On the 14th September, 1854, we landed at Old Fort. At a signal from the Admiral-in-chief we all got ready, and the first consignment of the Light Division were soon off at rapid pace. It was a toss-up between us and a boat-load of the 2nd Batt. Rifle Brigade, as to who should have the honour of landing first on the enemy's shore; but with all due respect I say the Fusiliers had it, though there was not much to boast of, as it was afterwards said the Rifles were a very good second (_see note at the end of chapter_). We were not opposed in landing; a few Cossacks were looking on at a respectful distance, but made no attempt to molest us. It would have been madness on their part to have done so, considering the enormous force we could have brought to bear upon them. A company of ours, and one or two of the Rifles, were at once sent forward to be on the look-out; Sir G. Brown went with them and nearly got "nabbed;" they could have shot him, but wanted to take him alive, believing that he was "a big bug;" some of our people, however, noticed their little game, crept close up to the General, and when the Cossacks thought of making a dash, set to work and emptied some of their saddles, while the remainder scampered off as fast as their horses' legs could carry them. Sir G. Brown had thus a narrow escape--as narrow as any he had previously experienced in the Peninsula and elsewhere. The greater portion of our army quietly landed--the French disembarking some little distance from us. These had their little tents with them, and so had the small detachment of Turks who were with us, but there was not a single tent for the English Army--so much for management. Thousands of Britain's sons, who had come to fight for Queen and Country, were thrown ashore, as it were, without shelter of any kind.