The Book of the V.C. A. L. Haydon
we read of how badly they were clothed and fed, of what little provision there was for the care of the wounded, and altogether of the gross mismanagement that characterised the conduct of the campaign, we feel all the more pride that our men fought so well and achieved so much success in the face of such tremendous odds.
The tale of those eleven months, from October 1854 to September 1855, is one of sorties, of sapping and mining, of desperate deeds done in the trenches in the dead of night, of the gradual reducing of the Sebastopol outworks. Great things were done by our men at the attacks on the Mamelon Tower and the Redan, and by the French at the storming of the Malakoff, the capture of the last-named giving the command of the fortress. On the night that the Malakoff fell the Russians evacuated the town, and Sebastopol was taken possession of by the Allies.
By the Peace of Paris, which was concluded on March 30th, 1856, the war came to an end, and our army, sadly reduced in numbers by cholera and other diseases, more than by the enemy’s shells and bullets, returned home.
In giving an outline of the Crimean campaign mention must not be omitted of the British fleet sent into the Baltic at an early stage in the hostilities. This fleet was unsuccessful in doing much damage to the Russian ships which sought refuge behind the strong fortresses of Cronstadt and Sveaborg, but it stormed and took Bomarsund and the Äland Islands. In the following year (1855) it renewed the attack, and after a determined bombardment succeeded in partially destroying Sveaborg.
It was in this naval campaign, and in the operations in the Black Sea and Sea of Azov, that our Bluejackets and Marines did such signal service, and that several of them won the right to put V.C. after their names.
Five of the Crosses won at the battle of the Alma were gained in defence of the colours.
In the advance on the Russian batteries which were posted on the heights, the 23rd Royal Welsh Fusiliers formed one of the regiments on the left wing, the French attacking on the right. It was a perilous climb up the precipitous rocky slopes, and particularly so for a marked man like he who bore the colours. Young Lieutenant Anstruther, a mere lad of eighteen, who proudly carried the Queen’s colours, learnt this to his cost, for when he was within a few yards of the nearest Russian earthwork a bullet through the heart laid him low.
In a moment a private had caught up the silken banner now sadly stained with blood, but Sergeant Luke O’Connor, a young Irishman of twenty-four, who had followed close on poor Anstruther’s heels and had been himself struck down, regained his feet although badly wounded in the breast, and claimed the flag. “Come on, 23rd!” he shouted. “Follow me!”
It was in vain that the gallant sergeant was ordered to the rear to have his wound attended to; he refused to abandon the colours, and right through that fierce fight he accompanied the Fusiliers, bearing a charmed life, as was made evident later. When the flag was inspected at the close of the action it was found to be riddled with bullet holes, having been hit in at least twenty-six places.
O’Connor received a commission for his bravery on this occasion in addition to the Cross for Valour, but he did not exchange from the regiment. Loyal to the corps he loved, he remained in it, and in time rose to command it.
On the same day another Welsh Fusilier, Captain Bell, distinguished himself by capturing a Russian gun which was limbered up and being dragged from the redoubt. Leaving his company and dashing after it alone, he pointed his revolver at the head of the driver, who incontinently dismounted and bolted.
A private then coming to his aid, Captain Bell turned the gun team round, and was returning in triumph to his comrades when Sir George Brown, his superior officer, angrily ordered him back to his place in the regiment, reprimanding him for having quitted it without leave. He had to relinquish the gun forthwith, but some hours later, when he and his remnant of men marched in, he learnt to his great satisfaction that the gun was still in the English lines. The captured horses, it is recorded, were employed in one of our batteries for some time afterwards, while the gun itself was taken to Woolwich, where I believe it is still to be seen.
For this action, which had not escaped notice despite his commander’s rebuke, Captain Bell received the Cross, but had it not been awarded then he would have undoubtedly won it later at Inkerman, where he displayed exceptional gallantry. Both O’Connor and Captain Bell became Major-Generals in after years; the ex-sergeant of the Welsh Fusiliers, who is still in the land of the living, enjoying the distinction of being one of the two V.C.’s who have risen to that high grade from the ranks.
The second of the Crosses bestowed for defending the colours fell to Lieutenant Lindsay, of the Scots Fusilier Guards, afterwards well known as Lord Wantage.
At a critical moment in the battle an order given to the Royal Welsh to retire was mistaken by the Scots Guards as meant for them, and they began to retreat in considerable disorder. Lieutenant Lindsay, who carried the regimental colours, stood his ground with his escort, endeavouring in vain to rally the broken ranks. The tide of men swept past him to the rear, however, and the little knot of soldiers round the colours was isolated. In this perilous position they were fiercely attacked by a body of Russians, the escort falling almost to a man, and leaving Lindsay and a fellow-officer to stand back to back and keep off the enemy with revolvers.
Help was speedily forthcoming, however. Seeing their officer’s danger, Sergeants Knox and M’Kechnie, with Private Reynolds, hastened to his side and successfully held the Russians in check until the regiment re-formed and advanced again. All three men, it is satisfactory to add, were similarly decorated.
Of Sergeant Knox more was heard later, especially at the storming of the Redan, where he lost an arm. By this time he had been promoted to a lieutenancy and transferred to the Rifle Brigade, from which he subsequently retired with the rank of Major.
CHAPTER III.
THE CRIMEA.—IN THE BALACLAVA CHARGES.
It is not remembered as it should be that there were two brilliant charges made at Balaclava, on that grey day of October 25th, 1854. Tennyson’s stirring lines in honour of the Charge of the Light Brigade have given enduring fame to the “noble Six Hundred,” but the exploit of the “Three Hundred,” the Heavy Brigade, should make the name of Balaclava equally thrilling to us.
The Heavy Brigade was composed of squadrons of the 4th and 5th Dragoon Guards, Scots Greys, Inniskilling Dragoons, and the 1st Royals, under the command of Brigadier-General Yorke Scarlett. At an early stage of the fight Scarlett was proceeding with his brigade to the support of the “thin red line” which was bearing the brunt of the Russian attack, when suddenly a huge mass of Russian cavalry, Cossacks and others, 3000 strong, loomed up on the heights to their left.
The situation was a perilous one, as the General saw in a glance. The launching of that great crowd of Russians upon the valley below meant annihilation for his little force. With a quick command to “wheel into line,” Scarlett gave orders for the brigade to form up, facing the enemy. By some blunder, however, the movement was not properly executed, and when the Russians flung out in a wide-spreading crescent to envelop the few hundreds of British redcoats below them, two squadrons of the Scots Greys with one of the 6th Inniskillings were left in front to receive the first shock of the attack.
With that menacing horde of grey-coated, black-bearded Russians, poised like a hawk about to swoop upon its prey, there was no time for pause. Shrill on the air the “Charge!” rang out, and with Scarlett leading them, the little advance body of “Heavies”—300 men of the Scots Greys and Inniskillings—dashed off to meet the foe.
We have no such details of the fight as were forthcoming after the Charge of the Light Brigade, but we know that it was a most desperate affair. For every one of that handful of men, flung into a mass of the enemy that outnumbered them many times over, it was a hand-to-hand struggle for life of the most heroic kind. For a few moments they were lost to sight. Then out of the heaving, surging multitude the black bearskins and brass helmets of the Scotsmen and Irishmen broke into