Читать книгу A Soldier's Experience; or, A Voice from the Ranks - T. Gowing - Страница 14

Table of Contents

More Trench Work—Meeting with Capt. Vicars—My Letter of the 15th March, 1855—Night Attack in the Trenches—Capt. Vicars’ Death—A few Remarks showing his Noble Character—My Letter Descriptive of the Fight—Storming Rifle Pits—More Trench Duty—Supplementary Letter—The Taking of the Quarries and Circular Trench—Desperate Fighting before Sebastopol, the 7th and 88th Leading—My Letter Home, 8th June—Continued Fighting—First Assault on the Town—Its Bloody Repulse—The Poor Old Light Division Cut to Pieces—The Fusiliers again Led the Way—My Letter of the 18th—Waiting to be Revenged—A Terrible Night—Attack by the Enemy and its Bloody Repulse—My Letter of the 28th June describing the Fight—Death of Lord Raglan, much felt through the Allied Army—The Battle of Tchernaya, 16th August—The Enemy’s Last Throw for Victory Defeated—My Letter Home of the 18th Aug.—Creeping Closer and Closer to the Doomed City—The Last or Terrible Bombardment—A Nasty Blunder, our own people pitching into us—My Letter Home, 2 a.m., 8th Sept.—P.S. to it announcing my Death—My P.P.S. after I had recovered.

Our heavy guns still kept at it. I soon found my way into the trenches again, and had a very narrow escape, not of being wounded, but of being “taken in and done for,” or killed on the spot. In the dark, after posting some sentries, I took a wrong turn and went almost into the midst of the enemy. They could have shot me; but just then, I am sorry to say, we had a number of men deserting to the enemy, and I believe they thought I was one of that class, but they soon found out their mistake, for I was off as fast as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction. As need scarcely be remarked, I did not wait to look behind me until I got close up to our own people, then I turned about and faced them.

That night I met for the first time that noble-minded man, Capt. Hedley Vicars. He and I had a long chat in the trench. Although I had heard of him, I had not until then known him personally. He was under the impression this was my first time in front of the enemy, as I told him I was nearly taken prisoner; but when I informed him I had been present at the Alma, Balaclava, and Inkermann, and was wounded at the latter battle, he was quite astonished. He was very affable and kind, and his men seemed to be very fond of him. He appeared to be one of those cool determined men that are sure to win the respect of all classes, and will lead men at anything. As far as I could see, he had not a bit of pride about him. I soon found that he was a Christian, and was not ashamed of his Master. The light that had been planted in him he could not hide under a bushel, for his whole conversation was of redeeming love, and how he had been plucked “as a brand from the fire,” when afar off from God by wicked works. What a soldier! I told him about my comrade at the Alma. “Well, Sergeant,” he said, “the Lord’s time is the right time; who is the best off now, you or he?” He then asked me a number of questions about better things; I do not think I ever met such a man. His men seemed to be devotedly fond of him. I spent some time with him next day, as the 97th touched our right, the left of their detachment meeting the right of ours. He invited me to his tent for that night for prayer, as he told me a few who loved the Lord met there as often as they could. I did not profess anything at the time, but was going against light and knowledge. I went once and only once, before he was killed.

This subject is referred to at greater length in my next letter home, which was as follows:—

Camp before Sebastopol,

March 15th, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

Once more a few lines from this miserable camp—mud! mud!! mud!!! We arrived here on the 8th, and at once marched up to the front; a number of my poor comrades I hardly knew—what a change! The old Fusiliers, once one of the finest corps in our service, now poor half-starved, miserable-looking wrecks of humanity. The older hands had still that unconquerable look about them, that it would be far cheaper for the enemy to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over, than to try and take them prisoners. We have plenty of work in the camp; and ’tis bleak, cold work in the trenches, standing up to our ankles in mud and water, with hardly sufficient food to keep body and soul together; as for the fighting, we never hear one word of murmuring about that. I came off the trenches last night; we had a brush at the enemy, but it was soon all over: our people were ready for them, and gave them a warm reception. I met with a Captain of the 97th (Vicars). He is, I do believe, a thorough Christian man. We had a long chat together. He appears to be a general favourite with his men. He held a prayer-meeting in the trench yesterday morning, and got as many men around him as he could. I like him very much. I do wish he belonged to us (the Fusiliers, I mean); he appears a good, earnest man, and not at all backward in standing up in his Master’s name, trying to

Extol the stem of Jesse’s rod, And crown Him Lord of all,

in this cold, bleak corner of the earth; but yet a most determined soldier for his country. Some of his sergeants told me yesterday morning that he had used his good sword the night previous about some of the enemy, and they did not think the doctors would be of much use after he had done with them. The noble Captain invited me to his tent, and I spent, I am happy to say, a comfortable hour with him. I do not know when this town will be taken, there is a lot of rough fighting to be done yet. I must conclude, with love to all; it is very cold to handle the pen. Pray for me, and God bless you all.

Believe me, ever

Your affectionate son,

T. GOWING,

Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

I was with Capt. Vicars once more in the trenches before that miserable night, the 22nd March. We had a lot of sickness in the camp, and duty was very heavy for those who could do it. The Old Light Division had been strengthened by the 34th to the 1st Brigade, and the 90th and 97th to the 2nd Brigade; but, with sickness and hardships, they, like ourselves, were not very strong—except in the head.

THE NIGHT ATTACK IN THE TRENCHES, WHEN HEDLEY VICARS FELL,

22nd March, 1855.

A NIGHT ATTACK IN THE TRENCHES.

DEATH OF CAPTAIN VICARS.

That 22nd March was a terrible night to be out in. We were nearly up to our knees in mud and water. It came on to blow and rain as hard as it fairly could. It was as dark as pitch, and in the midst of all—our plight was, I suppose, not bad enough—the enemy came out and attacked us, in both flanks and front. They came on pretending that they were French, and in the dark we could not see them; so that they were right in the midst of us before we could fire a shot. Talk about hard knocks,—they were served out that night as freely as ever they were. It was foot and fist, butt and bayonet, as hard as we could go at it; in fact, they could have it any way they liked: the fighting was desperate. The enemy came on in overwhelming numbers,—there were enough to eat us,—but we stuck to them with a deathlike grip, until they were driven back. We lost both our Officers that night—Capt. the Hon. C. Brown, and a Mr. Henry, who was a fine specimen of a British soldier. The former was killed, and the latter dangerously wounded. The news flew that Captain Vicars had fallen, and the men rushed in the direction in which it was said he was, and literally lifted the enemy from the field with the bayonet. Some of our men’s bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning, which was a clear proof of the vehemence with which we had been at it. My letter will more fully describe that attack. The 97th were wrought up to a state of madness, to think that so kind and good an officer should fall by the hands of such fiends. The enemy were at last sent reeling from the field with our bayonets uncomfortably close to them. It was one of the most desperate attacks the Russians had made since the commencement of the siege, and the slaughter was in proportion; the bayonet was the chief weapon used, and, after poor Capt. Vicars fell, it was used with a will and with a vengeance.

One Russian was caught trying to walk off with one of our small mortars; he was a huge monster, but some ten inches of cold steel, from a man named Pat Martin, stopped his career. Another, a Greek Priest, fired his revolver into our small-arm magazine, but luckily no harm was done. He was at once bayoneted; next morning he was seen to be a powerful fellow. Poor Capt. Vicars was brought into the trench and placed upon a stretcher. He seemed quite cheerful, said he did not think it was much, and hoped soon to be able to go at them again. These were not, perhaps, his exact words, but the substance of them as nearly as I can remember. He was then sent home to camp, but before he had reached it his spirit had fled to him who gave it. He was ready. A faithful soldier of the Cross, he had, from the day it had pleased the Lord to speak peace to him, been always ready to depart to be with Jesus. A noble and brave man, he did not know what fear was as far as the enemy was concerned, but he loved the Lord with all his heart and soul; and, like one of old, was not at all ashamed to stand forth and tell poor sinners what the Lord had done for him. But he is gone to be with Him whom he loved to speak of when on earth.

Her Most Gracious Majesty had lost by that fatal bullet one of Britain’s bravest sons; and all around the spot where poor Vicars had fallen it was evident the bayonet had done some terrible work.[3] The enemy let us alone for the remainder of the night, and next morning there was a flag of truce out. They had paid heavily for their intrusion, for in places they lay in heaps one on the top of the other. We were relieved next morning; and in the evening poor Capt. Vicars was laid in his cold grave, together with other officers. We committed his body to the earth,

And his pure soul unto his Captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long.

The 97th seemed to feel his loss keenly, and over his grave strong men wept like a lot of children who had lost a fond father, and then vowed they would revenge him the first opportunity.[4] The Captain was a general favourite throughout the Light Division, for he used to go, when off duty, from regiment to regiment doing all he could to point poor thoughtless sinners to the Lamb of God.

Such were some of the men who helped to unfurl the Standard of old England on the blood-stained walls of Sebastopol; and, while some were struck down to rise no more, in the first action; others were permitted, apparently with a charmed life, to go from field to field. I am not one of those who believe that all is left to chance, on the contrary, I am convinced that all our lives are in God’s keeping. I know that I have been mercifully watched over through seen and unseen dangers of no mean sort. Besides those events that I have here narrated, I have yet to tell of nineteen years’ life in India with sword and pestilence scattering death all around me.

The following is my letter describing the fighting of the 22nd:—

Camp before Sebastopol,

March 24th, 1855.

My Dear Parents,

I hardly know how to commence this letter. Since mine of the 15th, we have had a terrible fight. Thank God, I have been spared once more. I do think that I am out of their debt. To describe the fight adequately, would be impossible. I will try and do a little to it. A good strong party of us, under command of Captain the Hon. C. Brown, went into the trenches on the 22nd. It blew a perfect hurricane, with rain and sleet; it came down just anyhow. We were standing up to our ankles in mud and water, like a lot of half-frozen, half-drowned rats, when, about 10.30 p.m., the enemy attacked our Allies. It was as dark as the grave, and in fact, we could not see one yard in front of us. We had strong parties of the Light Division in our advanced works. The enemy got right in the midst of us before we knew anything of their whereabouts, and then we set to work with the bayonet. It was charge and re-charge, officers shouting to their men “This way, this way, Fusiliers!” “Come on, 90th!” “Now, at them, 97th!” We had to grope for them the best way we could, stumbling over friend and foe. Up and at them again. Officers fighting with desperation, shouting all the time, “Come on my lads, stick to them.” Our Captain was killed, and one of our Lieutenants (a Mr. Henry) wounded. He was a man of about six feet two-and-a-half inches, and before he fell he let the enemy know what metal he was made of. You remember a Captain of the 97th, that I have spoken about (Captain H. Vicars, I mean): I am sorry to have to inform you that he received his death wound while nobly leading the 97th and us, shouting with all his might, “This way, 97th; come on, Fusiliers.” Our men took a terrible revenge for his death. A number of our bayonets were bent like reaping-hooks next morning; and all around where that noble Christian fell, the enemy lay thick, one on the top of the other. They fought with desperation; but that never-failing weapon, the bayonet, was too much for them. They tried to blow up our small-arm magazine, but the fellow who made the attempt was at once despatched. The sights next morning (the 23rd,) were awful. I do believe, for the time it lasted, it was worse than Inkermann: it was nothing but butt and bayonet, and some of our Lancashire boys did not forget to use their feet. Thank God, I got out of it without a scratch worth mentioning. I managed to lose my cap, a shot went through the collar of my coat, and one through my trousers. We buried our officers last night, and there was hardly a dry eye when poor Captain Vicars was lowered into his grave. I feel confident that he has gone to that Home that is prepared for all those who are faithful to the end. This army has lost a cool, determined officer, and there is one Christian less in this sin-blighted world. He had won the affections of the whole Light Division. The 97th might well be proud of him. It is only a few days since I was with him at one of his meetings; but, dear father, he is not lost, but gone before. He can now sing, with all his manly heart, while he views his glorious Master without a veil between.

It is bitterly cold here at present, and I for one do wish they would let us go at the town. We know well that it will be a hard nut to crack, but it must be done, the honour of Old England and France is at stake, and take it we will some day. I do not wish you to publish my letters, for the simple reason that sometimes I speak a little too plainly, and it might hurt me; if anything should happen to me here, you can then please yourself. Take care of them all, as they may come in handy some day, if only to read to friends near and dear to us. I must conclude. Thanks for the papers.

Believe me ever, dear Parents,

Your most affectionate son,

T. GOWING,

Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

SUDDEN DEATH.

“Servant of God, well done; Rest from thy loved employ; The battle fought, the victory won, Enter thy Master’s joy.” The voice at midnight came; He started up to hear, A mortal arrow pierced his frame; He fell, but felt no fear.Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him in the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield: His sword was in his hand, Still warm with recent fight; Ready that moment, at command, Through rock and steel to smite.At midnight came the cry; “To meet thy God prepare!” He woke, and caught his Captain’s eye; Then, strong in faith and prayer, His spirit with a bound, Burst its encumbering clay; His tent, at sunrise, on the ground, A darken’d ruin lay.The pains of death are past, Labour and sorrow cease; And life’s long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ! well done; Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour’s joy. Montgomery.

We had now some hard hitting almost every day or night. We commenced gradually to creep up to the doomed city—here a bit and there a bit, shots being continually exchanged. All the enemy’s outworks had to be seized, and that was no child’s play. The taking of their rifle pits was fearful work. It was all done with the bayonet, in the darkness of night. For the information of my non-military readers, I will just explain what rifle pits are. They are holes, large or small, constructed in various ways, and manned by crack shots, who tormented us considerably by picking off our artillerymen and the sailors manning our heavy guns; for if anyone showed his head above the parapets of the trenches he was almost certain to have a hole made in it. The taking of these pits was, as I have said, fearful work, and was all done with the bayonet, no quarter being given or taken. This work is generally undertaken by volunteers from the various regiments that happen to be in the trenches at the time. I volunteered to form one of these “nice little evening parties,”—but I wished to go no more; yet, had I been ordered, I would have gone, for I had rather die a thousand deaths than be dishonoured. In a few words I will try and describe the method of capturing rifle pits. About 100 or 150, sometimes 300 or 400, men would be formed up at the point nearest to the pits to be assailed, all hands sometimes taking off their accoutrements; at a sign from the officers who are going to lead, the men would creep over the top of the trench and steal up to the enemy on “all four’s;” not a word is spoken, but, at a given signal, in they all go, and, in less time than it takes me to write this, it is all over—the bayonet has done it’s work; the defenders are all utterly destroyed or taken prisoners, while the pits are at once turned and made to face the enemy, or are converted into a trench. Therefore, with this sort of work going on, I think I am justified in saying that hard knocks were given and taken almost every night.

As far as the camp was concerned, things began to look much brighter. Thanks to the kind-hearted friends at home, we now had plenty of good food, and sickness was on the decrease. We had a few petty annoyances, such as being compelled to wear socks, and to pipe-clay our belts so as to make us conspicuous targets for the enemy. As for the fighting, we had plenty of that, but we managed to get over it, I think, as well as our forefathers had done. It was “give and take,” but we generally contrived to let the enemy have “excellent interest.”

The following letter, giving additional details of the fighting on March 22nd, may be of interest here:—

Camp before Sebastopol,

March 29th, 1855.

My Dear, Dear Parents,

In answer to yours of the 1st inst., I am happy to inform you that I am quite well, and in good spirits. I wrote you a long letter on the 24th descriptive of the attack on the 22nd. Truly it was an awful night, and a terrible fight we had. The attacking force, we find, were all picked men, most of them sailors. We hear that the Russians have got a new commander, and that he boasted he would compel us to raise the siege or drive us all into the sea; and I must say that they shaped well, for they came on manfully, but that nasty piece of cold steel stood in the way. I told you in my last about the death of poor Captain Vicars. I do not believe that there was a man in the whole Light Division but would have died to save that noble soldier. When the news flew that Vicars had fallen it seemed to work upon our men, and they were wrought up to a state of frenzy; and with all the enemy’s boasting, and with the overwhelming odds against us, we managed to shift them, and, so to speak, almost pitched them out of our batteries and trenches with the bayonet; and I should like to know what sort of a Briton he would be that would not follow such a man, such a two-fold soldier, as Captain Vicars. One of the sergeants of the 97th told me that only a few hours before the attack this exemplary, noble Christian, was reading and expounding a portion of God’s word to his men, and engaging in prayer with them, and shortly afterwards we find him calling upon these very men to follow him to death or to victory. My dear parents, you must not ask me such questions. I am bound to do my duty. I will not, if I am cut to pieces, bring disgrace upon Norfolk, that brought me up. We have only once to die, and if I am to fall in front of this town, let it be with my face to the foe. I do not wish to boast, but I think I am out of their debt. I find the fellow that shot Captain the Hon. C. Brown was a Russian or Greek priest, and it was the same man that fired his revolver into our magazine, but a bayonet thrust stopped his little game, and extinguished his fanaticism. I must tell you that we all received great praise, or soft soap, from Lord Raglan. I do not know exactly the united strength of those who took part in that fight, but the brunt of the fighting fell upon the 7th Royal Fusiliers, 34th, 77th, 88th, 90th, and 97th regiments. To explain the fight would be impossible—it was so dark. We did not fire much, all was left to the bayonet; but to say that this or that regiment did more than any other would be a piece of injustice. We had a handful, and although they were about ten to one, they found us one too many for them. Whether it will be called a battle, or what our people are going to call it, I do not know; this I know, it has been a grand attempt at ducking us. We hear that the Zouaves fought like so many tigers, and although the odds were heavy against them, they routed the enemy off the field. I don’t think I ever told you before, that they are not all Frenchmen that wear French uniforms. The Zouaves have a number of English and Irish mixed up with them—wild spirits that join them on account of the rapid promotion. You must try and keep your spirits up. I am as happy as the day is long, that is, when I have enough to eat. We must try and make the best of a bad job. Nearly one-third of the Fusiliers are Norfolk men, and I will be bound they will hold their own, and I can tell you they are not the smallest men that we have. I must conclude, with love to all. Give my kind regards to all inquiring friends, and

Believe me as ever, dear Parents,

Your affectionate son,

T. GOWING,

Sergeant, Royal Fusiliers.

P.S.—Try and keep your spirits up, dear mother. I will come home some day lop-sided, with honours, that is, if I do not get my head put under my arm.

T. G.

THE SECOND BOMBARDMENT OF

SEBASTOPOL.

On the morning of Easter Monday the camp was shaken by the commencement of the second bombardment. The French opened fire with some 350 heavy guns, and our people with about 220 guns and mortars. The enemy returned the fire with spirit, with some 600 of the heaviest guns and mortars, exclusive of their shipping. It was something grand, but awful; the ground seemed to tremble beneath the terrible fire. I was in camp, but felt compelled to go up to the Victoria Redoubt to have a look at it. The Russians frequently fired in salvoes, against both us and our allies. This duel of Artillery went on day after day, but it all ended in nothing, the enemy’s works appearing to be as strong, after all this expense and loss of life, as before the bombardment commenced. As Sir G. Brown once said, the longer we looked at the place the uglier it got, and it would have to be taken in the old way, let the consequences be what they might; the bayonet must do what shot and shell could not. So our people set to work to creep up to the prize that for the first time had baffled all our united fire of Artillery, and try the effect of cold steel. Every obstacle had to go down in order to enable us to get up to their works, and during the remainder of April and May we had some terrible fighting. More rifle pits had to be taken, and the old Light Division sustained another heavy loss in Colonel Egerton, of the 77th, who had from the commencement of the Campaign proved himself one of Britain’s truest sons. He fell dead at the taking of rifle pits, that were afterwards named Egerton’s pits; he was one of the biggest men I ever saw in uniform. The old Pot-hooks (the 77th) fought in a most dashing manner, and although they had lost their Colonel, their spirits were not damped, but they went at it with a will as conquerors.

The enemy tried hard that night to re-take the pits, but it was no go; they were met with a fire that mowed them down by wholesale; they then got the bayonet. The 77th were backed up by a good strong party of the 33rd, and detachments of almost every regiment of the Light Division.[5] The fighting was of a most formidable and determined character; but the pits remained in the hands of the conquerors of Alma, Balaclava, and the two Inkermanns. It would be impossible for me to describe all the different combats, but every inch of ground up to the town had to be dearly purchased by blood.

Nothing particular occurred to note now, except that a steady stream of men kept joining us, particularly French, and we had now a splendid army in front of the doomed city. Our men were burning to go at it, and take it or die in the attempt; but we had some more outworks yet to capture before we were to be let loose. From the early morning on the 7th of June, the French were passing through our camp on the way to the trenches. The Imperial Guards and Zouaves appeared in high spirits, and our men turned out and cheered them lustily; and when their new chief, Pélissier, with General Bosquet went by, you would have thought our people had gone mad. General Bosquet was a great favourite with the entire army; and Pélissier was known to be a most resolute man. Our men cheered them heartily, throwing their caps in the air. The fire-eating Bosquet and his chief seemed to appreciate the reception they got from the old Light Division. As soon as the cheering had subsided a little, the two leaders stopped, and Bosquet called out, “Thank you, my men,”—then, with his hand up, to stop us from shouting—“We shall be at them before long, shoulder to shoulder, and then, my boys, stick to them.” Our men cheered them until they were hoarse. Some of our officers turned out to see what was up, but the French had passed on.

CAPTURE OF THE MAMELON AND THE

QUARRIES.

We shortly afterwards fell in, and marched into the trenches. We knew well that there was something to be done, but things were kept very quiet. We mustered pretty strongly in our old advanced works. The French went at the Mamelon in a masterly style, column after column, and as fast as one column melted away, another took its place. We had a splendid view of it—it was grand—and we could distinctly see one of the Vivandiers on horseback, moving with the throng, and then dismount. We cheered them most heartily.

Our turn came at about 5.30 p.m., and away we went at the Quarries with a dash, the old 7th and 88th leading the van. It was England and Ireland side by side. The enemy might well look astonished, for our bayonets were soon in the midst of them. They were routed out of the Quarries; and our people set to work with pick and shovel as hard as men could work. But the enemy were no mean foe; they were armed with as good a weapon as ourselves, and were not going to submit to being shut up in the town, without giving some hard blows. They came on repeatedly, and tried to re-take the position from us; but the old Fusiliers and Connaught Rangers, assisted by detachments of various regiments of the Second and Light Divisions, on each occasion sent them reeling back. At times we were hardly pushed, for we had no ammunition left, and had to do as we had done at Inkermann, viz., pitch stones at them. I am not altogether certain that some of the 88th did not use their teeth—all is fair in love and war. Both officers and men fought with desperation. It was resolved by all of us not to be beaten; but at times we were under such a fire of grape and musketry that it appeared impossible for anything to live. As far as I could see, all had made up their minds to die rather than turn their backs on the foe, and we had that night leaders who knew how to die but could hardly run. As far as the old 7th Fusiliers were concerned, we had some splendid officers—Mills, Turner, Waller, Jones, FitzClarence, all courageous men, just the right sort to lead a storming party. Mr. Jones and Waller repeatedly led our men at the enemy during that sanguinary night. At times all was confusion, uproar, and smoke. Dust and showers of stones flew like hail. It was hot work all night, but we meant to win or die. The hurrahs of our fellows told both friend and foe that our blood was up. If we were short of ammunition we had plenty of steel; we had a Wolseley with us and others as good, but nearly all our commanders bit the dust, dead or wounded. I had the honour of taking a man’s name that evening for a most daring act, viz., bringing a barrel of ammunition on his head across the open field, under a tremendous fire, throwing it at our feet, exclaiming, “Here you are, my lads, fire away,” and then going back to get another. I had the pleasure of meeting him afterwards in India, with the cross upon his noble breast—“Gunner Arthur.” But Arthur was not alone; two of our own men—Private Matthew Hughes and Corporal Gumley did exactly the same. Hughes, smoking his old clay pipe all the time, exclaimed, “Keep it up, lads;” “Lend a hand, sir, to distribute these pills,” addressing a young officer. The fighting all night was of a deadly character, but we had then got the Quarries, and were not going to let the enemy have them again. As for the Mamelon, it was “ding-dong hard pounding.” Five times the French went at it. The fifth column was blown into the air to a man, guns, platforms, and all; and then, with maddening shouts, the gallant sons of France went at the ruins, and, in spite of the barbarous brutes, took them. The Zouaves followed them up and went right into the Malakoff, where a great number fell, but it was not the intention to take or attempt to take that work. Our hands were full, we had all that we could do to maintain our position; but we found time to give our heroic Allies three times three, for they richly deserved it. All the enemy’s attempts at re-taking the Quarries were baffled, for some fourteen times they were hurled back with a terrible slaughter. We were now under good cover, the pick and shovel having been at it all night.

My letter home at this time was as follows:—