“As if we have anything to learn from the French!” said the self-satisfied young Briton, by way of ending the conversation.

But Sergeant Hyde was right, so far as the need for shelter was concerned.  As evening closed in, heavy clouds came up from the sea, and it rained in torrents all night.

A miserable night it was!  The whole army lay exposed to the fury of the elements on the bleak hillside, drenched to the skin, in pools and watercourses, under saturated blankets, without fuel, or the chance of lighting a bivouac fire.  It was the same for all; the generals of division, high staff-officers, colonels, captains, and private men.  The first night on Crimean soil was no bad precursor of the dreadful winter still to come.

Next day the prospect brightened a little.  The sun came out and dried damp clothes; tents were landed, only to be re-embarked when the army commenced its march.  This was on the third day after disembarkation, when, with all the pomp and circumstance of a parade movement, the allied generals advanced southward along the coast.  They were in search of an enemy which had shown a strange reluctance to come to blows, and had already missed a splendid opportunity of interfering with the landing.

The place of honour in the order of march was assigned to the English, who were on the left, with that flank unprotected and “in the air”; on their right marched the French; on whose right, again, the Turks; then came the sea.  Moving parallel with the land-forces, the allied fleets held undisputed dominion of the waters.  A competent critic could detect no brilliant strategy in the operations so far; no astute, carefully calculated plan directed the march.  One simple and primitive idea possessed the minds of the allied commanders, and that was to come to close quarters, and fight the Russians wherever they could be found.

There could be only one termination to such a military policy as this when every hour lessened the distance between the opposing forces.  At the end of the first day’s march, most toilsome and trying to troops still harassed by fell disease, it was plain that the enemy were close at hand.  Large bodies of their cavalry hung black and menacing along our front—­the advance guards these of a large force in position behind.  Any moment might bring on a collision.  It was nearly precipitated, and prematurely, by the action of our horse—­a small handful of cavalry, led by a fiery impatient soldier, eager, like all under his command, to cross swords with the enemy.

A couple of English cavalry regiments had been pushed forward to reconnoitre the strength of the Russians.  The horsemen rode out in gallant style, but were checked by artillery fire; a British battery galloped up and replied.  Presently the round-shot bounded like cricket balls, but at murderous pace, across the plain.  More cavalry went forward on our side, and two whole infantry divisions, in one of which was the Royal Picts, followed in support.