It was quite a
little family party, for just behind, in the centre of the line, stood
Sergeant-major McKay, the unacknowledged cousin. How many of these
four Wilders would be alive next night?
No doubt a battle was imminent. It was more than possible that there
would be a night attack, so both armies bivouacked in order of battle,
ready to stand up in their places and fight at the first alarm.
But the night passed uneventfully. At daybreak the march was resumed,
and the day was still young when the allies came upon what seemed a
position of immense strength, occupied in force by the Russian troops.
It was a broad barrier of hills, at right angles with the coast, lying
straight athwart our line of march. The hills, highest and steepest
near the water's edge, were still difficult in the centre, where the
great high road to Sebastopol pierced the position by a deep defile;
beyond the road, slopes more gentle ended on the outer flank in the
tall buttresslike Kourgane Hill. All along the front ran a rapid
river, the Alma, in a deep channel. Villages nestled on its banks--one
near the sea, one midway, one on the extreme right; and all about the
low ground rich vegetation flourished, in garden, vineyard, and copse.
These were the heights of the Alma--historic ground, hallowed by many
memories of grim contest, vain prowess, glorious deeds, fell carnage,
and hideous death.
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