Being soldier as well as sailor, General as well as Admiral, he had been aide-de-camp to Prince Gortchakoff (the brother of the Vice-Chancellor), who was commander-in-chief of the army in the Crimea. At the end of the day of the 20th of September, after the battle of the Alma, the Prince sent him to convey the intelligence of the disaster to the Tsar, with orders to tell no one what had happened till his Majesty should have received him. It was not a pleasant mission. He posted night and day till he reached the railroad, and at every halt for change of horses the people crowded round him, eager for news from the front; but he uttered not a word. At last, after a long, weary journey he reached the Palace, and was ushered into the Tsar’s presence. The Tsar, anticipating glorious news from the war, sprang forward smiling to embrace him. The Admiral started aside and put out both hands with the palms outward as though to push back the Emperor, saying: “No, your Majesty! no! I bring bad news.” The Emperor’s whole face changed. Nicholas gave him one of those steady looks with which he knew how to petrify the man who displeased him; deeply angered, he demanded to know the worst. At this moment the Empress came in. That the heights of the Alma should have been stormed in the face of the Russian army was something that the Tsar would not, could not, believe. He strode about the room, furious; but the Empress pacified him and gave him comfort. At last, when he had collected himself, he dismissed the Admiral, telling him to keep strict silence, and to tell no human being what had happened. Admiral Greig very humbly pointed out that the aide-de-camp in waiting and other gentlemen were outside the door and would at once ply him with questions. “Tell them nothing,” said the Emperor. Here the Empress very quietly interposed: “On the contrary, tell them everything. There is no use in concealing the truth. I will be responsible.” It was an evil moment for a soldier. He was sent back posthaste to the Crimea in disgrace; but when he was badly wounded afterwards, the Tsar was appeased and sent him a message to say that he “kissed his wound.” He was forgiven. The reign of the Emperor Nicholas had not been a happy one. Indeed, during all his life he had been brought face to face with the dangers and troubles by which the kingly office is surrounded. He was but five years old when his father, the Emperor Paul, was murdered; on the rather mysterious death at Taganrog of his brother, Alexander the First—who had been ailing and had gone to the Crimea for a rest, but whose condition had not given rise to alarm—his next brother, Constantine, having previously renounced his claims, he was called to the throne in the last month of 1825.