The Crimean War epitomized the emergence of a new era in warfare, one that resonates with those of us on this side of the 21st century. It introduced industrialized munitions manufacture, trench warfare, and the familiar shell casings found in modern bullets. This technocratic phase of warfare unveiled itself in a manner more shocking than anything preceding.
The siege of Sevastopol marked a disastrous and protracted final chapter of the war. Emperor Alexander, newly appointed after Tzar Nicolas' passive suicide, recognized the war's inevitable conclusion and sought an opportunity to end it with Russian pride intact. This chance came with the battle of Chernaya. The Emperor encouraged General Gorchakov to secure a triumphant last stand, aiming to break the siege and strengthen Russia's position in peace negotiations with the allies. Despite recognizing the futility of the stance, Gorchakov refrained from questioning the Emperor's directive. Chernaya culminated in an Allied victory. In 1855, following a brutal bombardment by the French at the battle of Malakoff, the Russian General had no choice but to concede defeat and initiate the evacuation of the city.
Any city that has been under siege for 12 months is likely to be in a poor state, this was the case in Sevastopol. Famous author Leo Tolstoy fought in the city's defence and wrote a record of the state of Sevastopol in "Sevastopol sketches" a city cut off, bombarded and devastated. Times correspondent William Russel was one of the first to enter the conquered city. He offers this passage to what he witnessed.
"Inside the sight was too terrible to dwell upon. The French were carrying away their own and the Russians wounded, and four distinct piles of dead were formed to clear the way. The ground was marked by pools of blood, and the smell was noisome; swarms of flies settled on the dead and dying; broken muskets, torn clothes, caps, shakos, swords, bayonets, bags of bread, canteens and haversacks all lying in indescribable confusion all over the place, mingled with heaps of shot, of Grape, bits of shell, cartridges case and canister, loose powder, official papers and cooking tins. The ditch outside, towards the North, was full of French and Russians, piled over each other and horrid confusion. On the right towards the little red redan, was a little redan, strewn with bodies as thick as they could lie, and in the ditch they were piled over each other. Here the French, victorious in the Malakoff, met with a heavy loss and a series of severe repulses. The Russians lay inside the work in heaps, like carcasses in a butcher's cart; and the wounds, the blood- the site exceeded all I had hitherto witnessed. Descending from the Malakoff, we came upon a sober of ruined houses open to the sea- it was filled with dead. The Russians had crept away into holes and corners into every house, to die like poisoned rats; artillery horses, with their entrails torn open by shot, stretched all over the space at the back of the Malakoff, marking the place where the Russians moved up in their last column to retake it under the cover of a heavy field battery. Every house, the church, some public buildings, sentry boxes- all alike were broken and riddled by cannon and mortar. Of all of the pictures of the Horrors of War which have ever been presented to the world, the Hospital of Sebastopol offered the most horrible, heart-rending, and Revolting. How the poor human body could be mutilated, and yet hold its soul within it, with every limb shattered, and every vein and artery is pouring out of the live stream, one might study there at every step, and at the same time wonder how little will kill! [...] entering one of these doors, I beheld such a sight as few men, thank god, have ever witnessed. In a long, low room, supported by Square pillars arched at the top, and dimly lighted through shattered and unglazed window frames, laid the wounded Russians, who had been abandoned to our mercies by their general. The wounded, did I say? No, but the dead- the rotten and the festering corpses of the soldiers, who were left to die in their extreme agony, untended, uncared for, packed as close as they could be stowed, some on the floor, others on wretched tressels and bedsteads, or pallets of straw, sopped and saturated with blood, which oozed and trickled through upon the floor, mingling with the droppings of corruption. [...] Many, nearly mad by the scene around them, or seeking escape from it in their extremist agony, had rolled away under the beds, and glad out on the heartstricken spectator- oh with such looks! Many, with legs and arms broken and twisted, the jagged splinters sticking through the raw flesh, implored aid, water, food, or pity, or, deprived of speech by the approach of death, or by dreadful injuries in the head or trunk, pointed to the lethal spot."
