possible for them to hold it. Before they make a second attack it will be requisite to destroy those ships, or, at all events, to make them keep a greater distance; they are erecting a battery for that purpose, and we are looking with great interest to its opening fire. The works that our troops were put at I defy any soldiers under heaven to accomplish. We are now doing what should have been done before making that attempt; we are pushing our works well forward, and are approaching the place under cover, so that when we next attack we shall not have from 300 to 800 yards of open country to run across from the time we leave our trenches till we get at the enemies' works, exposed the whole time to a fearful fire of grape and musketry, which was the case last time; in addition to which our advance was impeded by an almost impassable abattis, with a ditch beyond 18 feet deep and from 20 to 30 broad. However, better luck next time. In the meantime we have resumed our work in the trenches (having left Balaclava for good); we have now had nine months of open trenches, the most trying work a soldier can undergo, an event quite unheard of. My health is, I am glad to say, as good as ever, and I am presumptuous enough to think I am acclimatised. This is a short, shabby letter, but I do not feel much in a humour for gossiping. I hope my next will bring you more cheery accounts.... — Your affectionate son,
Frederick Stephenson.
To his Sister, Fanny Stephenson
Camp before Sebastopol, June 25, 1855.
My dearest Fan, — What an ogre of a brother I have been never to have written you a line yet, and to have treated with such apparent indifference the numerous silent appeals you have made to draw a few lines from me. You know, however, how grateful I am for all the letters I have received from you, which, together with the others I receive from home, keep
me so completely au fait of what is going on. What do you think of our failure on the 1 8th? I am afraid it must have acted as a sad damper to all your spirits at home, as it has to us out here. You can have no idea how depressing a reverse is to an army in the field. Success, or a well-founded hope of it, is the food that keeps a soldier's body and soul together, and whenever that is denied for a time the state of one's mind is anything but amiable. We have left our snug quarters at Balaclava, and are again working away hammer and tongs in the trenches, where, for twenty-eight consecutive hours, we have to lie down under the parapet, passing the night in constant readiness to repel an attack, and the day exposed to a scorching sun and cartloads of dust, the whole time under a fire to which any rash exposure would probably bring you on the broad of your back. Three nights ago this agreeable duty fell to my turn. I had the command of the reserve in the trenches of about 1000 men. We had a false alarm during the night — firing was suddenly heard close to us, followed by shouting from the Russians; soon all was comparatively quiet again; still, we had to stand to our arms, and this is the state of constant readiness the mind has to be in the whole night, which, for a continuance of nine months, produces a fatigue of mind I can't describe. But to turn to more cheering scenes — when I was at Balaclava I made a most charming trip in a steam yacht along part of the south coast of the Crimea. Lord Ward,*^ who is out here as an amateur, asked a small party to accompany him, and a more delightful day I have seldom passed. We kept close inshore the whole way, and managed to get as far as Cape Aiy^e, about ten miles east of Yalta. It is a lovely coast, and in one or two places the scenery is as fine as anything I have ever seen in the Tyrol. The whole coast, as far as we went, was of a similar character to the Undercliff in the Isle of Wight, but on a considerably larger scale. The view inland was limited to about from 8 to 10 miles, when it was bounded by a range of perpendicular hills
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rising to about 2000 feet above sea-level. The vine is cultivated here to a great extent, and little else, and the whole coast is covered with beautiful countryseats, Alupka being the name of Count Woronzoff's place — a curious mixture of every style of architecture under the sun, but very picturesque and surrounded with beautiful woodlands. The most lovely spot along the whole coast is Yalta. I have never seen a prettier spot in all Switzerland. In short, the beauty and tranquillity of the whole scene was so refreshing to the mind that it made one appreciate its merits the more fully.... — Ever your affectionate brother,
Fredk. Stephenson.
To his Brother Camp before Sebastopol, June 29, 1855.