Soyer's Culinary Campaign: Being Historical Reminiscences of the Late War.: With The Plain Art of Cookery for Military and Civil InstitutionsSoyer, Alexis
History
Soyer's Culinary Campaign: Being Historical Reminiscences of the Late War.: With The Plain Art of Cookery for Military and Civil Institutions
Soyer, Alexis
Cooking for military personnel; Crimean War, 1853-1856
As we rode along, I could not help remarking to P. Morrison the
extraordinary contrast of the two scenes, witnessed nearly on the same
spot and within a short interval--the present one all fun and glee, the
other a scene of death and carnage, where hundreds of human beings were
being launched into eternity. Such are the chances and the variation of
war. It was after twelve when we arrived at Balaklava, and were safe on
board. My heroic companion related the terrible fright he had been in
all the way back, having seen most dreadful things, in the shape of
ghosts, brigands, and murderers. It is true that on one occasion we were
arrested; but it was by a wide ditch, which we could not easily jump
over without risking a bath with the frogs, it being one of the resorts
of those aquatic quadrupeds. We had lost our way, the road being
invisible, and no landmarks, as the camps were being daily changed from
one spot to another. These were the tribulations caused by the printer
or my illustrious secretary. The next morning the captain of the vessel
came to my cabin, and informed me that Kertch and other places in the
Sea of Azoff were taken.
The news of such a victory was most welcome, and the harbour was gaily
decorated with hundreds of coloured flags of the Allied nations.
Everything seemed to revive, and all felt anxious to visit the
newly-conquered land of Kamara, which had been taken a few days before.
In company with a few others, I started at four A.M. to visit these
_champs fleuris_. Nothing could be more refreshing than the sight of
that gorgeous harvest, which seemed to have suddenly sprung up amidst
deserted and arid rocks, sand, and gravel, where all had before been
condemned to exile. Nothing in my whole existence appeared more grateful
and refreshing to the mind, as well as the eye, than the odour from
those perfumed valleys of myriads of wild flowers, shaded from the
burning heat of the sun by a tall verandah of long green grass, the top
of which softly caressed the chests of our horses as they trotted
through these thickly-populated floral prairies. Myriads of _étoiles des
champs_, daisies, buttercups, bluebells, cornflowers, poppies,
birdseyes, &c., and many others unknown in this country, were seen on
every side. Clouds of butterflies were seen gaily sporting from flower
to flower, taking from each a kiss perfumed by the zephyr of the morn.
Even our horses seemed to enjoy the scene so fully, that we let them
graze for about an hour. We then arrived near the charming rivulet and
valley, the Tchernaya, which, though far from being as beautiful as many
in France or England, possesses numerous charms to an uninitiated eye.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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