The remainder of September and October, 1855, passed off pretty quietly. After the dead had been buried and the wounded removed to camp, our commanders were at liberty to turn their thoughts towards the enemy still on the north side of the harbour; the south side was well guarded by British troops and those of our allies (the French). There were as yet no signs of peace; we were still frowning at each other across the water. The enemy's fleets had all been sent to the bottom, but the booming of their heavy guns told us that although defeated the Muscovites were not yet subdued, and that if we wanted the north side we should have to fight for it. Our people were now making preparations for destroying the huge forts, barracks, and docks of Sebastopol. This had sometimes to be carried on under a heavy fire from the north side, but still the work did not cease. Not a day passed without our losing a number of men and some good officers. By the end of October many of our wounded began to recover and to return to their duties; some, discharged from hospital convalescent, might be seen walking about the camps with their arms in splints, or with their heads bandaged, others limping about with the assistance of a stick or crutch--but all appeared in high spirits. That indomitable British pluck had been in no wise quenched, in spite of the wounds that had been received. Our men were burning to have another "shy" at the enemy on a grand scale, in order to wipe out the stain of the repulse at the Redan, although that was not all their fault. The first anniversary of the Alma was kept in camp in grand style, as far as our means would allow, and wine was sent to all the wounded Alma men then in hospital. When we looked back, what an eventful twelve months that had been! Victory after victory had been added to our already long and glorious roll; but, alas! where were the noble sons of Britain who had gained them? Had all fallen? Had all been food for powder or succumbed to the deadly thrust of the bayonet? No! Hundreds, yea thousands, had been sacrificed by cruel hardships--little or no food, hardly sufficient clothing to cover their nakedness, in the trenches for twelve hours at a stretch, up to their ankles (or sometimes knees) in mud, half drowned, frozen to death, their limbs dropping off through frost-bite! There is hardly one of those men now living who does not feel the effects of that terrible winter of 1854. Thousands have since perished, through diseases contracted during that awful time; but the excitement, supported by an invincible spirit, kept them up then and for some time after. The first anniversary of Balaclava and Inkermann found me still in hospital, slowly recovering, able to walk about, but very shaky. Inkermann was another anniversary duly observed by the whole army. We had by this time got into capital huts, and had plenty of good clothing, in fact, more than we could stand under; and we had as much