noose over his head, he sprang at the Russian, and, lifting him like a child from the saddle, threw him heavily on the ground and stood over him, ready to knock him down if he should try to rise, or treat any other in a similar manner who dared to interfere with him.

“Hurrah, well done, Phil, old boy!” came an excited bellow from the Cossack ranks; and next moment Tony, who was there, a prisoner, had torn the rope which held him from the hands of the man who was in charge of him, and, aiming blows right and left with his fists, rushed forward and joined Phil.

To say that there was a clamour in the camp is to describe the scene mildly. For a moment the horsemen were too astonished to move; then, recovering from their surprise, they lowered their murderous-looking lances, and would undoubtedly have run all three prisoners through, had not another officer ridden into the circle at that moment.

He was a tall, dark man, with heavy features and a settled look of depression on his face. Mounted on a magnificent horse, and bearing the badges of a staff-officer, there was no doubt that he was a person of no little importance and authority.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, quietly looking round with a cold and gleaming eye, which showed that though outwardly calm he was more than angry at the incident. “These are prisoners, by their uniform, and one an officer too. Do we then murder captives taken in battle? Does our august master, the Czar, will it that we should take the lives of gallant Englishmen in cold blood? Answer me, dogs! Whose doing is this?” And, slowly glancing round the circle, he fixed the men with his eyes, each one trembling in his turn and feeling relieved when his scrutiny was finished.

Then Vilnoff, who had remained close beside Phil all the time, turned in his saddle and humbly told the officer what had happened.

“Ah, is it so, man?” the latter replied thoughtfully. “Stackanoff captures prisoners, and leads them away in nooses, as he would drag an ox. And one is wounded, too. Get down, man, and shake this commander of yours.”

Vilnoff obeyed, doing as his officer ordered him, and at the same time administering a sly kick. Stackanoff at length opened his eyes, and, struggling to his feet, stared at the new-comer. Meanwhile Phil and Tony had relieved their wounded officer of his noose, and were holding him erect between them.

“Tell me,” began the staff-officer, fixing the Cossack commander with a piercing look, “tell me, my good friend, why you would kill our prisoners. Have not the enemy many of our brave comrades in their hands? Do they drag them with ropes and fling the wounded ones to the ground? Dog! – worse than dog! – your command is taken from you. This night our sappers return to the fortress and you with them. Go now before I do worse for you!”

Like a beaten cur the Cossack commander saluted, humbly bowed, calling the staff-officer “Prince”, and then retired.

Now was Phil’s chance of asking for good treatment for the wounded officer, and, leaving Tony to support the poor fellow, he advanced to the Russian prince, and, standing politely at attention, begged that a doctor might be sent for.

“So it seems that besides doing your best to kill one of my officers, you are acquainted with our language,” said the prince with a smile, “Yes, my man, your officer shall have good treatment, and so shall you. Here, you! your name? Ah – Vilnoff – then you will take charge of these men for to-night. Send this wounded gentleman into the fortress with any of our own that may be leaving. A column has been ordered to start soon after daybreak.”