by V. A. Stuart
The gallantry of the Guards defied description, their Commander-in-Chief thought, conscious of a warm glow of pride as he read again his all-too-inadequate account of their magnificent part in the action. Firing with steady and telling accuracy whilst their ammunition lasted, they had attacked again and again with the bayonet when powder and musket balls were exhausted, driving the massed Russian columns before them in terror. They had fought for, lost, recaptured, lost again and yet again retaken a two-gun emplacement, known as the Sandbag Battery, with matchless courage, fighting on despite appalling casualties, finally putting the enemy to rout in a desperate charge down an overgrown slope. They had, it was true, charged too far in the confusion, with the unhappy result that another enemy column had advanced rapidly across the high ground above them in order to cut them off from their commander, the Duke of Cambridge, whose position had, for a time, been in grave danger. But, rallied by their officers, the Guardsmen had reformed and clambered back to the plateau where, joining the heroic handful who had remained with the Colours, they had fought off several Russian attempts to capture these and had, finally, managed to escape from the trap.
General Sir George Cathcart, the Divisional commander, had not been so fortunate, however. Lord Raglan read through the next page of his report, conscious of a sense of loss. He had not liked Cathcart—who, although junior in rank and service to Sir George Brown—had been designated his successor to the supreme command until just before the battle of Inkerman. But … he had been a brave man and a good soldier and the manner of his dying had been in the best traditions of the British Army. No matter now that he had been difficult and obstructive, forever complaining that he was not consulted when major decisions had to be made, constantly insisting that his advice—as holder of the “dormant commission” as Commander-in-Chief—should be sought and acted upon, instead of Sir George Brown’s or Sir John Burgoyne’s. He was dead and … leaning forward, Lord Raglan added some lines between two of those already written in his despatch.
“Lieutenant-General the Hon. Sir George Cathcart, with a few companies of the 68th Regiment, considering that he might make a strong impression by descending into the valley and taking the enemy in flank, moved rapidly forward, but finding the heights above him in full occupation of the Russians, he suddenly discovered that he was entangled with a superior force, and while attempting to withdraw his men, he received a mortal wound, shortly before which Brigadier-General Torrens, when leading the 68th, was likewise severely wounded.
“Subsequently to this the battle continued with unabated vigor, and with no positive result, the enemy bringing upon our line not only the fire of all their field batteries, but those in front of the works of the place and the ships’ guns, till the afternoon, when the symptoms of giving way first became apparent; and shortly after, although the fire did not cease, the retreat became general, and heavy masses were observed retiring over the ridge of the Inkerman, and ascending the opposite heights, abandoning on the field of battle five or six thousand dead or wounded, multitudes of the latter having already been carried off by them. I never before witnessed such a spectacle as the field presented; but upon this I will not dwell.”
In his despatch to London, Lord Raglan thought painfully, that spectacle was one on which it would not be politic to dwell but the terrible sights he had seen, when the Russians at last withdrew from the blood-soaked Inkerman Ridge, haunted him now, waking and sleeping, and he could not drive these or his memories of the battle from his mind. He shivered, remembering how General Strangeways, riding only a few yards from him, had had his leg shot off by a round shot at the height of the action. Brave and courteous to the last, the old artilleryman had politely requested that someone assist him from his horse. When this was done and the old man lain gently down behind the shelter of a boulder, Lord Raglan had felt the tears come unbidden into his eyes, aware that his old friend and fellow veteran of Waterloo could not long survive his terrible wound. He had died, stoic and uncomplaining, only an hour or so later, and there had been others, so many others—old men, like Strangeways, young men in the prime of life, all of them his soldiers, whom he would mourn and whose faces he would not forget.
Lord Raglan read through the next paragraph of his despatch, forcing himself to do so, although a mist of tears obscured his vision and had constantly to be wiped away. He had paid more than generous tribute, in this part of his despatch, to the valor and devotion to duty of his French allies. Bosquet deserved the tribute, in spite of the delay he had caused, if only for the supremely courageous manner in which, caught in a Russian trap below the Sandbag Battery, he had led his Zouaves and Algerians in a brilliantly timed charge. Indeed, he had told the plump young French General so himself, in his halting French and in a moment of emotion, thanking him “in the name of England,” while Canrobert, bleeding from a slight flesh wound in the arm, looked on, beaming with pride. Yet the dead—his English dead—might not be lying now in their bloody graves, had Canrobert listened to his pleas and sent him the reinforcements whose presence might well have deterred the Russians from their attack on the Inkerman Ridge.
The British Commander-in-Chief stifled a sigh, as he glanced swiftly through the names of the officers of his own force whom he had commended, knowing these by heart. Sir George Brown, shot through the arm who, as always—stern old martinet that he was—had led his Light Division with efficiency and distinction, doing all and more than was expected of him. The Duke of Cambridge … well, if he had, perhaps, yielded to emotion when he had lost contact with most of his Guards in the chaos which had followed their wild charge into the ravine below the Sandbag Battery, his emotion was understandable. The Guards were his pride; he held himself personally responsible for them whenever they were in action and previously, at the Alma, he had displayed a similar concern for his men. Apart from this one incident, His Royal Highness had behaved admirably. Cut off and with his Colours threatened, he had extricated himself and the hundred or so Guardsmen who had remained with him and had then held his ground until the French, belatedly attacking the enemy on the flank, had relieved the pressure on his position. The Navy, in the persons of the dashing Captain Peel, of HMS Diamond, and his aide-de-camp, a youthful midshipman, who had been present in the role of spectators, had joined the Guards in the defence of their Colours, earning a warm commendation from the Duke of Cambridge but … Admiral Lyon would see to it that this was passed on to the Admiralty Board. His own report would be confined to the Army … Lord Raglan’s white brows met in a thoughtful pucker. There were so many deserving of his commendation but in this, his first official communication concerning the battle for Inkerman, he must confine himself to those in command.
In explanation, he had written: “I will, in a subsequent despatch, lay before your grace the names of the officers whose services have been brought to my notice. I will not detain the mail for that purpose now; but I cannot delay to report the admirable behavior of Lieutenant-General Sir George Brown … of Lieutenant-General his Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge, who particularly distinguished himself; and of Major-General Pennefather, in command of the Second Division, which received the first attack, and gallantly maintained itself, under the greatest difficulties, throughout this protracted conflict; of Major-General Bentinck, who is severely wounded; Major-General Codrington, Brigadier-General Adams, and Brigadier-General Torrens, who are severely wounded; and Brigadier-General Buller, who is also wounded. …
“Lieutenant-General Sir George de Lacy Evans, who had been obliged, though a severe indisposition, to go on board ship a few days previously, left his bed as soon as he received intelligence of the attack, and was promptly at his post; and, though he did not feel well enough to take command of the (Second) Division out of the hands of Major-General Pennefather, he did not fail to give him his best advice and assistance… .
“It is deeply distressing to me to have to submit to your grace the list of the killed, wounded and missing … it is indeed heavy, and very ma
ny valuable officers and men have been lost to Her Majesty’s service. Among the killed your grace will find the names of Lieutenant-General the Hon. Sir G. Cathcart, Brigadier-General Strangeways, and Brigadier-General Goldie. …”
Once again, as he read through the brief tribute he had paid to each of his general officers, the British Commanderin-Chief had to wipe the tears from his eyes with his single hand. The face of the gallant old Strangeways still haunted him, caught and held in his memory with such poignant clarity. It had been a strange battle, he reflected, to have cost the lives of so many brigade and divisional commanders and he supposed he was fortunate, in that it had not claimed his own. He read the final page of the despatch.
“It is difficult to arrive at any positive conclusion as to the actual numbers brought into the field by the enemy … but judging from the numbers that were seen in the plains after they had withdrawn in retreat, I am led to suppose that they could not have been less than 60,000 men. Their loss was excessive, and it is calculated that they left on the field near 5,000 dead, and that their causalities amount in the whole, in killed, wounded and prisoners, to not less than 15,000. Your grace will be surprised to learn that the number of British troops actually engaged little exceeded 8,000 men, while those of General Bosquet’s division only amounted to 6,000, the remaining French troops on the spot having been kept in reserve. I ought here to mention that, while the enemy was attacking our right, they assailed the left of the French trenches, and actually got into two of their batteries, but they were quickly driven out in the most gallant manner with considerable loss, and hotly pursued to the very walls of Sebastopol. …”
Lord Raglan picked up his pen, carefully signed the despatch and, attaching the casualty list to it, laid both ready for General Airey, his Quartermaster-General and Chief of Staff, to attend to when he came on duty. All in all, he thought wearily, perhaps a casualty list of 2,575 was not excessive, in view of the nature of the ground on which the battle had been fought, the poor visibility, and the numbers involved. No doubt Canrobert, in his despatch to the Emperor, would claim the ghastly shambles as a victory for the arms of France … and Prince Menschikoff, too, despite his appalling losses, might well inform the Tsar that his forces had made a successful sortie from their beleaguered fortress. In fact, he probably would consider it thus—as one young British captain had commented, “the Russians could well afford to lose men” … even twenty thousand of them. The British could not and the flower of his two best fighting divisions, Lord Raglan reflected sadly, had been lost at Inkerman in defence of a ridge of barren rocks, which would not shelter them when the harsh Crimean winter set in.
In defence of the inadequate and already over-congested port of Balaclava, a scant two weeks before, all but a handful of the Light Cavalry Brigade had also perished thanks to a criminally stupid misinterpretation of his orders … and thrusting aside his papers, the British Commander-in-Chief rose and started restlessly to pace the floor of his room. So many lives sacrificed in these actions and to the terrible ravages of cholera and all to no purpose, he thought wretchedly. Had they been lost in a successful assault on Sebastopol he might, perhaps, have been conscious now of a sense of achievement, might have felt that they had not been uselessly thrown away. But Sebastopol still stood, as impregnable as it had ever been to land or sea attack, and he could already feel the chill of winter in his bones.
While he himself had never experienced a Russian winter, one of his interpreters—British Consul at Kertch until the outbreak of war—had given him a vivid description of what might be expected. “Bleak winds, heavy rain, snow and bitter cold … a cold so intense that if a man touches metal with an uncovered hand, the skin adheres to it.” These, with his troops under canvas and on trench duty, added up to a daunting prospect. But what was the alternative? Lord Raglan’s bowed shoulders lifted in a helpless shrug, as he silently replied to his own question. To abandon the Crimea and return, with the remnants of his army, across the Black Sea to Varna, there to wait until spring, when the whole complicated manoeuvre would have to be repeated … that, surely, was unthinkable? The British Government would never hear of it, there would be a public outcry at home, the morale of the brave soldiers he commanded would sink beyond the power of any General to restore it … no, no, he dared not even suggest such a course. To retire to Eupatoria was also out of the question.
He could, however, order the evacuation and abandonment of Balaclava … Lord Raglan’s frown relaxed. Balaclava, after all, was not essential and he had never intended it to be used as a permanent supply base. The siege troops and their guns could, by arrangement with the French, be supplied from Kamiesch or Kazatch—the latter, probably if Canrobert were reluctant to permit him the better equipped of the two ports. Although, in this case the use of the track from Balaclava to the upland was already, through over-use, a sea of churned-up mud. In winter, under snow and ice, it might well become impassable. Besides, the port was always vulnerable to attack from the Tchernaya Valley, as past experience had shown and, if spared from the necessity to defend the place, he could consolidate his position on the Upland plateau, shorten his over-extended perimeter, and use the men he had left under his command to the best advantage.
Suddenly revitalized, Lord Raglan went back to his desk fumbling, with his single hand, for the maps he kept there. Finding the one he wanted, he spread it out in front of him and subjected it to a careful scrutiny. It was a sketch map, drawn by a member of Sir Colin Campbell’s staff, in order to show the position of the defences for which his commander was responsible. Lord Raglan was conscious of a lifting of his earlier depression as he noted each of these and realized how many men and guns were now required to ensure the continued possession of Balaclava, not to mention the warships in and outside the harbour itself, which included a ship-of-theline, the Sanspareil, commanded by Captain Dacres.
To the sleepy-eyed servant who, roused by the sound of his movements, came in to enquire whether he wanted his breakfast, he nodded absently, and went on planning the evacuation of the port and the uses to which he could put the seamen and soldiers whose services would be available, once Balaclava was abandoned. A winter campaign would be difficult in the extreme, but he had always been painfully aware that his troops were not equipped for one. Nevertheless, it would have to be accepted now as inevitable—they had lost their last chance of taking Sebastopol before the weather changed. Canrobert had made it abundantly clear, after the Inkerman battle, that he had no intention of joining his British allies in an assault on the enemy stronghold during the next few weeks and, within a few weeks, winter would be upon them.
If only the Russians had delayed their attempt to break through his right flank by two days, Lord Raglan thought regretfully, the assault on Sebastopol—to which the French Commander-in-Chief had, at long last, agreed—would have taken place and would, in all probability have succeeded. It had been the devil’s own luck that Menschikoff should have chosen to make his sortie on 5th November, more especially since his first attack on the Inkerman Ridge, on 26th October, had been so decisively beaten off … and this, in spite of the fact that the battle for Balaclava, with its appalling butcher’s bill, had been fought the previous day. By all the laws of civilized warfare, the Russian Supreme Commander should have learned his lesson but … he had not and now, with the shelter of Sebastopol denied them, his own men would have to face all the rigours of winter—and an indefinite prolongation of the siege—as best they might.
Lord Raglan bent once more over his map, his tired eyes troubled. Balaclava must be abandoned, he decided, there was no help for it. Without the ceaseless drain upon his, alas! all too limited resources, which continued defence of the port entailed, victory might still be possible once the winter was over. Whilst the cold weather lasted the Russians, too, would find their overland communications disrupted and Sebastopol could not be supplied by sea as his own army was, since the Allied Fleets held undisputed command of the whole of the Black Sea.
/> Balaclava could not, of course, be abandoned without the loss of part of the stores already landed there but the Navy would have to take off as much as they could and the port be kept clear of transports and supply ships from now on, to enable them to do so. Sir Edmund Lyons would not like his decision, he knew. The Admiral had been obstinately determined from the outset to hold the place and it had been on his insistence that the useless little port had not been evacuated on 25th October, when all that stood between it and the Russians had been Sir Colin Campbell and his “thin red line” of 93rd Highlanders. He would have to talk the Navy’s secondin-command round to his point of view, Lord Raglan thought, not relishing the prospect. He liked and admired Lyons whose courage and enterprise, as well as his administrative ability, had impressed him immensely. He would succeed his present Commander-in-Chief, Vice-Admiral Deans Dundas, within the next two months and Lord Raglan—who had found Dundas as obstructive and overcautious as any man could be—was looking forward, with an eagerness he made no attempt to conceal, to the day when the British Fleet would be led by its present second-in-command. He … the servant entered, with his breakfast, followed by an orderly bearing a load of green wood, with which he lit the fire, not without difficulty. It spluttered, eventually, to reluctant life and, while giving out little warmth, had at least the effect of making the small room seem more cheerful.
General Airey came in a few minutes later, as always with an air of purposeful energy.
“Your staff sleep late, my lord,” he observed, referring to the absence of aides.
“Poor boys, they are tired.” Lord Raglan smiled his gentle, understanding smile. “I won’t have them disturbed before I must. They need their sleep.”