Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
that bloody day "the Welsh Fusileers had not a man left to saddle
their goat," which went into action with them, would seem to be
corroborated by the fact that only _five_ grenadiers escaped; while
Mrs. Adams, in a letter to her husband, the future President of the
United States, says of that battle, "our enemies were cut down like
grass; _and but one officer of all the Welsh Fusileers remains to tell
his story_." When old Billy, the favourite goat of the 23rd, departed
this life in peace in the Caribbean Isles, whence he had accompanied
the regiment from Canada in 1844, her Majesty the Queen, on learning
that he was greatly lamented by the soldiers, sent to them, from
Windsor Park, a magnificent pair of the pure Cashmerian breed, which
had been presented to her by the Shah of Persia. On every 1st of
March, on the anniversary of their tutelary patron--St. David--the
officers give a splendid entertainment; and when the cloth is removed,
and the leek duly eaten, the first toast is a bumper to the health of
the Prince of Wales; the memory of old Toby Purcell is not forgotten,
and, as the order has it, the band plays "'The noble Race of Shenkin,'
while a drum-boy mounted on the goat, which is richly caparisoned for
the occasion, is led thrice round the table by the drum-major."
At Boston, in 1775, a goat somewhat resented this exhibition, by
breaking away from the mess-room, and rushing into the barracks with
all his trappings on. There are few battlefields honourable to Britain
where the Welsh Fusileers have not left their bones. The colours which
wave over their ranks show a goodly list of hard-won honours--"bloody
and hard-won honours," says a writer. "Arthur himself, Cadwallader,
Glendower, and many an ancient Cambrian chief, might in ghostly
form--if ghosts can grudge--envy their bold descendants the fame of
these modern exploits, and confess that the lance and the corselet,
the falchion and the mace, have done no greater deeds than those of
the firelock and the buff-belt, the bayonet and sixty rounds of
ball-cartridge." On their colours are the two badges of Edward the
Black Prince--the Rising Sun and the Red Dragon; "a dragon addorsed
gules, passant, on a mountain vert," as the heralds have it. This was
the ancient symbol of the Cambrian Principality, with the significant
motto, _Ich dien_, "I serve." And now, at the very time the Urgent was
entering the Mediterranean, the regiment was on its way, with others,
to win fresh laurels by the shores of the Black Sea; and with his
horns gaily gilded, and a handsome, regimental, silver plate clasped
on his forehead, Cameydd Llewellyn, whilom the caressed pet of the
gentle Winny Lloyd, was landing with them at Kalamita Bay, and the
hordes of Menschikoff were pouring forward from Sebastopol.[2]
CHAPTER XXX.--NEWS OF BATTLE.
We came in sight of Malta at daybreak on the 28th of September, and
about noon dropped our anchor in the Marsamuscetta, or quarantine
harbour, where all ships under the rank of a frigate must go. This
celebrated isle, the master-key of the Mediterranean, the link that
connects us with Egypt and India, was a new scene to me. Mostyn and
some others on board the Urgent had been quartered there before, and
while I was surveying the vast strength of its batteries of white
sandstone, with those apparently countless cannon, that peer through
the deep embrasures, or frown _en barbette_ over the sea; the quaint
appearance of those streets of stairs, which Byron anathematised; the
singular architecture of the houses, so Moorish in style and aspect,
with heavy, overhanging balconies and flat roofs all connected, so
that the dwellers therein can make a common promenade of them; the
groups of picturesque, half-nude, and tawny Maltese; the monks and
clerical students in rusty black cloaks and triangular hats; the Greek
sailors, in short jackets and baggy blue breeches; the numbers of
scarlet uniforms, and those of the Chasseurs de Vincennes (for two
French three-deckers full of the latter had just come in); the naked
boys who dived for halfpence in the harbour, and jabbered a dialect
that was more Arabic than Italian--while surveying all this from the
poop, through my field-glass, Mostyn was pointing out to me the great
cathedral of St. John, some of the auberges of the knights, and
anticipating the pleasure of a fruit lunch in the Strada Reale, a
drive to Monte Benjemma, a dinner at Morell's, in the Strada Forni, a
cigar on the ramparts, and then dropping into the opera-house, which
was built by the Grand-master Manoel Vilhena, and where the best
singers from La Scala may be heard in the season; and Price of ours
was already soft and poetical in the ideas of faldettas of lace, black
eyes, short skirts, and taper ankles, and anticipating or suggesting
various soft things. While the soldiers clustered in the waist, as
thick as bees, the officers were all busy with their lorgnettes on the
poop, or in preparation for a run ashore, when the bells of Valetta
began to ring a merry peal, the ships in the harbour to show all their
colours, and a gun flashed redly from the massive granite ramparts of
St. Elmo, a place of enormous strength, having in its lower bastions a
sunk barrack, capable of holding two thousand infantry.
"Another gun!" exclaimed little Tom Clavell, as a second cannon sent
its peal over the flat roofs, and another; "a salute, by Jove! What is
up--is this an anniversary?"
It was _no_ anniversary, however, and on the troopship coming to
anchor in the crowded and busy harbour, and the quarantine boat coming
on board, we soon learned what was "up;" the news spread like
lightning through the vessel, from lip to lip and ear to ear; the hum
grew into a roar, and ended in the soldiers and sailors giving three
hearty cheers, to which many responded from other ships, and from the
shore; while the bands of the Chasseurs de Vincennes, on board the
three-deckers, struck up the "Marseillaise."
News had just come in that four days ago a battle had been fought by
Lord Raglan and Marshal St. Arnaud at a place called the Alma in Crim
Tartary; that the allied troops after terrible slaughter were
victorious, and the Russians were in full retreat. That evening a few
of us dined at the mess of the Buffs, a battalion of which was
quartered in the castle of St. Elmo. The officers occupied one of the
knights' palaces--the Auberge de Bavière--near that bastion where the
Scottish hero of Alexandria is lying in the grave that so becomes his
fate and character. This auberge is a handsome building overlooking
the blue sea, which almost washes its walls; and there we heard the
first hasty details of that glorious battle, the story of which filled
our hearts with regret and envy that we had not borne a share in it,
and which formed a source of terrible anxiety to the poor wives of
many officers who had left them behind at Malta, and who could only
see the fatal lists after their transmission to London. We heard the
brief story of that tremendous uphill charge made by the Light
Division--the Welsh Fusileers, the 19th, 33rd, 88th, and other
regiments--supported by the Guards and Highlanders; that the 33rd
alone had _nineteen_ reliefs shot under their two colours, which were
perforated by sixty-five bullet-holes. We heard how Colonel Chesters
of ours, and eight of his officers, fell dead at the same moment, and
that Charley Gwynne, Phil Caradoc, and many more were wounded.
"On, on, my gallant 23rd!" were the last words of Chesters, as he fell
from his horse.
We heard how two of our boy ensigns, Buller and little Anstruther of
Balcaskie, were shot dead with the colours in their hands; how
Connelly, Wynne, young Radcliffe, and many more, all fell sword in
hand; how the regiment had fought like tigers, and that Sir George
Brown, after his horse was shot under him, led them on foot, with his
hat in his hand, crying, "Hurrah for the Royal Welsh! Come on, my
boys!"
And on they went, till Private Evans planted the Red Dragon on the
great redoubt, where nine hundred men were lying dead. The heights
were taken by a rush, and the first gun captured from the Russians was
by Major Bell of ours, who brought it out of the field. A passionate
glow of triumph and exultation filled my heart; I felt proud of our
army, but of my regiment in particular, for the brave fellows of the
Buffs were loud in their commendations of the 23rd; proud that I wore
the same uniform and the same badges in which so many had perished
with honour. None but a soldier, perhaps, can feel or understand all
this, or that _esprit de corps_ already referred to, and which sums up
love of country, kindred, pride of self and profession, in one. But
anon came the chilling and mortifying thought that I enjoyed only
reflected honours. Why was I now seated amid the splendour and luxury
of a mess in the Auberge de Bavière? Why was I not yonder, where so
many had won glory or a grave? How provoking was the chance, the mere
chain of military contingencies, by which I had lost all participation
in that great battle, the first fought in Europe since Waterloo--this
Alma, that was now in all men's mouths, and in the heart of many a
wife and mother, fought and won while we had been sailing on the sea,
and while the unconscious folks at home throughout the British Isles
were going about their peaceful avocations; when thousands of men and
women, parents and wives, whose tenderest thoughts were with our
gallant little host, were ignorant that those they loved best on earth
perhaps were already cold, mutilated, and buried in hasty graves
beneath its surface, in a place before unheard of, or by them unknown.
So great was the slaughter in my own regiment, that though I was only
a lieutenant, there seemed to be every prospect of my winning ere long
the huge spurs won by Toby Purcell at the Boyne Water; but my turn of
sharp service was coming; for, though I could not foresee it all then,
Inkermann was yet to be fought, the Quarries to be contested, the
Mamelon and Redan to be stormed, and Sebastopol itself had yet to
fall. Had I shared in that battle by the Alma, I might have perished,
and been lost to Estelle for ever; leaving her, perhaps, to be wooed
and won by another, when I was dead and forgotten like the last year's
snow. This reflection cooled my ardour a little; for love made me
selfish, or disposed to be more economical of my person, after my
enthusiasm and the fumes of the Buffs' champagne passed away; and now
from Malta I wrote the first letter I had ever addressed to her, full
of what the reader may imagine, and sent with it a suite of those
delicate and beautiful gold filigree ornaments, for the manufacture of
which the Maltese jewellers are so famed; and when I sealed my packet
at the Clarendon in the Strada San Paola, I sighed while reflecting
that I could receive no answer to it, with assurances of her love and
sorrow, until after I had been face to face with those same Muscovites
whom my comrades had hurled from the heights of the Alma.
Three days after this intelligence arrived we quitted Malta, and had a
fair and rapid run for the Dardanelles. The first morning found us,
with many a consort full of troops, skirting, under easy sail, the
barren-looking isle of Cerigo--of old, the fabled abode of the goddess
of love, now the Botany Bay of the Ionians; its picturesque old town
and fort encircled by a chain of bare, brown, and rugged mountains,
whose peaks the rising sun was tipping with fire. As if to remind us
that we were near the land of Minerva, and of the curious Ascalaphus,
"Begat in Stygian shades
On Orphnè, famed among Avernal maids,"
many little dusky owls perched on the yards and booms, where they