“I shall never forget that cheer as long as I live,” writes an officer. “It was indeed thrilling. I almost pitied the fallen enemy; it must have been so galling to them. I heard a man of the Guards say to a comrade: ‘I say, Bill, pleasant for them poor devils’ (pointing to some wounded Russians), ‘hearing our chaps cheer like that.’
“Lord Raglan rode up and down the line, the men cheering him heartily. There was such a shaking of hands. One felt very choky about the throat and very much inclined to cry as one wrung the hand of a friend. ‘God bless you, old fellow! So glad to see you all right!’ and so on. It was a touching sight to see the meeting between Lord Raglan and Sir Colin Campbell. The latter was on foot, as his horse had been killed under him. He went up to his lordship and, with tears in his eyes, shook hands, saying it was not the first battle-field they had won together. The battle was over at twenty minutes to four p.m.”
Next morning the poor wounded were far more quiet. Many had died during the night. Numbers of our men were going about among the wounded before it was light, giving them drinks of water. All those shot through the head died with a smile on their faces. “Some looked so happy, poor fellows! that one felt comforted.” On the 23rd of September order was given to prepare for marching, and the army left the heights of the Alma.
But what is that grey mass on the plain, almost lying without life or motion? Now and then, indeed, an arm may be seen waved aloft, or a man raises himself for a moment, looks around, and then lies down again.
Alas! that plain is covered with the wounded Russians still.
Nearly sixty long hours have they passed in agony on the wet ground, and now the English must leave them as they lie. Seven hundred and fifty wounded men are still on the ground, and we can do nothing for them. Their wounds have been bound and dressed by us, and Lord Raglan has told the head-man of a Tartar village to do what he can for them.
At first the country was hilly and barren, but on coming to the valley of the Katcha there were beautiful verdure, shrubs, white villas and snug cottages, vineyards and gardens.
A guide-post showed they were ten miles from Sebastopol. The road now looked like a byway in Devon or Hampshire. Low walls were surmounted by fruit-trees, laden with apples, pears, peaches, and apricots, all ripe and fit for use.