Even at the first landing, on the 14th of September, 1854, these sufferings commenced. Imagine a bare and desolate beach, the home of seagull and wild-fowl, suddenly turned into a barrack-yard. From one end to the other bayonets glistened, red coats and brass-mounted shakos gleamed in solid masses. The transports were tossing yonder out in the offing, and as gig or cutter grounded on the sand the officers of each company first landed, each in full dress, and carried his greatcoat, fastened by a strap round his body. After the officers came the men, bearing rations for three days in their wallets. Before they were all well on shore the rain began, and the wind was sending a little surf on the beach. The horses were not yet landed, so Generals and staff-officers might be seen sitting on powder-barrels on the shore, retiring gloomily within the folds of cape and mackintosh. Disconsolate doctors were groaning after hospital panniers which had not yet arrived; for, strange to say, more than one man died on that beach. The country people, though at first full of fear of the invaders, soon brought food to sell, and retired with twinkling eyes. They were of Tartar race, with small eyes set wide apart and high cheek-bones. That first night in the Crimea! Twenty thousand Englishmen, and not one tent amongst them! The wind rose and the rain fell in sheets, piercing through the greatcoats and blankets of the soldiers. Their only bed was the reeking puddles. They had no fire to cheer them, no hot grog. They were just miserable, while the French and the Turks were lying snug under canvas. No wonder that there was a great increase in illness among the troops. Next day the surf was so heavy that many boats were stove in, and the work of landing horses and guns was difficult. On the morning of the 20th, as Lord Raglan, the Commander-in-Chief, was waiting, surrounded by his staff, for the troops to get into position, a gentleman joined them on a handsome grey pony. The pony began neighing and screaming so loudly that no one could hear a word that was said. Lord Raglan turned and asked: “Does anyone know who that gentleman is?” One of the staff replied: “I think it is one of the newspaper reporters, my lord. Shall I ask him to go away?” Lord Raglan laughed, and said: “If you do, he will show you up, you may depend upon it.” “It is Mr. Kinglake, the author of ‘Eōthen,’” said another. “Oh,” said my lord, “a most charming man,” and was going to speak to him, when the French Marshal St. Arnaud rode up and prevented it.