The moment had now come when Lord Raglan could effectively exhibit his generalship: for hours he had sat in his saddle, in a most exposed situation, unable to control the fluctuating fortunes of the day. Under his direction, General Strangways had opened a heavy fire of artillery upon the Russian guns upon the opposite hills, with the hope of silencing their fatal volleys. This was all he had been enabled to perform for the succour of the troops engaged. Many fell around him, but the brave old General refused to move from his exposed situation, anxious for the time to arrive when he might be enabled so to manœuvre his forces as to drive back the enemy. General Strangways was within a short distance of the Commander-in-Chief, when a shot, which had actually passed between the legs of Lord Raglan’s horse, shattered his leg, and he fell to the ground. He was borne carefully to the rear, where, in a few moments, the gallant old man, who had survived the dangers of Leipzig, and a fearful wound at Waterloo, breathed his last; meeting his fate with a calm heroism that affected to tears many a brave man fresh from the honours of that sanguinary field. The Russians had left on the field two 18-pounder guns, and Lord Raglan now ordered them to be brought up to the front. Colonel Dickson had already anticipated the order, and the guns had been dragged by main strength to the fitting position on a ridge front of the Second Division. Assisted by Captain D’Aguilar, a well-aimed fire was poured into the Russian batteries; the guns were overthrown, the gunners killed, and the fire for an instant quelled; but the fertility of the enemy’s resources did not fail them even now: fresh gunners supplied the places of those struck down by the English fire, and the deadly duel was resumed. Then came the retreating infantry--a headlong mass, and the fiery Zouaves and reanimated British in hot pursuit. Three times were the artillerymen swept away from their guns; as many times their places were supplied. Then, under cover of fierce volleys from the town and ships, they succeeded in carrying off their guns. The French batteries now advanced to the crown of the ridge, and opened fire on the retreating masses, flying pell-mell towards the heights. Hundreds fell beneath the deadly volleys--the thunders of the death-dealing artillery drowned alike the shrieks and groans of the wounded and the triumphant shouts of the victors, and the battle of Inkermann was won!