on
rum came into play. I could not get any flour, so purchased some
biscuit at Balaclava. It was mouldy and full of weevils, and had been
condemned as ship's stores and sold to some camp followers, but to us
at half a crown a pound it was a treasure. I pounded a quantity of
this as fine as possible, and mixed the material in my tin shako
case, which did duty as bucket, etc., and tied them up in one of my
two towels, and, having secured a tent bag full of freshly dug alder
roots, the pudding was put on to boil. As we were going on guard,
dinner was early, perhaps too early for the pudding. We had no holly,
and could not spare spirits enough to make a blaze, but my servant
brought in the pudding quite as triumphantly as if we had been in
baronial mansion in old England. It was reserved for me to open the
towel, which I did with no little pride at having the only plum
pudding in camp. I had buttered the towel so that it should not stick
to it; it did not, but it did not stick together either. It would not
stand up, but fell apart like very stiff porridge. I believe it wasn't
bad to eat, but it wasn't exactly what we understand to be plum
pudding. My vanity was cruelly mortified after all my efforts to
excel. I have never attempted to make another plum pudding. The
Russians were considerate that night. They gave us very little
annoyance, and Robertson and I walked up and down in rear of the
trenches where our weary and worn-out men were lying quiet, getting a
welcome rest in a half-wet, half-frozen ditch. We talked of home and
how we had spent other Christmases, but I do not think we either
expressed or held any other thought for the future than when we should
bring our discomforts to an end and wind up the siege by a determined
attack on Sebastopol. Little we expected that after long separation
our paths would again come together in America, serving the Canadian
Government in the organization of its militia. And amongst the sad
memories which intertwine with the pleasures of this present Christmas
is that of my poor comrade, a brilliant out-post officer and a gallant
man, who, after facing every form of danger as a soldier should, died
a few months since from violent seasickness, brought on in crossing
the English Channel. Memory conjures up the past at this season.
Friends who have left us are present in spirit. We associate the past
with the present more at Christmas than at any other time of year. It
colours our thought