men !" the unceasing fire, the occasional sight of a body blown into the air, of men mortally stricken, who drop back over the slope to fall and die. 66 Why don't they send on more cry, almost in frenzied excitement, those who, under a heavy fire themselves, stand round Alured in the left attack. The trenches are quite crammed with troops. They are to be seen plainly Highlanders, a whole division from Kamara; Guards, Marines not long landed, and still fresh and unworn by the hardships or losses of the campaign. What is Simpson about? Why does he hesitate? If he would only let them loose,—over the trench and on. But the time wears away. The Fourth Division is there too; and the Third is at the Park. word to advance. Nothing is wanted but the But no word is given. went out has got to do it all. The handful that The task is clearly beyond their strength, and there can be none of them left by this time-stay, yes; a few; for see, they are retreating! Englishmen retreating, falling back, withered, crestfallen, unsuccessful. A feeling of deep gloom settles on those in the left attack, who have had no share in the fight, and are too far distant to get intelligence of what has passed. That the assault has again failed at the Redan, they have the evidence of their own eyes. But what is to be the next move? Will not fresh storming parties be organized without delay? Rumour and counter rumour fly like wildfire. Four companies of the 145th were in the action. The colonel is killed, and the adjutant, they say. The enemy, flushed with success, is about to make a combined sortie all along their line; while Liprandi, advancing from the Tchernaya Valley, storms the Fedhukhine Heights. Then it becomes known that the Malakoff has been captured-and why not the Redan ? "It was never meant to be taken; the attack was a feint to draw attention from the Malakoff." "Then the French have all the glory; ours is the shame." Evening now draws on. Alured, with Mc Guiness is sent to the advanced trenches; and sentries are once more posted, and the night is passed anxiously awaiting a Russian onslaught. Just before dawn, as they lie extended on the ground within the trench, worn out and tired, their backs are nearly broken by a violent convulsion of the earth beneath them. roar follows. "A mine! a mine! A terrible advance under cover of this." The men stand to their arms silently, expecting the worst. The light grows stronger; but it is garish, sickly, artificial, as if the dawn broke sick at heart at all the carnage it must see at waking. Is it really day-break; or are the heavens on fire? No. Sebastopol is in flames; the enemy has evacuated the place, leaving smoking ruins, forts crumbled into dust,—an empty shell, void of life or value to its jaded captors. CHAPTER XV. A CHANCE SHOT. "What, sighing? fie! Drink on; drown fear; be jolly, boys; AFTER the fall of Sebastopol there was a lull in hostilities. But rumour, within a week, was busy inventing fresh outlets for the allied arms. It was asserted, for instance, that the whole of our forces were to embark forthwith for Asia, to raise the siege of Kars. For this purpose the fleet had been ordered to rendezvous at Kamiesch. Then it became known that a combined assault was meditated upon the Mackenzie Heights, beyond the Tchernaya, striking thus at Batchiserai and Simpheropol in the interior. After which, it was probable that the armies would march upon Moscow or St. Petersburgh, time, and the coming winter being naturally neither object nor obstacle. There was plenty of tall talk about the camps, till September had passed without a move be yond some trifling naval operations in the Sea of Azof. It became evident then that nothing much would be attempted that year, and our brave soldiers, like Cæsar's legions in Gaul, went into winter quarters. Those who disliked their tents built huts, taught by the experience of the past to guard against the hardships of the coming winter. All ranks tried to make themselves comfortable. The troops were flush of cash, thanks to their increased pay, and spent it like men, as who should say "See how we soldiers live! Sometimes better, and never worse." Tobacco was a drug in the camp; grog flowed in streams; biscuit, as a ration, despised for the fresh soft bread sold daily by the Maltee hawkers. In this respect there was a marked difference between the English and French armies. As supplies poured in to the former, the latter became more and more straitened. There was hardly a regiment in the British encampment but had a strong clientèle of hungry French pensioners, who were fed after meals with what was left. Every morning a lean piou-piou came past Alured's tent, following a trail of crumbs laid |