MANUSCRIPT LIFE OF A SOLDIER. Major General John Soame Richardson, CB (1836-1896), for 25 years commander of the 12th Regiment of Foot in New South Wales.

Small 4to, 1896. 41pp of Memoirs followed by 78pp of Letters from the Crimea. Written in a very neat hand by Gertrude Steele, probably the daughter of his guardian.

The first part of the book, the Memoirs, is largely taken from newspaper articles. The second part, Letters from the Crimea, is a transcript of 23 letters home, some several pages long, written between June 25th 1855 and June 23rd 1856. The letters are detailed and personal and full of interest.

Richardson was born in Norfolk but orphaned by the age of 11, after which he was brought up by his guardian and his wife, whom he called ‘Aunt.’ He served as an ensign in the Crimea in the 72nd Highlanders and was present at the fall of Sebastopol. He commanded the military forces of New South Wales from 1865 and led them in the Soudan campaign in 1885, and played a founding role in the establishment of the Australian military tradition, instigating many reforms despite government indifference. He was the first soldier in Australia to be promoted to the rank of major general.

Some extracts from his letters from the Crimea:

Camp before Sebastopol, August 11th 1855. The trenches are very bad for our health. One goes in about 8 o’clock in the evening, and has to endure the very heavy dews and perhaps rain, sitting in wet clothes by night, and in the day the sun is enough to kill a person, it makes me almost faint…I had just finished my supper consisting of bread and cheese under the parapet close to a wooden hut, and was just getting up to have a look over the parapet to see what was going on, when a round shot came and carried away some earth and a piece of the hut just above my head – a couple of seconds later and my unfortunate head would have gone too – The Russians have also a depraved passion for throwing what we call ‘bouquets’ and the men a ‘handful of devils,’ which consist of about fifteen or twenty hand grenades thrown from a mortar which burst about in all directions, they threw three or four of these bouquets right amongst my working party, and one grenade or devil came so near that I actually felt the scorch as it burst, but really these escapes begin to get so common that one thinks scarcely anything about them…letters are such a delight and make me feel so stout in heart when I think of everybody that I left behind and of England herself…you have no idea, dear Aunt, how they strengthen and uphold me.

Camp before Sebastopol, August 22nd 1855. If you will be kind enough to send the following things with the bills etc as soon as convenient, I shall be much obliged. Soyer’s Shilling Cookery Book. A small Shakespeare. 6 pairs of woollen socks, 6 flannel shirts, 2 coarse blue woollen jerseys like sailors wear, 3 pairs of fur gloves, 1 fur cap with ears, 1 pair of thick blankets, 1 comforter, 6 yards of thick flannel for lining. Hair brush and comb, nail brush, 2 toothbrushes, a little soap, 2 lbs of green tea. Ditto coffee (ground), rug and clothing for horse with hood.

Kamara, September 6th 1855. The bombardment is continuing, and an assault will be made tomorrow…I have not the slightest idea how we will get on, but I hope well. In case of accident, I have directed a few things of mine to be sent to my Guardian, as I thought and knew you would like to have something to remind you of the wayward boy (whom, bye the bye, I hope will be spared) to render back some of the love and kindness he has met with from his Aunt and Godfather. Though I have no fear of death, still as we are all liable to it, it may happen to me just as much as anyone else. I have had a thought my dear Aunt which I must tell you, because if it is wrong I know you can set me aright. It is a feeling that if I should be killed, I should go to heaven, and that by dying for my Queen and country I should in a measure expiate my many sins. I don’t know why but I often think of it.

Kamara, September 10th 1855. Luckily for us some of the Russians deserted the place. The Russians blew up the magazines in the Redan from right to left. I was lying down at the time, and the ground seemed literally to heave, and volumes of fire, dust, smoke and stones were hurled some hundreds of feet into the air – mines continued to explode nearly all the morning, some too near to be pleasant. I am sure we have sustained a great loss. Every place was crowded with dead and dying – there were two dead men lying close to me all night – one had had his stomach torn out by a round shot – the other his head smashed by a piece of shell which I found I had been sitting on. When daylight came it was a shocking sight, the poor fellows lying in heaps and all along the glacis of the Redan just where they had fallen…The noise for eight hours was fearful – in fact a perfect hell, a Babel of large and small guns, musketry and groans. We had few casualties, somewhere about 10 men. Just after we got in and were watching the attack, standing together in little knots, a minié ball came and struck one of our officers, who was standing next to me, in the chin, then in the collar bone, and out again. He went down like a shot, poor fellow, and is not expected to live. It is a most curious noise when a person is hit by a ball, an indescribable crack like a small stone thrown against a stone wall.

Richardson spent his last years in a mental institution. He was buried in Waverley cemetery with full military honours, and the huge attendance at his funeral was testimony to the respect and esteem in which he was held. He was one of Australia’s greatest soldiers.

Half red morocco with photographic portrait frontis, another photograph of his tomb, the official announcement of his death and relevant newspaper cuttings.