.
from Ashton-under-Lyne, Hyde, and Compstall, as well as those who had been occupying the hills on the edge of the Peak, had been pushed right past Stretford to Barton, and were now advancing like a huge fan, outflanking the Russians and attacking them in their rear.
The British tactics were excellent, for while the invaders were attacked by cavalry and infantry on the one side, the defenders manning the barricades made a sudden sortie, cutting their way into them with bayonet rushes which they could not withstand, and which had a terribly fatal effect.
The Tsar's forces, unable to advance or retreat, and being thus completely surrounded, still fought on, and as they refused to surrender, were literally massacred by thousands by British troops, while many guns and horses were captured, thousands of rounds of ammunition seized, and many men taken prisoners.
The fight in that evening hour was the most fiercely contested of any during that day. The fate of Manchester was in the hands of our gallant soldiers, who, although necessarily losing heavily before such an enormous army, behaved with a courage that was magnificent, and which was deserving the highest commendation that could be bestowed.
As dusk gathered into darkness, the enemy were being forced back towards the Mersey over the roads they had so recently travelled, but still fighting, selling their lives dearly. The highways and fields were strewn with their dead and dying, for while infantry fired into their front from the cover of houses and walls, our cavalry, with whirling sabres, fell upon them and hacked them to pieces. Neither Cossacks nor Dragoons proved a match for our Hussars, Lancers, and Yeomanry, and even in face of the machine guns which the Russians brought into play in an endeavour to break the line and escape, our infantry dashed on with grand and magnificent charges, quickly seizing the Nordenfelts, turning their own guns against them, and letting loose a fire that mowed down hundreds.
Across the neighbouring country our forces swept in good attack formation, and all along that great line, nearly six miles in length, the slaughter of Russians was frightful.
In the falling gloom fire flashed from the muzzles of rifles, cannon, and machine guns, and far above the terrible din sounded shrill cries of pain and hoarse shouts of despair as the great Army that had devastated our beloved country with fire and sword was gradually annihilated. In those roads in the south of the city the scenes of bloodshed were awful, as a force of over 20,000 Russians were slaughtered because they would not yield up their arms.
Outside Stretford a last desperate stand was made, but ere long some British cavalry came thundering along, and cut them down in a frightful manner, while about the same time a Russian flying column was annihilated over at Davy-Hulme; away at Carrington a retreating brigade of infantry which had escaped over the river was suddenly pounced upon by the defenders and slaughtered; and at Altrincham the enemy's headquarters were occupied, and the staff taken prisoners. Ere the Russian General could be forced to surrender, however, he placed a revolver to his head, and in full view of a number of his officers, blew his brains out.
Then, when the moon shone out from behind a dark bank of cloud just before midnight, she shed her pale light upon the wide battlefield on both sides of the Mersey, whereon lay the bodies of no fewer than 30,000 Russians and 12,000 British, while 40,000 Russians and 16,000 British lay wounded, nearly 10,000 Russians having been disarmed and marched into the centre of the city as prisoners.
The victory had only been achieved at the eleventh hour by dint of great courage and forethought, and being so swift and effectual it was magnificent.
Manchester was safe, and the public rejoicings throughout that night were unbounded.
The loss of life was too awful for reflection, for 12,000 of Britain's heroes — men who had won the battle — were lying with their white lifeless faces upturned to the twinkling stars.
BOOK III
THE VICTORY
CHAPTER XXVIII
A SHABBY WAYFARER
In Sussex the situation was now most critical. The struggle between the French invaders and the line of Volunteers defending London was long and desperate, but our civilian soldiers were bearing their part bravely, showing how Britons could fight, and day after day repelling the repeated assaults with a vigour that at once proved their efficiency.
Three days after the battle at Manchester had been fought and won, a man with slouching gait and woeful countenance, attired in a cheap suit of shabby grey, stood on the steps of the Granton Hotel, at Granton, and with his hands thrust into his pockets gazed thoughtfully out over the broad waters of the Firth of Forth, to where the Fifeshire hills loomed dark upon the horizon. Slowly his keen eyes wandered away eastward to the open sea, an extensive view of which he obtained from the flight of steps whereon he stood, and then with a sigh of disappointment he buttoned his coat, and, grasping his stick, descended, and walked at a leisurely pace along the road through Newhaven to Leith.
"To-night. To-night at sundown!" he muttered to himself, as he bent his head to the wind.
Involuntarily he placed his hand to his hip to reassure himself that a letter he carried was still safe.
"Bah!" he continued, "I declare I feel quite timid to-night. Everything is so quiet here; the houses look deserted, and everybody seems to have left the place. Surely they can have no suspicion, and — and if they had? What does it matter? — eh, what?"
Quickening his pace, he passed down the long, quaint street of Newhaven, lined on each side by ancient fishermen's cottages, and then, crossing the railway, passed under the wall of Leith Fort, whereon a couple of sentries were pacing. Glancing up at the two artillerymen, with the half-dozen obsolete guns behind them, and their background of grass-grown mounds and buildings, the wayfarer smiled. He was thinking how different would be the scene at this spot ere long.
Leith Fort was a sort of fortified back-garden. The railway ran close to the sea, parallel with which was the highway, and upon higher ground at the back was a block of buildings, before which a few black old cannon were placed in formidable array, and in such a position as to be fully exposed to any destructive projectiles fired from the sea.
On went the down-at-heel wayfarer, his shifty eyes ever on the alert, viewing with suspicion the one or two persons he met. Apparently he was expecting the arrival of some craft, for his gaze was constantly turned towards the wide expanse of grey water, eager to detect the smallest speck upon the horizon. Any one who regarded him critically might have noticed something remarkable about his appearance, yet not even his most intimate friends would have recognised in this broken-down, half-starved clerk, who had arrived at Granton that morning, after tramping over from Glasgow, the popular man-about-town, the Count von Beilstein!
"Those fools will soon be swept away into eternity," he muttered to himself, as he glanced back in the direction of the fort. "They will have an opportunity of tasting Russian lead, and of practising with their guns, which are only fit for a museum. They mount guard to defend an attack! Bah! They seek their own destruction, for no force can withstand that which will presently appear to give them a sudden rousing. They will be elevated — blown into the air, together with their miserable guns, their barracks, and the whole of their antiquated paraphernalia. And to me the world owes this national catastrophe! I am the looker-on. These British have a proverb that the looker-on sees most of the game. Bien! that is full of truth."
And he chuckled to himself, pursuing his way at the same pace, now and then glancing back as if to assure himself that no one dogged his footsteps. Darkness had crept on quickly as he passed along through the open country at Fillyside and entered Portobello, the little watering-place so popular with holiday makers from Edinburgh during the summer. Along the deserted promenade he strolled leisurely from end to end, and passing out of the town through Joppa, came at length to that rugged shore between