Orders from headquarters to be prepared for a sortie, which, not coming off, enabled me to ride with Prince Victor to the Tchernaya, where a desperate attack was being made by the Russians on the Italians, the French going to their assistance. On the high ground on our way we met the dead and dying being brought up on mules, stretchers, and backs of men, then laid out in subdivided areas as most convenient for the French and English surgeons to get at. We descended to the river; the Russians, who had retreated to the high ground, continued to fire shot and shell on those who were helping the dying and wounded. The Tchernaya is a small river, but required a bridge to get over it. One of the painful sights was the badly wounded trying to drag themselves to the river, calling for drink. While contemplating the body of a young Russian officer (judging from his uniform and spurs), whose upper jaw had been shot clean away, the lower had an uninjured row of white teeth, heard a voice over my shoulder, remarking, “Il ne mange plus.” Further on a Russian soldier had his left arm stretched out straight. Thought he must be alive and rode up, to find him stiff and dead. On a finger was a large ring. Without dismounting, drew it off, thinking I had a memento of the battle, but finding it was only brass, I was very near giving it back. [Sidenote: Aug. 17.] Notice from headquarters to be prepared for a determined assault on our Right Attack batteries. On my way met my late shipmate, Lieutenant Oldfield, weeping: a round shot had just taken his artillery brother’s head off! Our batteries, not having been formed at the same time, were somewhat irregular, and it had been necessary to prevent the men rushing from one battery to the assistance of another: a friendly hint was given from headquarters that our men should leave their muskets and side arms behind! We had a large battery, with three or four smaller, on each side. In the main battery I selected and made a pile of empty shell cases, forming a platform for self to stand on. Returning after final inspection, found Captain Hammett in possession of my pile. Caused him to dismount, though he seemed to object, but having learned which of the Russian batteries could bear on our own, I took possession. The ball had commenced. After a few minutes I called from the position, “Look out, a round shot direct for our battery.” Hammett gave the notice to the men, who sprang from either side, but did not move himself. The shot touched the muzzle of the gun, and doubled up poor Hammett. There was a youngster bending over; I hoped there were not two down. Found the poor lad was sick at the sight of Hammett’s wounds. My gig’s crew bore him to our camp, some three miles off. Some one in camp with a telescope, seeing a gold lace cuff from under the stretcher borne by the Captain’s gig’s crew, announced my end. Total: five killed, nineteen wounded. [Illustration: _Plan of Sevastopol._]