“Our sentries often fraternized with the Russian sentries. A few nights ago our men saw some Russian soldiers coming towards them without arms, and they supposed them to be deserters; but, on coming nearer, they made signs that they wanted a light for their pipes, and then they stayed a few minutes, talking. First Russian: ‘Englise bono!’ First Englishman: ‘Ruskie bono!’ Second Russian: ‘Oslem no bono!’ Second Englishman: ‘Ah, Turk no bono!’ pretending to run away as if frightened, upon which all the party go into roars of laughter, and then, after shaking hands, they retire to their respective beats, ready for the bloody work of war.” From Sir W. Howard Russell’s “Letters from the Crimea.” By kind permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sons, Ltd. CHAPTER IX AFTER INKERMANN (1854-55) Valiant deeds--Lord Raglan under fire--Tryon the best shot--A Prince’s button--A cold Christmas--Savage horses--The Mamelon redoubt--Corporal Quin--Colonel Zea. The Battle of Inkermann was fought on the 5th of November, 1854, in a thick fog. It began very early in the morning with a surprise, and developed into a series of desperate deeds of daring, of hand-to-hand fights, of despairing rallies, of desperate assaults in glen and valley, in brushwood glades and remote dells. At six o’clock in the morning our men of the Second Division were roused by their tents being ripped to pieces by Russian shells. In darkness, gloom, and rain the British troops sallied forth to meet the foe--with the bayonet if they could. Many valiant deeds were done. Some were noted, many were unmarked. Lieutenant Crosse was surrounded by Russians, who attacked him with the bayonet, though he was badly wounded. He shot two with his revolver. Then a private, running up to help him, shot another, bayonetted the fourth, and carried the Lieutenant away in his arms. MacGrath was captured by two Russians, but while they were leading him away he seized the firelock of one of them, shot the Russian, and dashed out the brains of the other. Burke was surrounded just as a ball broke his jawbone. He rushed amongst his enemies, shot three dead with his revolver, and cut two men down with his sword. He fell at last with more than thirty wounds in his body. When Sir George Cathcart was shot and our men were retiring, Colonel Seymour, of the Guards, a dear friend who had served with him through the campaign in Kaffirland, rushed forward to help him, and in so doing was shot through the leg. “Come back, Colonel!” the men shouted as they swept past the two officers. “No, no; my place is here with Sir George,” replied Seymour. “You must leave him,” cried General Torrens; “the enemy are close at hand. You will be killed, man!” But nothing could persuade the Colonel to leave the side of his dying chief. There he remained, alone against the rushing tide of battle, and met a hero’s death in endeavouring to protect his friend from insult and mutilation.