Had a couple of thousand seamen and marines been landed, they could have done all that was required, have released us from two days' fearful duty, enabled us to follow the footsteps of our flying enemy, and to have completed his signal discomfiture, and have in all probability contributed materially to the issue of the campaign. Admiral Dundas, however, seemed to be in apprehension of the Russian fleet sallying out to attack us.
Brigadier-General Tylden died in his tent early on the morning of the 23rd, of cholera. He was buried in the valley under the heights of Alma. He was succeeded by Lieut.-Colonel Alexander, R.E., who was not, however, promoted to the rank of Brigadier. Many men died of cholera in the night. My sleep was disturbed by the groans of the dying, and on getting up in the morning I found that the corpse of a Russian lay outside the tent in which I had been permitted to rest. He was not there when we retired to rest, so that the wretched creature, who had probably been wandering about without food upon the hills ever since the battle, must have crawled down towards our fires, and there expired. Late at night on the 22nd orders were sent round the divisions to be prepared for marching after daybreak. Early on the 23rd we left the blood-stained heights of the Alma — a name that will be ever memorable in history. Soon after dawn the French assembled drums and trumpets on the top of the highest of the hills they carried, and a wild flourish and roll, repeated again and again, and broken by peals of rejoicing from the bugles of the infantry, celebrated their victory ere they departed in search of the enemy. It was spirit-stirring and thrilling music, and its effect, as it swelled through the early morning over the valley, can never be forgotten.
Our watch-fires were still burning languidly, as the sleepers roused themselves, and prepared to leave the scene of their triumphs. The fogs of the night crept slowly up the hill sides, and hung in uncertain folds around their summits, revealing here and there the gathering columns of our regiments in dark patches on the declivities, or showing the deep black-looking squares of the French battalions, already in motion towards the south. Dimly seen in the distance, the fleet was moving along slowly by the line of the coast, the long lines of smoke trailing back on their wake. But what was that grey mass on the plain, which seemed settled{129} down upon it almost without life or motion? Now and then, indeed, an arm might be seen waved aloft, or a man raised himself for a moment, looked around, and then fell down again. Alas! that plain was covered with the wounded Russians. Nearly sixty long hours they passed in agony upon the ground, and with but little hope of help or succour more, we were compelled to leave them. Their wounds had been bound and dressed.
Ere our troops marched, General Estcourt sent into the Tartar village up the valley, into which the inhabitants were just returning, and having procured the attendance of the head men, proceeded to explain that the wounded Russians would be confided to their charge, and that they were to feed and maintain them, and when they were well they were to be let go their ways. An English surgeon was left behind with these 750 men — Dr. Thomson, of the 44th Regiment. He was told his mission would be his protection in case the Cossacks came, and that he was to hoist a flag of truce should the enemy appear in sight; and then, provided with rum, biscuit, and salt meat, he was left with his charge, attended by a single servant. One of the Russian officers addressed the wounded, and explained the position in which they were placed; they promised to obey Dr. Thomson's orders, to protect him as far as they could, and to acquaint any Russian force which might arrive with the peculiar circumstances under which he was among them.