The Crimea!  The land of promise; the great goal to which the thoughts of every man in two vast hosts had been turned for many months past.  On the furze-clad common of Chobham camp, on the long voyage out, at Gallipoli, while eating out their hearts at irritating inaction; on the sweltering, malarious Bulgarian plains, fever-stricken and cholera-cursed; at Varna, waiting impatiently, almost hopelessly, for orders to sail, twenty thousand British soldiers of all ranks had longed to look upon this Crimean shore.  It was here, so ran the common rumour, that the chief power of the mighty Czar was concentrated; here stood Sebastopol, the famous fortress, the great stronghold and arsenal of Southern Russia; here, at length, the opposing forces would join issue, and the allies, after months of tedious expectation, would find themselves face to face with their foe.

No wonder, then, that hearts beat high as our men gazed eagerly upon the Crimea.  The prospect southward was still more calculated to stir emotion.  The whole surface of that Eastern sea was covered with the navies of the Western Powers.  The long array stretched north and south for many a mile; it extended westward, far back to the distant horizon, and beyond:  a countless forest of masts, a jumble of sails and smoke-stacks, a crowd of fighting-ships and transports, three-deckers, frigates, great troopers, ocean steamers, full-rigged ships—­an Armada such as the world had never seen before.  A grand display of naval power, a magnificent expedition marshalled with perfect precision, moving by day in well-kept parallel lines; at night, motionless, and studding the sea with a “second heaven of stars.”

Day dawned propitious on the morning of the landing:  a bright, and soon fierce, sun rose on a cloudless sky.  At a given signal the boats were lowered—­a nearly countless flotilla; the troops went overboard silently and with admirable despatch, and all again, by signal, started in one long perfect line for the shore.  Within an hour the boats were beached, the troops sprang eagerly to land, and the invasion was completed without accident, and unopposed.

The Royal Picts, coming straight from Gibraltar, had joined the expedition at Varna without disembarking.  The regiment had thus been long on ship-board, but it had lost none of its smartness, and formed up on the beach with as much precision as on the South Barracks parade.  It fell into its place at once, upon the right of General Wilders’s brigade, and that gallant officer was not long in welcoming it to his command.

Everyone was in the highest health and spirits, overflowing with excitement and enthusiasm.  At the appearance of their general, the men, greatly to his annoyance, set up a wild, irregular cheer.

“Silence, men, silence!  It is most unsoldierlike.  Keep your shouting till you charge.  Here, Colonel Blythe, we will get rid of a little of this superfluous energy.  Advance, in skirmishing order, to the plateau, and hold it.  There are Cossacks about, and the landing is not yet completed.  But do not advance beyond the plateau.  You understand?”