“I hope, dearest, that if you take Prince Menchikoff prisoner, you will cut a button off his coat and send it to me in a letter, as you know how fond I am of relics.”
All these letters had been opened and translated at the Russian headquarters, as is usual. Prince Menchikoff was shown this letter, which amused him not a little; so he wrote to Mr. C----, saying how much he regretted he was unable to pose as a prisoner, when it was the other way about; but he had much pleasure in sending him the enclosed button off his best coat, which he trusted Mr. C---- would forward to the young lady with his compliments.
By December the whole army was suffering, worn out by night work, by vigil in rain and storm, by hard labour in the trenches, by cholera and short allowances. For nine days there was no issue of tea, coffee, or sugar to the troops. Food, corn, hay were stowed in sailing-vessels outside the harbour. A hurricane arose. To the bottom went provender and food for twenty days of all the horses. You could hardly tell an officer from a corporal. They were all hairy and muddy, filthy, worn, mounted on draggle-tailed ponies. Yet withal we are told they were the noblest, cheeriest, bravest fellows in Europe--ready to defy privation, neglect, storm, and wounds. Letters, it is true, sometimes came from the Crimea in which the writer showed a righteous indignation against those who mismanaged affairs and caused so much unnecessary loss and suffering. In one of these we read:
“_January 2._--We have had a rough and dreary Christmas. Where are our presents? where are the fat bucks, the potted meats, the cakes, the warm clothing, the worsted devices made by the fair sympathizers at home? They may be on their way, but they will be too late. Why are our men still in tents? Where are the huts that were sent out? Some of them I have seen floating about the beach; others are being converted into firewood. There are 3,500 sick men in camp; there are 8,000 sick and wounded in the hospitals on the Bosphorus.
“Snow is on the hills, and the wind blows cold. We have no greatcoats. Our friends the Zouaves are splendid fellows, always gay, healthy, well fed. They carry loads for us, drink for us, eat for us, bake for us, forage for us--and all on the cheapest and most economical terms.