could bear the name of luxury, or even of common comfort, was given to the deeper necessities of the suffering soldiers.
Towards the end of November, he was in command of an outpost, which was not only an important position, open to the attack of the enemy, but was also a Picquet, furnished by the 97th. On either side of it were hills, covered with stunted brushwood: in front was a ravine, leading to Sebastopol. Here, by day, a subaltern was in command of fifty men; by night, the captain on duty with fifty more. The first force was then sent up to a cave on the left of the ravine, where a breastwork had been thrown up. For nearly three weeks, the party defending the outpost had to sleep in the open air, or at best under roofing made of bushes, through which the wind and rain freely penetrated. At length, however, two tents were pitched—one for the company, the other for its officer. Hedley gave up his own tent to his men, and continued to rough it in the open air, considering himself more hardy than many of them.[1]
There is in many of his letters at this time a singular combination of almost apostolic devotedness and love, with the gallant ardour of the soldier—leading to an almost boyish anticipation of a "brush with the Russians."
Perhaps the best illustration of this twofold life, so to speak, is given in the following letter:
TO LADY RAYLEIGH.
"My own Darling Clara—I received your de-
- ↑ This circumstance was also mentioned to the writer, with grateful appreciation, by a private of the 4th Light Dragoons, when in hospital in England, many months afterwards. He said, "It had been much thought of amongst soldiers in the Crimea."
