Perhaps the weakest part of the whole line was the extreme right, held at this moment by the British Second Division.  Here, on an exposed and vitally important flank, the whole available force was barely 3,000 men.  For some time past it had been intended to fortify this flank by field-works, armed with heavy artillery.  But, although the necessity for protecting it was thus admitted, the urgency was not exactly understood, or at least was subordinated to other operations; as a matter of fact, this flank was “in the air,” to use a military phrase, lying quite open and exposed, with only an insufficient, greatly harassed garrison on the spot, and no supports or reserves near at hand.

The utmost assistance on which this small body could count, as was afterwards shown, under stress, too, of most imminent danger, was 14,000 men.  Not that all these numbers were fully available at any one time; they were constantly affected and diminished by casualties in the height and heat of the action; so that never were there more than 13,000, French and English, actually engaged.

On the other hand, the Russian attacking force was 70,000 strong, and they had with them 235 guns.

It was in truth another battle of giants, like Waterloo.  “Hard pounding,” as the great duke said of that other fight; a fierce trial of strength; a protracted, seemingly unequal, struggle between the dead weight of the aggregate many and the individual prowess of the undaunted, indomitable few.

The enemy’s plan of action had been minutely and carefully prepared.  We know it now.  He meant to use his whole strength along his entire front—­in part with feigned and deceiving demonstrations to “contain” or hold inactive the troops that faced him, in part with determined onslaught, delivered with countless thousands, in massive columns, against the reputed weakest point of our line.

This plan Menschikoff hastened to put into execution.  Time pressed:  the enemy had learnt through spies that an assault on Sebastopol was close at hand.  Besides, the Grand Dukes had arrived, and the troops, worked up to the highest pitch of loyal fanatic fervour, were mad to fight under the eyes of the sons of their father, the holy Czar.

Dawn broke late on that drear November morning:  November the 5th—­a day destined to be ever memorable in the annals of British arms:  a dawn that was delayed and darkened by dense, driving mists, and rain-clouds, black and lowering.

Nothing, however, had broken the repose of the British camp, or hinted at the near approach of countless foes.

The night had been tranquil; the enemy quiet; only, in the valley beneath our pickets on the Inkerman heights, some sentries had heard the constant rumbling of wheels, but their officers to whom they reported did not interpret the same aright, as the movement of artillery.

An hour or more before daylight the church-bells of Sebastopol rang out a joyous peal.  Why not?  It was the Sabbath morning.  But these chimes, alas! ushered in a Sunday of struggle and bloodshed, not of peaceful devotion and prayer.