Remember Balaclava!
These were cold-blooded professionals. Their life and fate belonged to the Treasury of Her Majesty – at the price of a shilling a day – quite a handsome amount for a rural fellow from the mountains. Their hearts and souls belonged to Scotland and Scotland alone forever. The descendants of Wallace’s warriors, they remembered the sad tunes of the bagpipe and legends sucked with their mother’s milk by the fireplace of the parental home about fights for their land and for freedom “for as long as a hundred Scotsmen are left alive”. Scotland, however, had long been part of the United Kingdom, and the great-grandsons of the once fiercely independent clan leaders sat in glory on the benches of the British Parliament. The rocky hills of Scotland were divided amongst the landlords, and the peasants often had no land on which to graze their flock. The landless and unemployed were a lower form of citizen, and it was not unusual for the fate of these deprived people to be placed in a workhouse or exiled to Australia. Scots knew this well. They had no land or freedom any more. They had neither a past nor a future in a peaceful life. Only pride, honour and faith remained along with thousands of ancient ballads. Escaping from hunger and prison, they became the soldiers of the 93rd Argyle and Sutherland regiment, one of the best in the entire army. On the Bible they swore an oath to Queen Victoria and they were ready to keep it to the end. Her Majesty also strictly followed her obligations - properly and without delay salaries were paid, they were well fed and clothed, and the Treasury paid to transport the wives to any part of the globe where the Scotsmen spilled their and their enemies’ blood. (The abundance of women in the British camp at Sevastopol, the majority of whom were legal spouses, amazed the allied Frenchmen). There were not more than five hundred of them. Quickly they were joined by approximately another hundred wounded, kicked out of the hospital cots. They had to become the hope of tens of thousands of people, a plug in the line through which the entire power of the allied army could be endangered. The Turks based in the redoubts who ran towards the Scotsmen in panic, throwing away their weapons and praying to Allah to save them from an inevitable death, could be disregarded. To be fair, there was plenty to be terrified of. A mass of Russian cavalry up to five thousand strong advanced steadily, threatening to break through the steel ring of siege. The titanic efforts of the allied army would be in vain, millions of British taxpayer’s pounds would disappear into the Crimean sand without trace, very much like the blood of their comrades. The soldiers of the 93rd had to change the situation at any cost, and they were ready to do it.
The Scotsmen occupied a position at the foot of a hill on the reverse slope, hidden from the enemy and therefore able to surprise them. The attackers did not see them and were not ready to meet this last obstacle in their path. Still a handful of infantrymen had to withstand a charge from the enormous mass of riders on their galloping horses and with the added momentum of moving downhill. They were faced with little chance of surviving, but their homeland saying – “Proud as a Scotsman" – stayed with them! This pride made it impossible for them to retreat, while the ingrained habit of obedience, backed up by the vigilant sergeants, made them first-class soldiers. Highlanders were ready to stand for the honour of their Scotland to the end. The memory of the exploits of their grandfathers and fathers, who gained their glory in the squares at Waterloo, gave them confidence in their own strength. Now as almost forty years previously, heart-rending bagpipes wailed behind the close formation and the Union Flag – the symbol of their new fatherland - fluttered on the wind, but there was no time to form square. The soldiers stood in line shoulder to shoulder with their bayonets pointed towards their inexorable fate. At a distance, in their bright uniforms and motley tartans unhidden by overcoats (October 25th, 1854 in the Crimea was a warm day) they could indeed seem to an artist or a poet to be "a thin red line, in iron-bound steel", as subsequently they were described in history. Upon a more careful examination a different picture can be seen.
In our previous article, "Ivan the Soldier and Tommy Atkins", we wrote at length about the conservatism of the British High Command, which little changed the cut of the soldier’s uniform since Waterloo. The regulations on the uniform of Highlanders had changed even less, except that the bonnets became higher and were supplied with a chin strap fastened under the lower lip. This massive head-gear was so inconvenient that the soldiers often tried to get rid by of it, disregarding the possible punishment. Some, as a memory of their native Scotland, wore the national Glengarry cap, brought in their haversacks from their distant motherland. Others simply rushed from the camp fires with uncovered heads. Even officers during wartime in the middle of the XIX century frequently preferred to wear blue peaked forage caps. However, as far as the rest of the uniform was concerned, its cut barely changed. Moreover, though since 1836 the sergeants of purely English regiments had ceased to decorate their breast with white lace, this rule was not extended to the sergeants of Highlanders, judging by the preserved images. The sporran was now worn on the belt on top of the kilt. (Scotsmen, often knowing desperate poverty in their mountains, were more aware of the regular pay than anybody else in the British army - their poverty being legendry along with their pride). From 1858 the colour of the sporran in the Argyle and Sutherland regiment was white. However, the illustrated military encyclopaedia by Funcken depicts these soldiers with sporrans made of grey fur, so we too have used this colour for the front of our box. So despite all the similarities in their appearance, soldiers of the 93rd can’t be mixed with the veterans of the Pyrenees, but it is not so much some parts of their outfit that cause this difference. The soldiers of Wellington entered their last battle with Napoleon literally a few days after the beginning of the campaign. There had been 11 peaceful months prior to this spent in a prosperous and populous Belgium. The proper supply of all the necessities wasn’t difficult and the army didn’t experience any need in uniform or other supplies, but an entirely different situation was observed in the Crimea. The supply of the expeditionary force was along extended communication lines crossing the whole of Europe, passing through Gibraltar and the Dardanelles. The supply dumps were in Varna in present day Bulgaria and in Constantinopole in Turkey and, despite all efforts, they weren’t too well prepared. Some items were spoiled during carriage and some were plundered by the corrupt Sultan’s officials, who were accustomed to living by rapaciousness. The autumnal storms, which dashed ship transports against the cliffs, completed the disarray. The Crimea peninsular, with the exception of a narrow coastal zone, was burnt by the steppe sun and blown by strong winds. In our previous article we rendered proper praise to the British supply service, honest and assiduous. In order to supply its compatriots, it did everything possible and impossible and finally achieved success. Nevertheless, The British soldier in the Crimea suffered at times from hunger and cold. Moreover the battle of Balaclava took place after many long weeks during which the soldiers were in combat and at the siege works. Therefore the uniform of the British soldiers on October 25th, 1854, despite all efforts to look like gentlemen, was not in the best of states. But it is time to return to the Scotsmen.
There was a saying in the Middle Ages, "Reason is separated from folly only by a thin red line". The "that thin red streak tipped with a line of steel” became that boundary, beyond which the instinct of self-preservation ends and God-given inspiration begins. Five hundred Scotsmen stood firm, listening to the music of the approaching death, beaten by twenty thousand hooves. Their uniforms, which used to be ruby-coloured, had had time enough to burn out under the burning rays of the Crimean sun and were covered with dust, the caps of those who were lucky enough to retain them got worn out, buttons on the cuffs were often torn, many lacked buckles on the belts or the tassels on the socks. Their faces, which had once been healthily pink-cheeked were now pale, caused not so much by the expectation of the forthcoming fight as by chronic malnutrition and dysentery which together with cholera thinned their ranks better than the Russian grapeshot. Their red beards – an adornment strictly forbidden to their grandfathers who had served with Wellington, but now not proscribed by the regulations - were matted and dirty, but the rifled 1853 model Enfield muskets - the last word in military equipment at the time - in their convulsively compressed hands were as polished as ever and they were as greased and prepared for the battle as on manoeuvres. The blood of the ancient Celts was boiling in their veins. The clouds of powder smoke, which covered the terrain, must have much reminded them of the fog above their native lakes! The ridges of hills on the horizon were reminiscent of the cliffs of their distant native land. Bagpipes played the march, full of threat. Like their grandfathers at Waterloo Scotsmen prepared to die with the thought of Ben-Lothian. At last the enemy appeared on the crest of the hill.
Then a miracle occurred! The riders started to rein in their horses, shocked by the wall of red uniforms that had so unexpectedly appeared before them. The rear ranks pressed onto the front ranks. Some were knocked from the saddle and others in the confusion turned their mounts. The commander of the 93rd, Sir Colin Campbell, as imperturbable as on parade (“a true gentleman shouldn’t demonstrate emotion under any circumstances, the more so in the presence of subordinates”), gave the order "Fire!". Hundreds of conical bullets flew into the strange mass of sparkling sabres, horse snouts and human faces, skewed in the furious cry. "Fire!" - repeated Sir Colin after a few moments. The well-drilled soldiers acted as a single mechanism. The second volley killed still more - the threaded Enfield muskets shot more accurately, further and more rapidly than the bulky smooth-bore "Brown Bess" of Wellington’s highlanders. Some of the Russians had time to snatch out carbines and take a reciprocal shot. Several Scotsmen fell, but the bullets, shot after the rapid gallop by a trembling hand, caused little harm. The Russians, surprised by the speed of the volleys and by the strange appearance of these men in skirts, were not familiar with the special features of the national suit of highlanders, and began to suspect their worth. However there was little time to reflect - for the third time they were stung by the lead wasps, and the cavalry turned in retreat. Released from an unavoidable death and inspired by their unexpected success the cold-blooded Scotsmen danced, embraced each other or shook their fists at the retiring enemy. Some rushed to pursue the retreating Russians up the slope of the hill. That was a dangerous moment of the battle, since a fighting army is especially vulnerable at the moment of transfer from defence to offence. The handful of Scotsmen, who were becoming scattered on the large space, would have inevitably been slain if met by a determined unit, but experienced Sir Colin tamed the unnecessary enthusiasm of his subordinates. "93rd, damn all that eagerness!". The soldiers, accustomed to unthinking obedience, wiped perspiration and meandered back into formation. They had performed their duty. The camp of the Allied army behind their backs - batteries, warehouses, powder kegs and hospitals with their wounded and sick comrades, was rescued.
Some sources have subsequently claimed that in the attacking cavalry only four Russian squadrons participated. That is not completely correct. In the first line of the attacking units were two hussar regiments, and behind them followed the entire cavalry of the division of General Liprandy - more than 5 thousand riders.
By its exploits on October 25th, the 93rd Argyle and Sutherland regiment made a considerable contribution to the victory of the Allies, but the gallant Scotsmen were not long able to enjoy the fruits of their endeavours – peace and rest. At the start of 1858 they were already in India marching to Lucknow. Again the bagpipes are playing in the clouds of dust and the Union Flag flying above the heavily stepping columns. That same undaunted Sir Colin, now known as Lord Clyde, leads his lads through the heavy barrage of Sypahis, through the jungle and through cholera with the slogan, well known to each of them: "Remember Balaclava!"
Now a few words about our new set. We reproduced heroic Scotsmen in the manner that we see them, as we’ve just described above. The poses of figures, as you can see, were selected in such a way that if desired the buyer could arrange them in one, two or as many lines as required - depending on the quantity of purchased boxes. At the same time, as usual each figure of a soldier is individual. Some of the figures shoot, some prepare to shoot, some advance with bayonets pointed towards the enemy. Some figures were made following your recommendations such as those falling, slain by bullets.
"Crimean British Highlanders" - 42 figures, 42 poses, colour - red (terracotta)
"Scottish Soldier"
There was a soldier, a Scottish soldier
Who wandered far away and soldiered far away
There was none bolder, with good broad shoulder
He's fought in many a fray, and fought and won.
He'd seen the glory and told the story
Of battles glorious and deeds neforious
But now he's sighing, his heart is crying
To leave these green hills of Tyrol.
Because these green hills are not highland hills
Or the island hills, the're not my land's hills
And fair as these green foreign hills may be
They are not the hills of home.
And now this soldier, this Scottish soldier
Who wandered far away and soldiered far away
Sees leaves are falling and death is calling
And he will fade away, in that far land.
He called his piper, his trusty piper
And bade him sound a lay... a pibroch sad to play
Upon a hillside, a Scottish hillside
Not on these green hills of Tyrol.
And so this soldier, this Scottish soldier
Will wander far no more and soldier far no more
And on a hillside, a Scottish hillside
You'll see a piper play his soldier home.
He'd seen the glory, he'd told his story
Of battles glorious and deeds victorious
The bugles cease now, he is at peace now
Far from those green hills of Tyrol.