The Interpreter: A Tale of the War
CHAPTER XXXVII
"A QUIET NIGHT"
On an elevated plateau, sloping downward to a ravine absolutely pavedwith iron, in the remains of shot and shell fired from the town duringits protracted and vigorous defence, are formed in open column "theduties" from the different regiments destined to carry on the siege forthe next four-and-twenty hours. Those who are only accustomed to seeBritish soldiers marshalled neat and orderly in Hyde Park, ormanoeuvring like clock-work in "the Phoanix," would hardly recognise inthat motley, war-worn band the staid and uniform figures which they areaccustomed to contemplate with pride and satisfaction as the"money's-worth" of a somewhat oppressive taxation. TheHighlanders--partly from the fortune of war, partly from the nature oftheir dress--are less altered from their normal exterior than the restof the army, and the Guardsman's tall figure and bear-skin cap stillstamp him a Guardsman, notwithstanding patched clothing and much-wornaccoutrements; but some of the line regiments, which have sufferedconsiderably during the siege, present the appearance of regular troopsonly in their martial bearing and the scrupulous discipline observedwithin their ranks. To the eye of a soldier, however, there issomething very pleasing and "workmanlike" in the healthy, confident airof the men, and the "matter-of-course" manner in which they seem tocontemplate the duty before them. Though their coats may be out atelbows, their firelocks are bright and in good order, while thehavresacks and canteens slung at their sides seem to have been carefullyreplenished with a view to keeping up that physical vigour and staminafor which the British soldier is so celebrated, and which, with his firmreliance on his officers, and determined bull-dog courage, render him soirresistible an enemy.
There are no troops who are so little liable to panic--whose _morale_,so to speak, it is so difficult to impair, as our own. Napoleon saidthey "never knew when they were beaten." And how often has thisgenerous ignorance saved them from defeat! Long may it be ere theylearn the humiliating lesson! But that they are not easily disheartenedmay be gathered from the following anecdote, for the truth of which manya Crimean officer will readily vouch:--
Two days after the disastrous attack of the 18th of June, 1855, aprivate soldier on fatigue duty was cleaning the door-step in front ofLord Raglan's quarters; but his thoughts were running on far othermatters than holystone and whitewash, for on a staff officer of highrank emerging from the sacred portal, he stopped the astonishedfunctionary with an abrupt request to procure him an immediate interviewwith the Commander-in-Chief.
"If you please, Colonel," said the man, standing at "attention," andspeaking as if it was the most natural thing in the world, "if it's nottoo great a liberty, I wants to see the General immediate andparticular!"
"Impossible! my good fellow," replied the Colonel--who, like most bravemen, was as good-natured as he was fearless--"if you have any complaintto make, tell it me; you may be sure it will reach Lord Raglan, and ifit is just, it will be attended to."
"Well, sir, it's not exactly a complaint," replied the soldier, nowutterly neglecting the door-step, "but more a request, like; and Iwanted to see his lordship special, if so be as it's not contrary toorders."
The Colonel could hardly help laughing at the coolness with which soflagrant a military solecism was urged, but repeated that Lord Raglanwas even then engaged with General Pelissier, and that the most he coulddo for his importunate friend was to receive his message and deliver itto the Commander-in-Chief at a favourable opportunity.
The man reflected an instant, and seemed satisfied. "Well, Colonel," hesaid, "we _knows you_, and we _trusts_ you. I speak for myself andcomrades, and what I've got to say to the General is this here. We madea bad business o' Monday, and we knows the reason why. You let _us_alone. There's plenty of us to do it; only you give us leave, and issuean order that not an officer nor a non-commissioned officer is tointerfere, and _we_, the private soldiers of the British army, will havethat place for you if we pull the works down with our fingers, and crackthe stones with our teeth!"
"And what," said the Colonel, utterly aghast at this unheard-ofproposal, "what----"
"What time will we be under arms to do it?" interrupted the delighteddelegate, never doubting but that his request was now as good asgranted,--"why, at three o'clock to-morrow morning; and you see,Colonel, when the thing's done, if me and my company _wasn't the firstlads in!_"
Such is the material of which these troops are made who are now waitingpatiently to be marched down to the nightly butchery of the trenches.
"It reminds one of the cover-side at home," remarked Ropsley, as wecantered up to the parade, and dismounted; "one meets fellows from allparts of the camp, and one hears all the news before the sport begins.There goes the French relief," he added, as our allies went slinging by,their jaunty, disordered step, and somewhat straggling line of march,forming as strong a contrast to the measured tramp and regular movementsof our own soldiers, as did their blue frock-coats and crimson trousersto the _veritable rouge_ for which they had conceived so high aveneration. Ere they have quite disappeared, our own column is formed.The brigade-major on duty has galloped to and fro, and seen toeverything with his own eyes. Company officers, in rags and tatters,with swords hung sheathless in worn white belts, and wicker-coveredbottles slung in a cord over the hip, to balance the revolver on theother side,--and brave, gentle hearts beating under those tarnisheduniforms, and sad experiences of death, and danger, and hardship behindthose frank faces, and honest, kindly smiles,--have inspected their menand made their reports, and "fallen in" in their proper places; and theword is given, and its head moves off--"By the left; quick march!"--andthe column winds quietly down into the valley of the shadow of death.
Ropsley is field-officer of the night, and I accompany him on hisresponsible duty, for I would fain see more of the town that has been inall our thoughts for so long, and learn how a siege is urged on sogigantic a scale.
The sun is just setting, and gilds the men's faces, and the tufts ofarid grass above their heads in the deepening ravine, with a tawnyorange hue, peculiar to a sunset in the East. The evening isbeautifully soft and still, but the dust is suffocating, rising as itdoes in clouds from the measured tread of so many feet; and there is afeeling of depression, a weight in the atmosphere, such as I have oftenobserved to accompany the close of day on the shores of the Black Sea.Even the men seem to feel its influence--the whispered jest, the readysmile which usually accompanies a march, is wanting; the youngest ensignlooks thoughtful, and as if he were brooding on his far-off home; andthe lines deepen on many a bearded countenance as we wind lower andlower down the ravine, and reach the first parallel, which to some nowpresent must be so forcible a reminder of disappointed hopes, fruitlesssacrifices, and many a true and hearty comrade who shall be friend andcomrade no more.
Ropsley has a plan of the works in his hand, which he studies with eagerattention. He hates soldiering--so he avows--yet is he an intelligentand trustworthy officer. With his own ideas on many points at variancewith the authorities, and which he never scruples to avow, he yetrigidly carries out every duty entrusted to him, and if the war shouldlast, promises to ascend the ladder as rapidly as any of his comrades.It is not the path he would have chosen to distinction, nor are theprivations and discomforts of a soldier's life at all in harmony withhis refined perceptions and luxurious habits; but he has embarked on thecareer, and, true to his principle, he is determined to "make the mostof it." I think, too, that I can now perceive in Ropsley a spice ofromance foreign to his earlier character. It is a quality withoutwhich, in some shape or other, nothing great was ever yet achieved onearth. Yet how angry would he be if he knew that I had thought he had agrain of it in his strong practical character, which he flatters himselfis the very essence of philosophy and common-sense.
As we wind slowly up the now well-trodden covered way of the firstparallel, from the shelter of which nothing can be seen of the attack ordefence, I am forcibly reminded of the passages in a
theatre, which onethreads with blindfold confidence, in anticipation of the blaze of lightand excitement on which one will presently emerge. Ropsley smiles at theconceit as I whisper it in his ear.
"What odd fancies you have!" says he, looking up from the plan on whichhe has been bending his earnest attention. "Well, you won't have longto wait for the opera; there's the first bar of the overture already!"As he speaks he pulls me down under the embankment, while a shower ofdust and gravel, and a startling explosion immediately in front, warn usthat the enemy has thrown a shell into the open angle of the trench,with a precision that is the less remarkable when we reflect how manymonths he has been practising to attain it.
"Very neatly done," observes Ropsley, rising from his crouching attitudewith the greatest coolness; "they seldom trouble one much so soon asthis. Probably a compliment to you, Egerton," he adds, laughing. "Nowlet us see what the damage is."
Stiff and upright as the ramrod in his firelock, which rattles to hissalute, a sergeant of the Guards marches up and makes hisreport:--"Privates Wood and Jones wounded slightly, sir; Lance-corporalSmithers killed."
They pass us as they are taken to the rear; the lance-corporal has beenshot through the heart, and must have died instantaneously. His face iscalm and peaceful, his limbs are disposed on the stretcher as if heslept. Poor fellow! 'Tis quick work, and in ten minutes he isforgotten. My first feeling is one of astonishment, at my own hardnessof heart in not being more shocked at his fate.
So we reach the advanced trenches without more loss. It is now gettingquite dark, for the twilight in these latitudes is but of shortduration. A brisk fire seems to be kept up on the works of our allies,responded to by the French gunners with ceaseless activity; but our ownattack is comparatively unmolested, and Ropsley makes his arrangementsand plants his sentries in a calm, leisurely way that inspires theyoungest soldier with confidence, and wins golden opinions from theveterans who have spent so many bleak and weary nights beforeSebastopol.
We are now in the advanced trenches. Not three hundred paces to ourfront are yawning the deadly batteries of the Redan. The night is darkas pitch. Between the intervals of the cannonade, kept up so vigorouslyfar away on our right, we listen breathlessly as the night-breeze sweepsdown to us from the town, until we can almost fancy we hear the Russianstalking within their works. But the "pick, pick" of our own men'stools, as they enlarge the trench, and their stifled whispers andcautious tread, deaden all other sounds. Each man works with hisfirelock in his hand; he knows how soon it may be needed. Yet thesoldier's ready jest and quaint conceit is ever on the lip, and many aburst of laughter is smothered as it rises, and enjoyed all the morekeenly for the constraint.
"Not so much noise there," says Ropsley, in his quiet, authoritativetone, as the professed buffoon of the light company indulges in a morelively sally than usual; "I'll punish any man that speaks above awhisper. Come, my lads," he adds good-humouredly, "keep quiet now, andperhaps it will be OUR turn before the night is over!" The men returnto their work with a will, and not another word is heard in the ranks.
The officers have established a sort of head-quarters as a _placed'armes_, or re-assembling spot, near the centre of their own "attack."Three or four are coiled up in different attitudes, beguiling the long,dark hours with whispered jests and grave speculations as to theintentions of the enemy. Here a stalwart captain of Highlandersstretches his huge frame across the path, puffing forth volumes of smokefrom the short black pipe that has accompanied him through the wholewar--the much-prized "cutty" that was presented to him by his father'sforester when he shot the royal stag in the "pass abune Craig-Owar";there a slim and dandy rifleman passes a wicker-covered flask ofbrandy-and-water to a tall, sedate personage who has worked his waythrough half-a-dozen Indian actions to be senior captain in a lineregiment, and who, should he be fortunate enough to survive the presentsiege, may possibly arrive at the distinguished rank of a Brevet-Major.He prefers his own bottle of cold tea; as it gurgles into his lips theHighlander pulls a face of disgust.
"Take those long, indecent legs of yours out of the way, Sandy," says amerry voice, the owner of which, stumbling over these brawny limbs inthe darkness, makes his way up to Ropsley, and whispers a few words inhis ear which seem to afford our Colonel much satisfaction.
"You couldn't have done it better," says he to the new arrival, a youngofficer of engineers, the "bravest of the brave," and the "gayest of thegay;" "I could have spared you a few more men, but it is better as itis. I hate harassing our fellows, if we can help it. What will youhave to drink?"
"A drain at the flask first, Colonel," answers the light-heartedsoldier; "I've been on duty now, one way or another, for eight-and-fortyhours, and I'm about beat. Sandy, my boy, give us a whiff out of 'thecutty.' I'll sit by you. You remind me of an opera-dancer in thatdress. Mind you dine with me to-morrow, if you're not killed."
The Highlander growls out a gruff affirmative. He delights in hisvolatile friend; but he is a man of few words, although his arm isweighty and his brain is clear.
A shell shrieks and whistles over our heads. We mark it revolving,bright and beautiful, like a firework through the darkness. It lightsfar away to our rear, and bounds once more from the earth ere itexplodes with a loud report.
"Not much mischief done by that gentleman," observes Ropsley, taking thecigar from his mouth; "he must have landed clear of all our people. Weshall soon have another from the same battery. I wish I knew what theyare doing over yonder," he adds, pointing significantly in the directionof the Redan.
"I think I can find out for you, Colonel," says the engineer; "I amgoing forward to the last 'sap,' and I shall not be very far from themthere. Your sharpshooters are just at the corner, Green," he adds tothe rifleman, "won't you come with me?" The latter consents willingly,and as they rise from their dusty lair I ask leave to accompany them,for my curiosity is fearfully excited, and I am painfully anxious toknow what the enemy is about. The last "sap" is a narrow and shallowtrench, the termination of which is but a short distance from theRussian work. It is discontinued at the precipitous declivity whichhere forms one side of the well-known Woronzoff ravine; and from thisspot, dark as it is, the sentry can be discerned moving to and fro--adusky, indistinct figure--above the parapet of the Redan.
The engineer officer and Green of the Rifles seat themselves on the veryedge of the ravine; the former plucks a blade or two of grass and flingsthem into the air.
"They can't hear us with this wind," says he. "What say you, Green;wouldn't it be a good lark to creep in under there, and make out whatthey're doing?"
"I'm game!" says Green, one of those dare-devil young gentlemen to befound amongst the subalterns of the British army, who would make thesame reply were it a question of crossing that glacis in the full glareof day to take the work by assault single-handed. "Put your sword off,that's all, otherwise you'll make such a row that our own fellows willthink they're attacked, and fire on us like blazes. Mind you, my chapshave had lots of practice, and can hit a haystack as well as theirneighbours. Now then, are you ready? Come on."
The engineer laughed, and unbuckled his sabre.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Egerton, in case I shouldn't see you again," saidhe; and so the two crept silently away upon their somewhat hazardousexpedition.
I watched their dark figures with breathless interest. The sky hadlifted a little, and there was a ray or two of moonlight strugglingfitfully through the clouds. I could just distinguish the two Englishofficers as they crawled on hands and knees amongst the slabs of rockand inequalities of ground which now formed their only safety. Ishuddered to think that if I could thus distinguish their forms, why notthe Russian riflemen?--and what chance for them then, with twenty orthirty "Minies" sighted on them at point-blank distance? However,"Fortune favours the brave;" the light breeze died away, and the moonwas again obscured. I could see them no longer, and I knew that by thistime they must have got within a very few paces of the enemy'sbatteries, an
d that discovery was now certain death. The ground, too,immediately under the Russian work was smoother and less favourable toconcealment than under our own. The moments seemed to pass very slowly.I scarcely dared to move, and the tension of my nerves was absolutelypainful, every faculty seeming absorbed in one concentrated effort oflistening.
Suddenly a short, sharp stream of light, followed by the quick, angryreport of the Minie--then another and another--they illumine the nightfor an instant; and during that instant I strain my eyes in vain todiscover the two dark creeping forms. And now a blinding glare fillsour trenches--the figures of the men coming out like phantoms in theirdifferent attitudes of labour and repose. The enemy has thrown afire-ball into our works to ascertain what we are about. Like thepilot-fish before the shark, that brilliant messenger is soon succeededby its deadly followers, and ere I can hurry back to the rallying-pointof the attack, where I have left Ropsley and his comrades, a couple ofshells have already burst amongst our soldiers, dealing around themtheir quantum of wounds and death, whilst a couple more are wingingtheir way like meteors over our heads, to carry the alarm far to therear, where the gallant blue-jackets have established a tremendousbattery, and are at this moment in all probability chafing and frettingthat they are not nearer the point of danger.
"Stand to your arms! Steady, men, steady!" is the word passed fromsoldier to soldier along the ranks, and the men spring like lions to theparapet, every heart beating high with courage, every firelock heldfirmly at the charge. They are tired of "long bowls" now, and wouldfain have it out with the bayonet.
The fire from the Redan lights up the intervening glacis, and as I rushhurriedly along the trench, stooping my head with instinctiveprecaution, I steal a glance or two over the low parapet, which shows methe figure of a man running as hard as his legs can carry him towardsour own rallying-point. He is a mark for fifty Russian rifles, but hespeeds on nevertheless. His cheery voice rings through all the noiseand confusion, as he holloas to our men not to fire at him.
"Hold on, my lads," he says, leaping breathlessly into the trench; "I'vehad a precious good run for it. Where's the Colonel?"
His report is soon made. It is the young officer of engineers who thusreturns in haste from his reconnoitring expedition. His companion,Green, has reached his own regiment by another track, for they wiselyseparated when they found themselves observed, and strange to say,notwithstanding the deadly fire through which they have "run thegauntlet," both are unwounded. The engineer confers with Ropsley in alow voice.
"They only want to draw off our attention, Colonel," says he; "I amquite sure of it. When I was under the Redan I could hear large bodiesof men moving towards their left. That is the point of attack, dependupon it. There they go on our right! I told you so. Now we shall haveit, hot and heavy, or I'm mistaken."
Even while he speaks a brisk fire is heard to open on our right flank.The clouds clear off, too, and the moon, now high in the heavens, shinesforth unveiled. By her soft light we can just discern a dark,indistinct mass winding slowly along across an open space of groundbetween the Russian works. The rush of a round-shot from one of our ownbatteries whizzes over our heads. That dusky column wavers, separates,comes together again, and presses on. Ropsley gets cooler and cooler,for it is coming at last.
"Captain McDougal," says he to that brawny warrior, who does not lookthe least like an opera-dancer now, as he rears his six feet of vigouron those stalwart supporters, "I can spare all the Highlanders; formthem directly, and move to your right flank. Do not halt till you reachthe ground I told you of. The Rifles and our own light company willstand fast! Remainder, right, form four deep--march!"
There is an alarm along the whole line. Our allies are engaged in abrisk cannonade for their share, and many an ugly missile hisses pastour ears from the foe, or whistles over our heads from our own supports.Is it to be a general attack?--a second Inkermann, fought out bymoonlight? Who knows? The uncertainty is harassing, yet attended withits own thrilling excitement--half a pleasure, half a pain.
A few of our own people (we cannot in the failing light discover to whatregiment they belong) are giving way before a dense mass of Russianinfantry that outnumber them a hundred to one. They have shown adetermined front for a time, but they are sorely pressed andoverpowered, and by degrees they give back more and more. The truth mustout--they are on the point of turning tail and running away. A littlefiery Irishman stands out in front of them; a simple private is he inthe regiment, and never likely to reach a more exalted rank, for, likeall great men, he has a darling weakness, and the temptation to which hecannot but succumb is inebriety--the pages of the Defaulters' Book callit "habitual drunkenness." Nevertheless, he has the heart of a hero.Gesticulating furiously, and swearing, I regret to say, with blasphemousvolubility, he tears the coat from his back, flings his cap on theground, and tossing his arms wildly above his head, thus rebukes, likesome Homeric hero, his more prudent comrades--
"Och, bad luck to ye, rank cowards and shufflers that ye are! and badluck to the day I listed! and bad luck to the rig'ment that's disgracin'me! Would I wear the uniform, and parade like a soldier again, whenit's been dirtied by the likes of you? 'Faith, not I, ye thunderin'villains. I'll tread and I'll trample the coat, and the cap, and thefacin's, and the rest of it; and I'll fight in my shirt, so I will, ifthey come on fifty to one. Hurroo!"
Off goes his musket in the very faces of the enemy; with a rush and ayell he runs at them with the bayonet. His comrades turn, and strike invigorously with the hero. Even that little handful of men serves for aninstant to check the onward progress of the Russians. By this time thesupports--Guards, Highlanders, and the flower of the Britishinfantry--are pouring from their entrenchments; a tremendous fire ofmusketry opens from the whole line; staff officers are galloping downhurry-skurry from the camp. Far away above us, on those dark heights,the whole army will be under arms in ten minutes. The Russian columnwavers once more--breaks like some wave against a sunken rock; dark,flitting figures are seen to come out, and stagger, and fall; and thenthe whole body goes to the right-about and returns within its defences,just as a mass of heavy clouds rising from the Black Sea sweeps acrossthe moon, and darkness covers once more besiegers and besieged.
We may lie down in peace now till the first blush of dawn rouses theriflemen on each side to that sharp-shooting practice of which it istheir custom to take at least a couple of hours before breakfast. Wemay choose the softest spots in those dusty, covered ways, and lean ourbacks against gabions that are getting sadly worn out, and in theirhalf-emptied inefficiency afford but an insecure protection even fromthe conical ball of the wicked "Minie." We may finish our flasks ofbrandy-and-water and our bottles of cold tea, and get a few winks ofsleep, and dream of home and the loved ones that, except in the hours ofsleep, some of us will never see more. All these luxuries we may enjoyundisturbed. We shall not be attacked again, for this is what thesoldiers term "A _quiet_ night in the trenches."