The Valiant Sailors

by V. A. Stuart

  Lord Raglan boarded Agamemnon and stayed on board throughout the day to watch the landing, frequently, in Phillip’s hearing, expressing his admiration for the way in which the sailors worked.

  “Your men are magnificent, Admiral,” he said, as he was about to make his departure. “Regardless of danger, fatigue, and, indeed, of every consideration but that of performing an arduous duty, they have overcome every obstacle and put my infantry ashore with the utmost expedition and safety.”

  “God grant this weather may continue, my lord,” Admiral Lyons answered, with a smile. “If it does, I will have all your cavalry and artillery on shore by this time tomorrow and the transports on their way back to Varna to bring up the rest.”

  The weather, however, deteriorated during the night. After raining heavily, a southerly wind sprang up which caused a strong swell in the bay and rendered the landing of either cavalry or artillery an extremely difficult and hazardous undertaking so little could be accomplished that day. On 16th the swell diminished by mid-day and, by dint of great exertions on the part of every officer and man of the Fleet, most of the remaining guns and horses were landed. The work went on next day, beginning at three in the morning and ending at eight in the evening, so that, by noon on 18th, everything had been landed. The weary bluejackets were about to pause in their labours when orders came to re-embark the tents, since the army had been unable to commandeer sufficient transport ashore to move them. The tents were followed by a number of infantry packs, which the men could not carry, and when these had been taken back to the ships, there came an urgent request for water, that on shore being brackish and undrinkable and the soldiers’ canteens empty.

  Tom Johnson, in command of Agamemnon’s boats, said unhappily to Phillip when this request was passed on to him, “We shan’t have finished, even when we have taken them their water, you know … the poor fellows are collapsing like flies from cholera and dysentery. Before nightfall I fear we shall be bringing them back to the ships in their hundreds—and God knows what we shall be able to do for them, if we do bring them back!”

  His grim prophecy proved, unfortunately, to be correct. Throughout that night and all the next day the sick were brought back to the ships they had left so recently and in such high spirits and the naval surgeons, working round the clock, did what they could to alleviate their sufferings. Many died before they could be carried to the waiting boats and hundreds more died at the end of the short but agonising journey.

  In spite of these setbacks, however, the Allied armies began the march on Sebastopol on the morning of 19th September. The French were on the right of the line, next to the beach, then the Turks and the British on the left of the line, furthest away from the sea. The men-of-war and commissariat transports of the combined Fleets followed, keeping abreast of the French and standing as close inshore as the depth of water would allow. Most of the empty transports and a number of steam frigates had been sent back to Varna for reinforcements and to embark the Heavy Cavalry Brigade, but five French and three British steamships, including Trojan, were again sent ahead to reconnoitre the mouths of the Bulganak and Alma rivers. As before Phillip experienced a pang, as he watched his old ship steam past Agamemnon on her way to discharge her mission. He had been too much occupied with his staff work for Admiral Lyons to pay even the briefest of visits to Trojan during the disembarkation but, seeing her now and recognizing Martin Fox on her quarterdeck, he promised himself that he would do so at the first opportunity.

  The report brought back, a few hours later, by the frigates, was not encouraging. The Allied armies had crossed the Bulganak at noon, without meeting any opposition, but the Russians, it seemed, were in great force on the left bank of the Alma. Dense masses of infantry had been observed in occupation of the precipitous range of hills overlooking the river, with cavalry in support. Along a two-mile front, artillery had been posted to cover the approaches to the river crossing points, from which it was evident that the Russians were preparing to dispute the Allied advance. No accurate estimate of their numbers could be made from the sea, but forty-five to fifty thousand was the most general and all the reports agreed that the Russian position was one of formidable natural strength. The character of the terrain, with its steep ravines and folds in the ground, the high cliffs on the seaward side, and the size and strength of the fortified redoubts and gun emplacements were, according to one French frigate commander, “such as to render the enemy lines of defence well nigh impregnable to a frontal attack.”

  On the morning of 20th, as the British and French line-ofbattle ships lay at anchor off the river mouth, the Russian army could be seen quite plainly. Phillip watched their preparations for battle from Agamemnon’s mizzen-top to which, with several of her other officers, he climbed soon after dawn. The Russians were, as nearly as he could judge, some two and a half to three miles from the mouth of the Alma, which put them well beyond the range of the most powerful naval guns and meant, he realized with a sinking heart, that the navy would have to be spectators when the Allied armies attacked. That they intended to launch an attack became increasingly evident as the day wore on. Through his glass, he watched first the French and then the British form up in line of march, still maintaining the order they had adhered to the previous day. The French marched in their traditional diamond formation, to the right of the line, with the Turkish infantry in reserve. The British were in “grand division,” the Light Division leading, with skirmishers spread out in front, the main body of infantry marching in double column, with a front of two divisions, and cavalry and horse artillery covering their left flank.

  Even at that distance, although reduced to the stature of toy soldiers, they presented a heart-stirring spectacle to the watchers in the tops, on the yards and in the shrouds of the anchored ships. As the well-ordered ranks, in their brilliant uniforms, moved slowly forward to cross the two miles of sloping ground which separated them from the River Alma, colours were unfurled, bugles sounded, and the bright, early morning sunshine struck a myriad dazzling reflections from lance-tip and sabre, from bayonet and unsheathed sword. Men still fell out and there were frequent halts—including a lengthy one, at ten-thirty, when the whole host came to a standstill in order to eat their mid-day meal—but the advance was steady and purposeful. To the right of the line, the leading French division—General Bosquet’s Zouaves, with the Turks and their artillery behind them—marched rapidly forward to the beat of drums, and eight light-draft French steamers led by Vauban, moved closer inshore to support them.

  The Allied plan of action had been drawn up by Marshal St Arnaud and its details made known to the Naval High Command in a dispatch that morning. Phillip had heard it discussed and was aware that Bosquet’s role was to be an attempt to turn the Russian left flank. In order to do so, his division would have to ascend the sparsely defended but almost perpendicular cliffs on the north side of the river, close to its juncture with the sea, dragging their guns with them … a feat possible only to his mountain-trained Zouaves. Their appearance on the heights was to be the signal for the remaining French divisions to launch an attack on the Russian centre, whilst the British were to endeavour to turn the right flank of the enemy, forcing the strongly held position on the hills to their front at the point of the bayonet.

  At one-twenty the eight French frigates commenced to throw shells at the heights above the river mouth and, as three bells struck from Agamemnon’s deck, Phillip watched with bated breath as the first brigade of Zouaves crossed the river and hurled themselves at the towering cliffs. Displaying an heroic disregard of danger and with the speed and agility of mountain goats, the Zouaves gained the cliff-top, manhandling their heavy field guns up the steep track, the Russian sharpshooters who had sought to contest their advance falling back before them. A force of cavalry, attempting to come to the support of their comrades, was scattered and driven back in confusion by accurate fire from Vauban’s bow guns. Her commander had brought her within a few cables’ length of the shore and, as t
he opposition melted before them, the Zouaves pressed gallantly forward, a second wave following the first. It seemed to Phillip an incredibly short time afterwards that he saw the French tricolour waving triumphantly from the highest point on the cliffs but in fact, he saw, consulting his watch, it had taken over an hour to place it there … and lines of motionless blue and red bodies bore mute witness to the lives which the Zouaves’ achievement had cost them.

  Someone touched Phillip’s arm and turning he saw that it was Tom Johnson. “Look!” Johnson pointed inland, to where the centre of the Allied line had begun to move forward. To the left, the British divisions had deployed into two parallel lines and those in the leading divisions were—evidently on orders from their Commander-in-Chief—casting themselves face downwards on the ground. They were under heavy fire from the Russian guns, without the means to retaliate, and watching them, Phillip marvelled at their disciplined steadiness.

  “The French are going into the attack, it seems,” Tom Johnson said. “Those are Canrobert’s and Prince Napoleon’s divisions, surely, about to ford the river?” Climbing higher up the ratlines, he swept his glass in a wide arc and then lowered it, looking at Phillip with a bewildered frown. “But our men are lying down. Poor fellows, the Russian batteries have found their range … it must be a ghastly ordeal to have to lie still under that concentration of fire.”

  It would be a still more ghastly ordeal, Phillip thought, when their turn came to advance to the attack. To the British front, on the north side of the river, rose a double line of heights … the first steep green hillocks, upon which densely packed squares of Russian infantry could be seen, the sun glinting on their bayonets. Behind and above rose a series of rocky plateaux on which gun batteries had been placed to command the whole of the flat, low-lying ground across which the British troops would have to advance, in order to reach and ford the river. Highest of all, steeper and more rugged, the crest of the hills held reserves of infantry and still more gun emplacements, whilst a dark mass of cavalry could just be discerned over to the left.

  This was the position which the British Army was to carry at the point of the bayonet … Phillip felt his mouth go dry. The Zouaves’ attack had been valiant enough but they had met with comparatively little opposition, since obviously the Russians had believed the hundred-foot-high cliffs they had scaled unassailable. The British soldiers would need more than valour to drive the enemy from the heights they held in such strength and depth … he sighed, lowering his own glass. He had made many friends among them and he wondered sadly how many of his friends he would see again, if Marshal St Arnaud’s plan of action were followed exactly.

  The two French divisions crossed to the south bank of the Alma but were soon pinned down by a withering fire from above. One of the two—Canrobert’s by its position—finding a certain degree of protection from the over-hanging rocks which confronted them, made a brave effort to continue the difficult ascent. Horsemen could be seen, galloping back and forth, evidently aides-de-camp bringing news of their progress to the French Commander-in-Chief.

  “Phillip …” Tom Johnson’s voice was strained. “Our men are moving now.”

  “Yes,” Phillip said, “I see them.” A cheer went up from a little group of Agamemnon’s midshipmen clinging to the shrouds as they, too, observed the scarlet-clad ranks getting to their feet at last. But the fire they had endured so stoically had taken a heavy toll … many of the men lay where they had crouched obediently an hour before, deaf now to the orders which bade them arise. The rest closed ranks and, in meticulous alignment, two deep and on a wide front, the leading British divisions began their advance. As they did so the enemy sharpshooters, who had been sniping at them from a village on the south bank of the river, withdrew from it, leaving the village ablaze behind them. A thick pall of smoke rose from the burning houses and Phillip stifled an exclamation of dismay as he saw the line of advance broken.

  Men were crossing the river to the left, under very heavy fire and the first wave to reach the high south bank and drag themselves on to it had lost all semblance of alignment. They were, however, swiftly followed by others and, still subjected to a murderous hail of grape and canister from above, the lines were reformed and the advance continued. To their rear, the following divisions reached the river and started to cross and among them Phillip could see the tall black bearskins of the Guards and the bonnets of Sir Colin Campbell’s Highland Brigade.

  “They are going straight for the guns!” Tom Johnson shouted. “My God, look at them … did you ever see such steadiness?”

  Two regiments, formed into squares facing east, remained on the river bank to challenge the advance of the Russian cavalry which was bearing down in a bid to turn the British left flank but the rest, pausing only to fire two rapid volleys, charged up the first green hillock and drove the Russian infantry back in confusion. Great gaps were torn in their ranks when the heavy guns in a well-entrenched redoubt above them opened fire, but the gaps were filled, as other men scrambled up the river bank to fill the places of those who had fallen. One by one the tightly packed Russian infantry squares guarding the lower slopes wavered and took flight, seeking the protection of their own guns, rather than face the cold steel of the British bayonets.

  The straggling, irregular line of red-coated soldiers fought their way tenaciously upwards. They reached the first redoubt and dragged themselves on to the parapet … a regimental Colour was planted there, to fly in brave defiance held aloft by the bodies of the men who had borne it so gallantly into the mouths of the guns. With the rest of his fellow-watchers, Phillip cheered spontaneously when the Russians were seen to be limbering up their guns and carrying them to the rear in panic-stricken flight.

  The enemy reserves moved forward but they, too, unnerved by the dauntless steadiness of the British advance, failed to halt it. Nowhere more than two deep, the British line was hurled back and reformed, yet it did not break. As men were mown down in the terrible hail of shot and shell directed at them from point-blank range, there were always others to take their places and the advance continued. The smoke of battle was so thick about them that, for long moments at a time, Phillip had to strain his eyes to see them.

  But then they were leaping over the top of the earthwork which had shielded a battery of a dozen heavy guns and their resounding cheers could be heard on board the ships, even above the continued roar of gunfire. This came from British guns now, as the horse artillery galloped up to unlimber their guns and direct a deadly infilading fire upon the fleeing Russians.

  In the centre of the line, the French, too—hidden for a time by the high cliffs—had managed to gain their objective. The crest of the plateau they had so heroically assaulted was crowned now, Phillip saw, with the tricolour and Canrobert’s field guns, brought up the steep hillside with such infinite labour, were opening fire on the enemy. By four o’clock the battle was over, the victory certain and the Russian army streaming in precipitate flight towards Sebastopol, leaving their thousands of dead and wounded behind them.

  “It is over,” Tom Johnson said and expelled his breath in a deep sigh. “And, whilst I know that it was a glorious victory for our armies, I pray to God I may never be called upon to witness its like again, Phillip. Certainly”—his mouth twisted into a wry grimace—“not in the role of a spectator, from the masthead of my ship. The butcher’s bill will be high, I fear. Well, let’s report to the deck, shall we? There will be work for us to do now.” He started to descend and Phillip, flexing his cramped limbs, followed him at once. There would be much for the naval spectators to do now, he knew, in caring for the wounded and bringing them back to the ships… .

  2

  Admiral Lyons went swiftly to work, mobilising all the resources at his command, so that immediate help might be given to the army where it was most needed. Captain Mends and Captain Dacres were sent ashore, with the Admiral’s Secretary, Frederick Cleeve, to ascertain Lord Raglan’s wishes in this regard. All the surgeons who could be spa
red from their ships were ordered to assist their military colleagues in the regimental hospitals and dressing stations on shore. Where no hut or other form of shelter could be found, tarpaulins were erected to serve as surgical bivouacs, where the doctors could work close to the battlefield. Although only a few hours of daylight remained, parties of seamen and marines were landed with hammocks, slung on oars, to serve as stretchers, and ordered to bring down as many wounded as they could.

  Phillip took command of one of these parties and, having established Agamemnon’s two assistant-surgeons in an improvised operating theatre at the foot of the hill which the Light and Second Divisions had stormed, he and his party carried wounded fusiliers and guardsmen down to them for treatment. They worked for as long as the light lasted, sickened and appalled by the hideous carnage, and soon the improvised operating theatre was filled to its limit and beyond with the mutilated bodies of the soldiers who had fought so well. The two surgeons amputated limbs, extracted Minié balls, and dressed wounds until their supplies of dressings were exhausted. Still the number of suffering men requiring their attention grew and, by the light of lanterns brought from the ship, they worked on, in shirtsleeves, the sweat—despite the chill of the night—half-blinding them as it poured down their white, exhausted faces.