The Sun.
London, England, 1854-11-30 00:00:00

T.LIE BATTLE FIELD OF INKERZIAN.

( From a Letter dated Nov. 7.)
In every bush—on every yard of blood-stained ground
—lay a dead or dying Russian. Tho well-known bear-
skins of our Guards, the red coats of our infantry, and
the bright blue of the French Chasseurs, revealing
each a silent horror in the •glades, and marking the
spot where stark and stiff a corpse lay contorted on
the grass, pointed out the scenes of the bloodiest con-
tests. The dead were happy—the dull cold eye—the
tranquil brow—the gently opening lips, which had given
escape to the parting spirit as it fled from its bleeding
shell, showed how peacefully a man may die in battle
pierced by the rifle ball. The British and the French,
many of whom had been murdered by the Russians as
they lay wounded, wore terrible frowns on their faces,
with which the agonies of death had clad them. Some
in their last throes had torn up the earth in their hands,
and held the grass between their fingers up towards,
heaven. All the men who exhibited such signs of pain
had been bayoneted. The dead men whe lay with an
eternalsmile on their lips had been shot. But the wounded.
For two days they had lain where the hand and the ball
had felled them. They were very few, it is true, but all
our searching had not discovered the secrets of that
blood-stained hill-side, and it was towards noon to-day
ere the last of our soldiers had been found in his lair and
carried to the hospital. But the Russians groaning and
palpitating as they lay around, were far more numerous.
Some of these were placed together in heaps, that they
might be more readily removed. Others glared on you front
the bushes with the ferocity of wild beasts as they hugged
their wounds. Some implored, in an unknown tongue, but
in accents not to be mistaken, water, or succour; holding
out their mutilated and shattered limbs, or pointing to
the track of the lacerating ball. The sullen angry scowl
of some of these men wear fearful. Fanaticism and
immortal hate spake through their angry eye-balls,
and he who gazed on them with pity and compassion
could at last (unwillingly) understated how these men
would in their savage passion kill the wounded, and
fire ou the conqueror, who, in his generous hu-
manity, had aided them as he passed. It was a
relief to see that their arms were broken—that their
cartridges were lying opened in heaps on the ground.
Litter-bearers, French and English, clothed the hill-
side, now toiling painfully up with a heavy burden
for the grave, or with some subject for the doctor's care ;
now hunting through the bushes for the dead or dying.
Our men have acquired a shocking facility in their diag-
nosis. A body is before you ; thre is a shout, " Come
here boys ; I see a Russian !" (or " a Frenchman," or
" one of our fellows.") One of the party comes forward,
raises the eyelid if it be closed, peers into the eye, shrugs
his shoulders, says quietly, " He's dead, he'll wait,"
and moves back to the litter; others pull the feet, and
arrive at equally correct conclusions by that process.
The dead are generally stripped of all but their coats.
The camp followers and blackguards from Balaklava,
and seamen from the ships anxious for trophies, carry
off all they can take from the field. At particular spots
you see a party of men busy at work. Groups of them
are digging away all along the hill-side at the distance
of 40 or 50 yards apart. Go over and you find them
around a yawning trench 30 feet in length and 20 feet in
breadth and 6 feet in depth, at the bottom of which, in
every conceivable attitude, lie packed together with ex-
ceeding art some 30 or 40 corpses. Thegrave-diggers stand
clia tting on the mounds by the sides, waiting for the arri-
val of some bearers to complete the number of the dead.
They speculate on the appearance of the body which
is being borne towards them. " It's Corporal —, of
the —th, I think," says one. "No ! it's my rear rank
man, I can see his red hair plain enough, and NO on.
They discuss the merits or demerits of dead serjeants or
comrades. " Well, he was a hard man : many'e the
time I was drilled through him, but it's all over now !"
or "Poor Mich! he had 15 years' service—a better fellow
never stepped." This scene is going on all about the hill-
side. Frenchmen, with litters, are also busy looking out
for their dead and wounded, and in sharing the Bad
labours of the day. At last the number in the trench
is completed. The bodies lie as closely as they can be
packed. Some of them upraised arms, in the attitude
of taking aim ; their legs stick up through the mould
as it is thrown upon them ; others are bent and twisted
into shapes like fantoccini. Inch after inch the enxth
rises upon them, and they are left " alone in t heir
glory." No, not alone, for: the hopes, and fears, and
affections of hundreds of human hearts lie buried with
them.