CHAPTER XVI: UNDER FIRE ON THE FATAL 18TH OF JUNE—BEFORE THE REDAN—AT THE CEMETE
CHAPTER XVI: UNDER FIRE ON THE FATAL 18TH OF JUNE—BEFORE THE REDAN—AT THE CEMETERY—THE ARMISTICE—DEATHS AT HEAD-QUARTERS—DEPRESSION IN THE CAMP—PLENTY IN THE CRIMEA—THE PLAGUE OF FLIES—UNDER FIRE AT THE BATTLE OF THE TCHERNAYA—WORK ON THE FIELD—MY PATIENTS.
Before I left the Crimea to return to England, the Adjutant-General of the British Army gave me a testimonial, which the reader has already read in Chapter XIV., in which he stated that I had “frequently exerted myself in the most praiseworthy manner in attending wounded men, even in positions of great danger.” The simple meaning of this sentence is that, in the discharge of what I conceived to be my duty, I was frequently “under fire.” Now I am far from wishing to speak of this fact with any vanity or pride, because, after all, one soon gets accustomed to it, and it fails at last to create more than temporary uneasiness. Indeed, after Sebastopol was ours, you might often see officers and men strolling coolly, even leisurely, across [Pg 155]and along those streets, exposed to the enemy’s fire, when a little haste would have carried them beyond the reach of danger. The truth was, I believe, they had grown so habituated to being in peril from shot or shell, that they rather liked the sensation, and found it difficult to get on without a little gratuitous excitement and danger.
But putting aside the great engagements, where I underwent considerable peril, one could scarcely move about the various camps without some risk. The Russians had, it seemed, sunk great ships’ guns into the earth, from which they fired shot and shell at a very long range, which came tumbling and plunging between, and sometimes into the huts and tents, in a very unwieldy and generally harmless fashion. Once when I was riding through the camp of the Rifles, a round shot came plunging towards me, and before I or the horse had time to be much frightened, the ugly fellow buried itself in the earth, with a heavy “thud,” a little distance in front of us.
In the first week of June, the third bombardment of Sebastopol opened, and the Spring Hill visitors had plenty to talk about. Many were the surmises as to when the assault would take place, of the success of which nobody entertained a doubt. Somehow or other, important secrets oozed out in various parts of the camp, which the Russians would have given much to know, and one of these places was the British Hotel. Some such whispers were afloat on the evening of Sunday the 17th of June, and excited me strangely. Any stranger not in my secret would have considered that my conduct fully justified my partner, Mr. Day, in sending me home, as better fitted for a cell in Bedlam than the charge of an hotel in the Crimea. I [Pg 156]never remember feeling more excited or more restless than upon that day, and no sooner had night fairly closed in upon us than, instead of making preparations for bed, this same stranger would have seen me wrap up—the nights were still cold—and start off for a lo