The needy knife-grinder, had he been a resident in our camp during the last week of November, would not have been in possession of more abundant materials for anecdote than he was when he met Mr. Canning, several years ago, in the neighbourhood of Eton. We were all ankle-deep in mud. Ankle-deep! No! that would have been nothing! It would have been no great matter of complaint or grievance if we had had to deal with the ordinary material, so familiar to all Londoners, before the scavengers remove the formidable soft parapets which line the kerbstones after a day or two of rain. That can be scraped off, cleaned, rubbed away, or washed out. This Crimean preparation nothing but long and persevering efforts, continually renewed, and combining all the former operations, could remove. It stuck in pasty clods to the shoes, and would insist on being brought into clean huts and tents to visit your friends. It had a great affection for straws, with which it succeeded in working itself up into a gigantic brick, somewhat underdone, in which condition it threatened to build your legs into the ground if you stood long enough in one place to give it a chance; and it mightily affected horseshoes also, and sucked them off, with a loud smack of relish, in those little ravines between rocky hill-sides in which it exercised the greatest influence. Literally and truly, it was like glue half boiled and spread over the face of the earth for the depth of several feet. It was no joke for a soldier to see his sleeping-place, in hut or tent, covered with this nasty slime; yet they could not be kept clean. Take but one step outside, and you were done for. The mud was lying in wait for you, and you just carried back as much on your feet as if you had walked a mile. Carts stuck immovably in the ground, or the wheels and axles flew into pieces from the strain of the horses and mules.
The waste of property as of life in war is prodigious, and much of it seems unavoidable. I firmly believe that for three feet deep the whole of the quay at Balaklava, near the Commissariat landing-place, was at this time a concrete of corn. It was no uncommon thing to see a Croat or Turkish labourer waddling slowly along with a sack on his back, from which the corn descended in streams against his heels, till he arrived from the ship at the store, and then to behold him depositing the collapsed and flaccid bag on the heap with great gravity and satisfaction at his success in diminishing his load at every step. In the various Divisional Commissariat depôts an enormous loss of grain occurred from similar causes, and from shifting the sacks and the distribution of the rations. But it seemed to be impossible to prevent these losses, which were regarded as incidental to a state of war. Our{445} authorities waged a war of extermination against spirit vendors, and, above all, against rakee importers. This villanous spirit inflamed men's brains and set them mad; it had all the abominable properties of fresh-run rum or new whisky, but it affected the nervous system more mischievously, and produced prostration, which frequently ended in death. It was dreadfully cheap, colourless like gin, with a taste of bad anisette and a fiery burning smack on the tongue, and was alcohol all but pure, with the exception of the adulteration, which contributes the flavour. The owners were compelled to start the poison into the sea, and then to leave the Crimea instanter.
Every canteen-keeper or storekeeper on whose premises a drunken soldier was seen, no matter what the excuse might be, was fined £5 for each, and the Provost-Marshal had more money than he knew what to do with from this source alone. But they are a wealthy race, these social vultures — many of them king vultures — respectable birds of prey, with kempt plumage and decent demeanour — others mere "adjutants," dirty and predaceous. The sutlers of Kadikoi cared little for £5 fines while they could get 6d. a dozen for tacks, and 2s. a pound for lard sub nomine butter, and they paid their taxes like lords, or rather much more willingly, now that the income-tax is pressing on the poor nobility. Taxes! — what is the man talking about? It is quite true, nevertheless. There was an unchartered corporation in the town of Kadikoi, with a Mayor and Aldermen, or Town Councillors, and a vigorous administrative staff that would astonish the elder brethren about Guildhall. They had a machinery of scavengers and the sewer-men, and they paid about £120 a month for keeping their city in order. But sutlers, and canteens, and provisions were of no use without roads, and the word was heard of oftener, and the thing thought of more than anything else, in the autumn of 1855.