Chapter 15

MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF WAR—ADVANCE OF MY TURKISH FRIENDS ON KAMARA—VISITORS TO THE CAMP—MISS NIGHTINGALE—MONS. SOYER AND THE CHOLERA—SUMMER IN THE CRIMEA—“THIRSTY SOULS”—DEATH BUSY IN THE TRENCHES.

MY FIRST GLIMPSE OF WAR. MY TURKISH FRIENDS ADVANCE ON KAMARA. VISITORS TO THE CAMP. MISS NIGHTINGALE. MONS. SOYER AND CHOLERA. SUMMER IN THE CRIMEA. “THIRSTY SOULS”. DEATH BUSY IN THE TRENCHES.

In the last three chapters, I have attempted, without any consideration of dates, to give my readers some idea of my life in the Crimea. I am fully aware that I have jumbled up events strangely, talking in the same page, and even sentence, of events which occurred at different times; but I have three excuses to offer for my unhistorical inexactness. In the first place, my memory is far from trustworthy, and I kept no written diary; in the second place, the reader must have had more than enough of journals and chronicles of Crimean life, and I am only the historian of Spring Hill; and in the third place, unless I am allowed to tell the story of my life in my own way, I cannot tell it at all.

In the last three chapters, I have tried to give my readers some idea of my life in the Crimea, without worrying about dates. I know I have mixed up events strangely. On the same page, and even in the same sentence, I talk about events that happened at different times. But I have three excuses for my historical inaccuracies. First, my memory is far from reliable, and I kept no written diary. Second, readers must have had more than enough journals and chronicles of Crimean life, and I am only the historian of Spring Hill. Third, unless I am allowed to tell the story of my life in my own way, I cannot tell it at all.

I shall now endeavour to describe my out-of-door life as much as possible, and write of those great events in the field of which I was a humble witness. But I shall continue to speak from my own experience simply; and if the reader should be surprised at my leaving any memorable action of the army unnoticed, he may be sure that it is because I was mixing medicines or making good things in the kitchen of the British Hotel, and first heard the particulars of it, perhaps, from the newspapers which came from home. My readers must know, too, that they were much more familiar with the history of the camp at their own firesides, than we who lived in it. Just as a spectator seeing one of the battles from a hill, as I did the Tchernaya, knows more about it than the combatant in the valley below, who only thinks of the enemy whom it is his immediate duty to repel; so you, through the valuable aid of the cleverest man in the whole camp, read in the Times’ columns the details of that great campaign, while we, the actors in it, had enough to do to discharge our own duties well, and rarely concerned ourselves in what seemed of such importance to you. And so very often a desperate skirmish or hard-fought action, the news of which created so much sensation in England, was but little regarded at Spring Hill.

I will now try to describe as much of my life outdoors as I can. I will write about the great events in the field that I witnessed as a humble observer. But I will continue to speak simply from my own experience. If readers are surprised that I leave out any memorable action by the army, they can be sure there is a reason. I was mixing medicines or preparing good things in the kitchen of the British Hotel. Perhaps I first heard the details from newspapers sent from home. My readers must also know that they were far more familiar with the history of the camp from their own firesides than we were living in it. A spectator watching a battle from a hill knows more about it than a soldier fighting in the valley below. I watched the battle of Tchernaya from a hill. The soldier thinks only of the enemy he must immediately drive back. In the same way, you read the details of that great campaign in the columns of the Times. You had the valuable help of the cleverest man in the whole camp. Meanwhile, we who took part had enough to do to carry out our own duties well. We rarely concerned ourselves with what seemed so important to you. So a desperate skirmish or hard-fought action often received little attention at Spring Hill, even when news of it caused a great sensation in England.

My first experience of battle was pleasant enough. Before we had been long at Spring Hill, Omar Pasha got something for his Turks to do, and one fine morning they were marched away towards the Russian outposts on the road to Baidar. I accompanied them on horseback, and enjoyed the sight amazingly. English and French cavalry preceded the Turkish infantry over the plain yet full of memorials of the terrible Light Cavalry charge a few months before; and while one detachment of the Turks made a reconnaissance to the right of the Tchernaya, another pushed their way up the hill, towards Kamara, driving in the Russian outposts, after what seemed but a slight resistance. It was very pretty to see them advance, and to watch how every now and then little clouds of white smoke puffed up from behind bushes and the crests of hills, and were answered by similar puffs from the long line of busy skirmishers that preceded the main body. This was my first experience of actual battle, and I felt that strange excitement which I do not remember on future occasions, coupled with an earnest longing to see more of warfare, and to share in its hazards. It was not long before my wish was gratified.

My first experience of battle was pleasant enough. Not long after we arrived at Spring Hill, Omar Pasha found something for his Turks to do. One fine morning, they marched toward the Russian outposts on the road to Baidar. I went with them on horseback and greatly enjoyed the sight. English and French cavalry led the Turkish infantry across the plain. It was still full of reminders of the terrible Light Cavalry charge a few months earlier. One group of Turks scouted to the right of the Tchernaya. Meanwhile, another pushed up the hill toward Kamara, driving back the Russian outposts after what seemed like only slight resistance. It was very pretty to watch them advance. Every now and then, little clouds of white smoke puffed up from behind bushes and hilltops. A long line of busy skirmishers ahead of the main force answered with similar puffs. This was my first experience of actual battle. I felt a strange excitement that I do not remember feeling on later occasions. I also longed to see more of warfare and share its dangers. It was not long before my wish came true.

I do not know much of the second bombardment of Sebastopol in the month of April, although I was as assiduous as I could be in my attendance at Cathcart’s Hill. I could judge of its severity by the long trains of wounded which passed the British Hotel. I had a stretcher laid near the door, and very often a poor fellow was laid upon it, outwearied by the terrible conveyance from the front.

I do not know much about the second bombardment of Sebastopol in April, although I attended Cathcart’s Hill as diligently as I could. I could judge how severe the bombardment was by the long lines of wounded men passing the British Hotel. I had a stretcher placed near the door. Very often, a poor fellow was laid on it, exhausted by the terrible journey from the front.

After this unsuccessful bombardment, it seemed to us that there was a sudden lull in the progress of the siege; and other things began to interest us. There were several arrivals to talk over. Miss Nightingale came to supervise the Balaclava hospitals, and, before long, she had practical experience of Crimean fever. After her, came the Duke of Newcastle, and the great high priest of the mysteries of cookery, Mons. Alexis Soyer. He was often at Spring Hill, with the most smiling of faces and in the most gorgeous of irregular uniforms, and never failed to praise my soups and dainties. I always flattered myself that I was his match, and with our West Indian dishes could of course beat him hollow, and more than once I challenged him to a trial of skill; but the gallant Frenchman only shrugged his shoulders, and disclaimed my challenge with many flourishes of his jewelled hands, declaring that Madame proposed a contest where victory would cost him his reputation for gallantry, and be more disastrous than defeat. And all because I was a woman, forsooth. What nonsense to talk like that, when I was doing the work of half a dozen men. Then he would laugh and declare that, when our campaigns were over, we would render rivalry impossible, by combining to open the first restaurant in Europe. There was always fun in the store when the good-natured Frenchman was there.

After the unsuccessful bombardment, the siege seemed to make little progress for a while. Other things began to interest us. There were several arrivals to talk about. Miss Nightingale came to supervise the Balaclava hospitals. Before long, she experienced Crimean fever herself. After her came the Duke of Newcastle and Mons. Alexis Soyer, the great high priest of the mysteries of cooking. He often visited Spring Hill, wearing a beaming smile and a splendid, unconventional uniform. He never failed to praise my soups and delicacies. I always liked to think I was his equal. Of course, with our West Indian dishes, I could beat him easily. More than once, I challenged him to a cooking contest. But the gallant Frenchman only shrugged and waved his jeweled hands as he declined. He said Madame was proposing a contest in which victory would cost him his reputation for gallantry. Winning would be more disastrous than losing. And all because I was a woman, indeed! What nonsense, when I was doing the work of half a dozen men. Then he would laugh and say that, once our campaigns were over, we would make rivalry impossible. We would join forces to open the finest restaurant in Europe. There was always fun in the store when the good-natured Frenchman was there.

One dark, tempestuous night, I was knocked up by the arrival of other visitors. These were the first regiment of Sardinian Grenadiers, who, benighted on their way to the position assigned them, remained at Spring Hill until the morning. We soon turned out our staff, and lighted up the store, and entertained the officers as well as we could inside, while the soldiers bivouacked in the yards around. Not a single thing was stolen or disturbed that night, although they had many opportunities. We all admired and liked the Sardinians; they were honest, well-disciplined fellows, and I wish there had been no worse men or soldiers in the Crimea.

One dark, stormy night, the arrival of more visitors woke me. They were the first regiment of Sardinian Grenadiers. Night had fallen while they were on their way to their assigned position, so they stayed at Spring Hill until morning. We quickly woke our staff and lit up the store. We entertained the officers inside as best we could, while the soldiers camped in the surrounding yards. Nothing was stolen or disturbed that night, although the soldiers had many opportunities. We all admired and liked the Sardinians. They were honest, well-disciplined fellows, and I wish there had been no worse men or soldiers in the Crimea.

As the season advanced many visitors came to the Crimea from all parts of the world, and many of them were glad to make Spring Hill their head-quarters. We should have been better off if some of them had spared us this compliment. A Captain St. Clair, for instance—who could doubt any one with such a name?—stayed some time with us, had the best of everything, and paid us most honourably with one bill upon his agents, while we cashed another to provide him with money for his homeward route. He was an accomplished fellow, and I really liked him; but, unfortunately for us, he was a swindler.

As the season went on, many visitors came to the Crimea from all parts of the world. Many were glad to make Spring Hill their base. We would have been better off if some of them had spared us this compliment. Take Captain St. Clair, for example. Who could doubt anyone with such a name? He stayed with us for some time and had the best of everything. He paid us most honorably with a bill drawn on his agents. We also cashed another bill to give him money for his journey home. He was an accomplished fellow, and I really liked him. But, unfortunately for us, he was a swindler.

I saw much of another visitor to the camp in the Crimea—an old acquaintance of mine with whom I had had many a hard bout in past times—the cholera. There were many cases in the hospital of the Land Transport Corps opposite, and I prescribed for many others personally. The raki sold in too many of the stores in Balaclava and Kadikoi was most pernicious; and although the authorities forbade the sutlers to sell it, under heavy penalties, it found its way into the camp in large quantities.

I often encountered another visitor to the camp in the Crimea: cholera. It was an old acquaintance of mine, and I had fought many hard battles with it in the past. There were many cases in the Land Transport Corps hospital opposite, and I personally prescribed treatment for many others. The raki sold in far too many stores in Balaclava and Kadikoi was very harmful. The authorities forbade the camp traders to sell it, under heavy penalties. Even so, large quantities found their way into the camp.

During May, and while preparations were being made for the third great bombardment of the ill-fated city, summer broke beautifully, and the weather, chequered occasionally by fitful intervals of cold and rain, made us all cheerful. You would scarcely have believed that the happy, good-humoured, and jocular visitors to the British Hotel were the same men who had a few weeks before ridden gloomily through the muddy road to its door. It was a period of relaxation, and they all enjoyed it. Amusement was the order of the day. Races, dog-hunts, cricket-matches, and dinner-parties were eagerly indulged in, and in all I could be of use to provide the good cheer which was so essential a part of these entertainments; and when the warm weather came in all its intensity, and I took to manufacturing cooling beverages for my friends and customers, my store was always full. To please all was somewhat difficult, and occasionally some of them were scarcely so polite as they should have been to a perplexed hostess, who could scarcely be expected to remember that Lieutenant A. had bespoken his sangaree an instant before Captain B. and his friends had ordered their claret cup.

In May, preparations were underway for the third great bombardment of the doomed city. Summer arrived beautifully, and the weather made us all cheerful, though there were occasional spells of cold and rain. You would scarcely have believed that the happy, good-humoured, joking visitors to the British Hotel were the same men who had ridden gloomily along the muddy road to its door just a few weeks earlier. It was a time of relaxation, and they all enjoyed it. Amusement was the order of the day. Everyone eagerly took part in races, dog-hunts, cricket matches, and dinner parties. I could help with them all by providing the good food and drink so essential to these entertainments. When the full heat of summer arrived, I began making cooling drinks for my friends and customers. My store was always full. It was somewhat difficult to please everyone. Occasionally, some customers were less polite than they should have been to a flustered hostess. I could hardly be expected to remember that Lieutenant A. had ordered his sangaree just before Captain B. and his friends ordered their claret cup.

In anticipation of the hot weather, I had laid in a large stock of raspberry vinegar, which, properly managed, helps to make a pleasant drink; and there was a great demand for sangaree, claret, and cider cups, the cups being battered pewter pots. Would you like, reader, to know my recipe for the favourite claret cup? It is simple enough. Claret, water, lemon-peel, sugar, nutmeg, and—ice—yes, ice, but not often and not for long, for the eager officers soon made an end of it. Sometimes there were dinner-parties at Spring Hill, but of these more hereafter. At one of the earliest, when the Times correspondent was to be present, I rode down to Kadikoi, bought some calico and cut it up into table napkins. They all laughed very heartily, and thought perhaps of a few weeks previously, when every available piece of linen in the camp would have been snapped up for pocket-handkerchiefs.

Expecting hot weather, I had stocked up on raspberry vinegar. Properly prepared, it makes a pleasant drink. There was also great demand for sangaree, claret, and cider cups. The cups were battered pewter pots. Would you like to know my recipe for the favorite claret cup, reader? It is simple enough: claret, water, lemon peel, sugar, nutmeg, and ice. Yes, ice, but not often and not for long. The eager officers soon used it all up. Sometimes there were dinner parties at Spring Hill, but more about those later. The Times correspondent was to attend one of the earliest parties. So I rode down to Kadikoi, bought some calico, and cut it into table napkins. They all laughed heartily. Perhaps they remembered how, a few weeks earlier, every available piece of linen in the camp would have been snapped up for handkerchiefs.

But the reader must not forget that all this time, although there might be only a few short and sullen roars of the great guns by day, few nights passed without some fighting in the trenches; and very often the news of the morning would be that one or other of those I knew had fallen. These tidings often saddened me, and when I awoke in the night and heard the thunder of the guns fiercer than usual, I have quite dreaded the dawn which might usher in bad news.

But the reader must not forget what was happening all this time. During the day, the big guns might fire only a few short, sullen blasts. But few nights passed without some fighting in the trenches. Very often, the morning news was that someone I knew had fallen. This news often saddened me. When I woke at night and heard the guns thunder more fiercely than usual, I truly dreaded the dawn. It might bring bad news.

The deaths in the trenches touched me deeply, perhaps for this reason. It was very usual, when a young officer was ordered into the trenches, for him to ride down to Spring Hill to dine, or obtain something more than his ordinary fare to brighten his weary hours in those fearful ditches. They seldom failed on these occasions to shake me by the hand at parting, and sometimes would say, “You see, Mrs. Seacole, I can’t say good-bye to the dear ones at home, so I’ll bid you good-bye for them. Perhaps you’ll see them some day, and if the Russians should knock me over, mother, just tell them I thought of them all—will you?” And although all this might be said in a light-hearted manner, it was rather solemn. I felt it to be so, for I never failed (although who was I, that I should preach?) to say something about God’s providence and relying upon it; and they were very good. No army of parsons could be much better than my sons. They would listen very gravely, and shake me by the hand again, while I felt that there was nothing in the world I would not do for them. Then very often the men would say, “I’m going in with my master to-night, Mrs. Seacole; come and look after him, if he’s hit;” and so often as this happened I would pass the night restlessly, awaiting with anxiety the morning, and yet dreading to hear the news it held in store for me. I used to think it was like having a large family of children ill with fever, and dreading to hear which one had passed away in the night.

The deaths in the trenches affected me deeply, perhaps for this reason. When young officers were ordered into the trenches, they often rode down to Spring Hill for dinner. Or they came to get something better than their usual food to brighten their weary hours in those dreadful ditches. On these visits, they almost always shook my hand when they left. Sometimes an officer would say, “You see, Mrs. Seacole, I can’t say goodbye to my loved ones at home. So I’ll say goodbye to you for them. Perhaps you’ll see them someday. And if the Russians should knock me over, mother, just tell them I thought of them all, will you?” Although they might say all this lightheartedly, it was rather solemn. I felt that it was. I always said something about God’s providence and the need to rely on it. Though who was I to preach? And they were very good. No army of parsons could be much better than my sons. They would listen very seriously and shake my hand again. And I felt there was nothing in the world I would not do for them. Then very often the men would say, “I’m going into the trenches with my master tonight, Mrs. Seacole. Come and look after him if he’s hit.” Whenever this happened, I would spend a restless night. I waited anxiously for morning, yet dreaded the news it might bring. I used to think it was like having a large family of children ill with fever, and dreading to hear which one had died in the night.

And as often as the bad news came, I thought it my duty to ride up to the hut of the sufferer and do my woman’s work. But I felt it deeply. How could it be otherwise? There was one poor boy in the Artillery, with blue eyes and light golden hair, whom I nursed through a long and weary sickness, borne with all a man’s spirit, and whom I grew to love like a fond old-fashioned mother. I thought if ever angels watched over any life, they would shelter his; but one day, but a short time after he had left his sick-bed, he was struck down on his battery, working like a young hero. It was a long time before I could banish from my mind the thought of him as I saw him last, the yellow hair, stiff and stained with his life-blood, and the blue eyes closed in the sleep of death. Of course, I saw him buried, as I did poor H—— V——, my old Jamaica friend, whose kind face was so familiar to me of old. Another good friend I mourned bitterly—Captain B——, of the Coldstreams—a great cricketer. He had been with me on the previous evening, had seemed dull, but had supped at my store, and on the following morning a brother officer told me he was shot dead while setting his pickets, which made me ill and unfit for work for the whole day. Mind you, a day was a long time to give to sorrow in the Crimea.

Whenever bad news came, I felt it was my duty to ride to the sufferer’s hut and do my woman’s work. But I felt each loss deeply. How could it be otherwise? There was one poor boy in the Artillery, with blue eyes and light golden hair. I nursed him through a long and exhausting illness, which he bore with all a man’s spirit. I grew to love him like a fond, old-fashioned mother. I thought that if angels ever watched over a life, they would protect his. But one day, shortly after he had left his sickbed, he was struck down at his battery, working like a young hero. For a long time, I could not forget him as I saw him last. His yellow hair was stiff and stained with his life’s blood, and his blue eyes were closed in the sleep of death. Of course, I saw him buried, just as I did poor H—— V——, my old Jamaica friend. His kind face had been so familiar to me in earlier days. I mourned another good friend bitterly, Captain B—— of the Coldstreams, a great cricketer. He had been with me the previous evening and had seemed subdued, but he had eaten supper at my store. The next morning, a fellow officer told me Captain B—— had been shot dead while setting his pickets. The news made me ill and unfit for work for the whole day. Mind you, a day was a long time to give to sorrow in the Crimea.

I could give many other similar instances, but why should I sadden myself or my readers? Others have described the horrors of those fatal trenches; but their real history has never been written, and perhaps it is as well that so harrowing a tale should be left in oblivion. Such anecdotes as the following were very current in the Camp, but I have no means of answering for its truth. Two sergeants met in the trenches, who had been schoolmates in their youth; years had passed since they set out for the battle of life by different roads, and now they met again under the fire of a common enemy. With one impulse they started forward to exchange the hearty hand-shake and the mutual greetings, and while their hands were still clasped, a chance shot killed both.

I could give many other similar examples, but why should I sadden myself or my readers? Others have described the horrors of those deadly trenches, but their true history has never been written. Perhaps it is just as well that such a harrowing story should be forgotten. Stories like the following were widespread in the Camp, but I have no way of knowing whether this one is true. Two sergeants who had been schoolmates in their youth met in the trenches. Years had passed since they had gone their separate ways to make their way in life. Now they met again under fire from a common enemy. Both rushed forward to shake hands warmly and greet each other. While their hands were still clasped, a stray shot killed them both.