"Dec. 16th, 17th.—I have only returned about half an hour from the trenches of the advanced work, where we have been since half-past four o'clock this morning. The rain poured in torrents all night. We turned out in the midst of it (three officers and 200 men), and started for the rendezvous, where detachments from several regiments assemble, previous to marching off together for the trenches. We had to ford two mountain torrents, which considerably damped our feet and legs, if not our ardour! When we reached the ground, the rest had gone on; so we followed as well as we could, tumbling in the mud at every step. We arrived at last opposite the 21-gun battery (Gordon's), and the rain having suddenly changed to snow, we presented rather a wintry appearance, as we entered the covered way. This was, in parts, knee-deep in mud, through which we plodded, not without great exertion. As we cleared the way, we passed a poor fellow of the 77th Regiment, lying on the bank, wounded in the shoulder, and soon after we encountered a sharp fire of musketry, and a spent bullet struck me in the left side, but without doing me the slightest harm, thank God. I offered up a short prayer of gratitude and praise to my Heavenly Father who had thus preserved me. We lined the trench without any casualty, but the weather was so bleak and cold that we were obliged to walk about to keep ourselves warm, regardless of the bullets which kept flying about our ears like bees. A marine was mortally hit in the breast soon after, and I saw the poor fellow carried past on a stretcher. He died in less than half an hour. As one of my men was walking up and down close to the rampart, a Minié ball hit him behind the ear. He fell on his side, and died without a groan. I buried him at dusk outside the trench. Poor Robert Turton! sudden and awful was thy death. What and where were thy last thoughts as death met thee in that short walk? The Russian
