Under the Red Dragon: A Novel
among a number of killed and wounded men, between the cannon and the
side of the embrasure could neither advance nor retire, till dragged
out by the strong hand of poor Charley Gwynne, who fell a minute
after, shot dead; and for some seconds, while in that most exposed and
terrible position, I saw a dreadful scene of slaughter before me; for
there were dense gray masses of the Russian infantry, their usually
stolid visages inflamed by hate, ferocity, by fiery _vodka_, and
religious rancour, the front ranks kneeling as if to receive cavalry,
and all the rear ranks, which were three or four deep, firing over
each other's heads, exactly as we are told the Scottish brigades of
the "Lion of the North" did at Leipzig, to the annihilation of those
of Count Tilly.
We were fairly IN this terrible Redan; but the weakness of our force
was soon painfully apparent, and in short, when the enemy made a
united rush at us, they drove us all into an angle of the work, and
ultimately over the parapet to the outer slope, where men of the Light
and Second Divisions were packed in a dense mass and firing into it,
which they continued to do even till their ammunition became expended,
when fresh supplies from the pouches of those in rear were handed to
those in front. An hour and a half of this disastrous strife elapsed,
"the Russians having cleared the Redan," to quote the trite
description of Russell, "but not yet being in possession of its
parapets, when they made a second charge with bayonets under a heavy
fire of musketry, and throwing great quantities of large stones, grape
and small round shot, drove those in front back upon the men in rear,
who were thrown into the ditch. The gabions in the parapet now gave
way, and rolled down with those who were upon them; and the men in
rear, thinking all was lost, retired into the fifth parallel."
Many men were buried alive in the ditch by the falling earth; Dora's
admirer, poor little Torn Clavell of the 19th, among others, perished
thus horribly. Just as we reached our shelter, there to breathe,
re-form, and await supports, I saw poor Phil Caradoc reel wildly and
fall, somewhat in a heap, at the foot of the gabions. In a moment I
was by his side. His sword-arm had been upraised as he was
endeavouring to rally the men, and a ball had passed--as it eventually
proved--through his lungs; though a surgeon, who was seated close by
with all his apparatus and instruments, assured him that it was not
so.
"I know better--something tells me that it is all over with me--and
that I am bleeding internally," said he, with difficulty. "Hardinge,
old fellow--lift me up--gently, so--so--thank you."
I passed an arm under him, and raised his head, removing at the same
time his heavy Fusileer cap. There was a gurgle in his throat, and the
foam of agony came on his handsome brown moustache.
"I am going fast," said he, grasping my hand; "God bless you,
Harry--see me buried alone."
"If I escape--but there is yet hope for you, Phil."
But he shook his head and said, while his eye kindled,
"If I was not exactly the first man _in_, I was not long behind
Windham. I risked my life freely," he added, in a voice so low that
I heard him with difficulty amid the din of the desultory fire, and
the mingled roar of other sounds in and around the Malakoff; "yet I
should like to have gone home and seen my dear old mother once again,
in green Llangollen--and _her_--she, you know who I mean, Harry.
But God has willed it all otherwise, and I suppose it is for the
best. . . . Turn me on my side . . . dear fellow--so. . . . I am
easier now."
As I did what he desired, his warm blood poured upon my hand, through
the orifice in his poor, faded, and patched regimentals, never so much
as then like "the old red coat that tells of England's glory."
"Have the Third or Fourth Division come yet? Where are the Scots
Royals?" he asked, eagerly, and then, without waiting for a reply,
added, very faintly, "If spared to see her--Winny Lloyd--tell her that
my last thoughts were of her--ay, as much as of my poor mother . . . and
. . . that though she will get a better fellow than I----"
"That is impossible, Phil!"
"She can never get one who . . . . who loves her more. The time is
near now when I shall be but a memory to her and you . . . . and to
all our comrades of the old 23rd."
His lips quivered and his eyes closed, as he said, with something of
his old pleasant smile,
"I am going to heaven, I hope, Harry--if I have not done much good in
the world, I have not done much harm; and in heaven I'll meet with
more red coats, I believe, than black ones . . . . and tell
her . . . tell Winny----"
What I was to tell her I never learned; his voice died away, and he
never spoke again; for just as the contest became fiercer between the
French and the masses of Russians--temporarily released from the Redan
or drawn from the city--his head fell over on one side, and he
expired. I closed his eyes, for there was yet time to do so. Poor Phil
Caradoc! I looked sadly for a minute on the pale and stiffening face
of my old friend and jovial chum, and saw how fast the expression of
bodily pain passed away from the whitening forehead. I could scarcely
assure myself that he was indeed gone, and so suddenly; that his once
merry eyes and laughing lips would open never again. Turning away, I
prepared once more for the assault, and then, for the first time, I
perceived Lieutenants Dyneley and Somerville of ours lying near him;
the former mortally wounded and in great pain, the latter quite dead.
My soul was full of a keen longing for vengeance, to grapple with the
foe once more, foot to foot and face to face. The blood was fairly up
in all our hearts; for the Russians had now relined their own
breastworks, where a tall officer in a gray capote made himself very
conspicuous by his example and exertions. He was at last daring enough
to step over the rampart and tear down a wooden gabion, to make a kind
of extempore embrasure through which an additional field-piece might
be run.
"As you are so fond of pot-firing," said Colonel Windham to the
soldiers, with some irritation at the temporary repulse, "why the
deuce don't you shoot that Russian?"
On looking through my field-glass, to my astonishment I discovered
that he was Tolstoff. Sergeant Rhuddlan of ours now levelled his rifle
over the bank of earth which protected the parallel, took a steady
aim, and fired. Tolstoff threw up his arms wildly, and his sword
glittered as it fell from his hand. He then wheeled round, and fell
heavily backward into the ditch--which was twenty feet broad and ten
feet deep--dead; at least, I never saw or heard of him again.
Just as a glow of fierce exultation, pardonable enough, perhaps, at
such a time (and remembering all the circumstances under which this
distinguished Muscovite and I had last met and parted), thrilled
through me, I experienced a terrible shock--a shock that made me reel
and shudder, with a sensation as if a hot iron had pierced my left arm
above the elbow. It hung powerless by my side, and then I felt my own
blood trickling heavily over the points of my fingers!
"Wounded! My God, hit at last!" was my first thought; and I lost much
blood before I could get any one, in that vile burly-burly, to tie my
handkerchief as a temporary bandage round the limb to stanch the flow.
I was useless now, and worse than useless, as I was suffering greatly,
but I could not leave the parallel for the hospital huts, and remained
there nearly to dusk fell. Before that, I had seen Caradoc interred
between the gabions; and there he lay in his hastily-scooped grave,
uncoffined and unknelled, his heart's dearest longings unfulfilled,
his brightest hopes and keenest aspirations crushed out like his young
life; and the evanescent picture, the poor photo of the girl he had
loved in vain, buried with him; and when poor Phil was being covered
up, I remembered his anecdote about the dead officer, and the letter
that was replaced in his breast.
Well, my turn for such uncouth obsequies might come soon enough now.
In the affair of the Redan, if I mistake not, 146 officers and men of
ours, the Welsh Fusileers, were killed and wounded; and every other
regiment suffered in the same proportion.
The attack was to be renewed at five in the morning by the Guards and
Highlanders, under Lord Clyde of gallant memory, then Sir Colin
Campbell; but on their approaching, it was found that the Russians had
spiked their guns, and bolted by the bridge of boats, leaving
Sebastopol one sheet of living fire. Fort after fort was blown into
the air, each with a shock as if the solid earth were being split
asunder. The sky was filled with live shells, which burst there like
thousands of scarlet rockets, and thus showers of iron fell in every
direction. Columns of dark smoke, that seemed to prop heaven itself,
rose above the city, while its defenders in thousands, without beat of
drum or sound of trumpet, poured away by the bridge of boats. When the
last fugitive had passed, the chains were cut, and then the mighty
pontoon, a quarter of a mile in length, swung heavily over to the
north side, when we were in full possession of Sebastopol!
CHAPTER LVI.--A SUNDAY MORNING IN THE CRIMEA.
I must have dropped asleep of sheer weariness and loss of blood, when
tottering to the rear; for on waking I found the moon shining, and
myself lying not far from the fifth parallel, which was now occupied,
like the rest of the trenches, by the kilted Highlanders, whose bare
legs, and the word _Egypt_ on their appointments, formed a double
source of wonder to our Moslem allies, especially to the contingent
that came from the Land of Bondage. These sturdy fellows were
chatting, laughing, and smoking, or quietly sleeping and waiting for
their turn of service against the Redan, in the dark hours of the
morning.
I had lain long in a kind of dreamy agony. Like many who were in the
Redan and in the ditch around it, I had murmured "water, water," often
and vainly. The loss of Estelle, or of Valerie, for times there were
when my mind wandered to the former _now_, the love of dear friends, the
death of comrades, honour, glory, danger from pillaging Russians or
Tartars, all emotions, in fact, were merged or swallowed up in the
terrible agony I endured in my shattered arm, and the still more
consuming craving for something wherewith to moisten my cracked lips
and parched throat. Poor Phil Caradoc had perhaps endured this before
me, while his heart and soul were full of Winifred Lloyd; but Phil,
God rest him! was at peace now, and slept as sound in his uncouth
grave as if laid under marble in Westminster Abbey.
In my uneasy slumber I had been conscious of this sensation of thirst,
and had visions of champagne goblets, foaming and iced; of humble
bitter beer and murmuring water; of gurgling brooks that flowed over
brown pebbles, and under long-bladed grass and burdocks in leafy
dingles; of Llyn Tegid, deep and blue; of the marble fountain, with
the lilies and golden fish, at Craigaderyn. Then with this idea the
voice of Winifred Lloyd came pleasantly to my ear; her white fingers
played with the sparkling water, she raised some to my lips, but the
cup fell to pieces, and starting, I awoke to find a tall Highlander,
of the Black Watch, bending over me, and on my imploring him to get me
some water, he placed his wooden canteen to my lips, and I drank of
the contents, weak rum-grog, greedily and thankfully.
It seemed strange to me that I should dream of Winifred, there and
then; but no doubt the last words of Caradoc had led me to think of
her. It is only when waking after long weariness of the body, and
over-tension of the nerves, the result of such keen excitement as we