daresay that you have heard of the war in the Crimea. Perhaps you have a father or a brother in the army, and have often listened to stories of the brave and noble conduct of our soldiers on the terrible field of battle. I am going to tell you of one of the bravest and noblest actions that happened during the whole course of the war, though my hero never drew a sword nor fired a musket at the Russians. After the fearful battle of Alma, when the victory had been won by the English and the French, after the cannon had ceased to roar or the foe to fight, a long[113] painful task remained for the victors—to attend to the wounded and to bury the dead.
At last our poor sufferers were removed to the ships, and only mounds of earth showed where hundreds of the killed lay in their bloody graves; and the army was ready to move on to attack the enemy in another place.
But more than seven hundred poor fellows were still stretched on the ground—not, like the dead, beyond reach of earthly pain, but covered with wounds and gore—some with their legs and arms shot away, some unable to move, groaning in terrible agony, and wishing in vain for death to put an end to their misery.
And who, do you think, were these wounded men? They were Russians, and our enemies! Their bayonets had been red with the blood of our brave soldiers; they had fired the shots which made so many widows and orphans in England. And now, what was to be done with all these miserable sufferers? Our army could not carry them along with it; they must be left behind. Poor helpless Russians! if none dressed their wounds,[114] they must perish; if none gave them food, they must starve.
There was a British surgeon, of the name of Thomson, who resolved to separate himself from all his friends, to stay behind to take care of his wounded enemies. We may fancy that he had a long struggle in his mind before he could decide upon this generous act. Selfishness might whisper to him many reasons for leaving the poor Russians to their fate.
“What!” we can imagine some friend saying to the surgeon, “would you remain here alone in the midst of enemies, some of whom, it is said, have even fired at Englishmen who were bringing them relief. If the Tartars should attack you, who will defend you? You cannot depend upon these wounded Russians. Then think of the labour which you are undertaking. No one man can possibly dress the wounds of seven hundred; you can only help a few, or die yourself of fatigue. No, be wise; leave these wretched men to the chance of some of their own people coming to assist them; you know that there is not one amongst[115] them who would not have willingly killed you, had it been in his power.”
Dr. Thomson may have heard words such as these, but they did not change his generous resolution. The British army marched away; he and his soldier-servant remained behind, saw their friends and comrades all disappear in the distance, and then turned to their noble but sickening work,—binding up the ghastly wounds of their enemies.
 
NOBLE WORK.
 
Do you not think that Dr. Thomson deserved a rich reward for............