Chapter Twenty.
Treats of War and some of its “Glorious” Results.
In process of time I reached the front, and chanced to arrive on the field of action at a somewhat critical moment.
Many skirmishes, and some of the more important actions of the war, had been fought by that time—as I already knew too well from the hosts of wounded men who had passed through my hands at Sistova; and now it was my fate to witness another phase of the dreadful “game.”
Everywhere as I traversed the land there was evidence of fierce combats and of wanton destruction of property; burning villages, fields of produce trodden in the earth, etcetera. Still further on I encountered long trains of wagons bearing supplies and ammunition to the front. As we advanced these were met by bullock-trains bearing wounded men to the rear. The weather had been bad. The road was almost knee-deep in mud and so cut up by traffic that pools occurred here and there, into which wagons and horses and bullocks stumbled and were got out with the greatest difficulty. The furious lashing of exhausted and struggling cattle was mingled with the curses and cries of brutal drivers, and the heartrending groans of wounded soldiers, who, lying, in many cases with undressed wounds, on the hard, springless, and jolting vehicles, suffered excruciating agony. Many of these, unable to endure their sufferings, died, and thus the living and the dead were in some cases jolted slowly along together. The road on each side was lined with dead animals and men—the latter lying in a state of apparent rest, which called forth envious looks from the dying.
But a still sadder spectacle met my eye when, from another road which joined this one, there came a stream of peasantry, old men, women, and children, on foot and in country carts of all kinds, flying from the raging warriors who desolated their villages, and seeking, they knew not where—anywhere—for refuge. Too often they sought in vain. Many of these people had been wounded—even the women and little ones—with bullet, sword, and spear. Some carried a few of their most cherished household articles along with them. Others were only too glad to have got away with life. Here an old man, who looked as if he had been a soldier long before the warriors of to-day were born was gently compelled by a terror-stricken young woman with a wounded neck to lay his trembling old head on her shoulder as they sat on a little straw in the bottom of a native cart. He had reached that venerable period of life when men can barely totter to their doors to enjoy the sunshine, and when beholders regard them with irresistible feelings of tenderness and reverence. War had taught the old man how to stand erect once more—though it was but a spasmodic effort—and his poor fingers were clasped round the hilt of an old cavalry sabre, from which female hands had failed to unclasp them. There, in another cart, lay an old woman, who had been bed-ridden and utterly helpless for many a year, but war had wrought miracles for her. It had taught her once again to use her shrunken limbs, to tumble out of the bed to which she had been so long accustomed, and where she had been so lovingly nursed, and to crawl in a paroxysm of terror to the door, afraid lest she should be forgotten by her children, and left to the tender mercies of Cossack or Bashi-Bazouk. Needless fear, of course, for these children were only busy outside with a few absolute necessaries, and would sooner have left their own dead and mangled bodies behind than have forgotten “granny”! Elsewhere I saw a young woman, prone on her back in another cart, with the pallor of death on her handsome face, and a tiny little head pressed tenderly to her swelling breast. It was easy to understand that war had taught this young mother to cut short the period of quiet repose which is deemed needful for woman in her circumstances. Still another cart I must mention, for it contained a singular group. A young man, with a powerfully-made frame, which must once have been robust, but was now terribly reduced by the wasting fires of a deadly fever, was held forcibly down by a middle-aged man, whose resemblance to him revealed his fatherhood. Two women helped the man, yet all three were barely able to restrain the youth, who, in the fury of his delirium, gnashed with his teeth, and struggled like a maniac. I knew nothing about them, but it was not difficult to read the history of one who had reached a critical period in a fell disease, who had, perchance, fallen into a long-desired and much-needed slumber that might have turned the scale in his favour, when the hope of parents and the chances of life were scattered suddenly by the ruthless trump of war. War had taught him how to throw off the sweet lethargy that had been stealing over him, and to start once again on that weary road where he had been grappling in imagination with the brain-created fiends who had persecuted him so long, but who in reality were gentle spirits compared with the human devils by whom he and his kindred were surrounded.
On this journey, too, I met many brethren of the medical profession, who, urged by the double motive of acquiring surgical skill and alleviating human woe, were pressing in the same direction. Some had been fortunate enough, like myself, to obtain horses, others, despising difficulties, were pushing forward through the mud on foot. I need scarcely add that some of us turned aside from time to time, as opportunity offered, to succour the unfortunates around us.
At last I reached the front, went to headquarters, presented my credentials, and was permitted to attach myself to one of the regiments. At once I made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Nicholas Naranovitsch, and was so fortunate as to find him. He was in the act of mounting his horse as I reached his quarters.
It is impossible to describe the look of surprise and delight with which he greeted me.
“My dear fellow!” said he, turning at once to his girths and stirrups after the first hearty squeeze, “what breeze of good fortune has blown you here? Any news from home?”
“Yes, all well, and a message—by the way, I had almost forgot it,” fumbling in my pocket, “for you.”
“Almost forgot it!” echoed Nicholas, looking round with a smile and a glance which was meant for one of withering rebuke.
“Here it is,” I exclaimed, handing him a three-cornered note, which had come in my mother’s letter. He seized it eagerly and thrust it into the breast-pocket of his coat.
“Now look here, Jeff,” he said, having seen to the trappings of his steed, “you know what war is. Great things are at stake. I may not delay even to chat with you. But a few words will suffice. Do you know anything about your servant Lancey?”
“Nothing. I would give anything to hear that the poor fellow was alive. Have you—”
“Yes, I have seen him. I chanced this very morning, while galloping across country with an order from the General, to see him among the camp-followers. Why there I know not. To search for him now would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I observed that he was in company with our Bulgarian friend the scout Dobri Petroff, who is so well known that he can easily be found, and will probably be able to lead you to him. Now, only one word for myself: don’t forget a message to Bella—say—say—bah! You English are such an undemonstrative set that I don’t like to put it in words, but—you ought to know what to say, and when you’ve said it, just add, like a good fellow, that I would have said a great deal more if I had had the saying of it myself. D’you understand?”
“All right,” said I, with a laugh. “We English feel, although we don’t demonstrate much, and can act when occasion requires it with as much energy as Russians I’ll say all you could wish, and some things, mayhap, that you couldn’t have said yourself.—But where are you going in such haste?”
“To battle, Jeff,” he replied, with one of those proud glances of the eyes which must be somewhat akin to the expanded nostrils of the warhorse when he scents the battle from afar. “At least,” he added, “to convey orders which will have some bearing on what is about to follow. The Turk is brave. We find that he fights well.”
“Ha!” said I quickly, “you find him a plucky fellow, and begin to respect him?”
“Yes, truly, he is a worthy foe,” returned Nicholas with animation.
“Just so,” I rejoined, unable to repress a feeling of bitterness, “a worthy foe simply because he possesses the courage of the bull-dog; a worthy foe, despite the fact that he burns, pillages, violates, murders, destroys, and tortures in cold blood. What if Bella were in one of these Bulgarian villages when given over to the tender mercies of a troop of Bashi-Bazouks?”
Nicholas had his left hand on the reins and resting on the pommel of his saddle as I said this. He turned and looked at me with a face almost white with indignation.
“Jeff, how can you suggest? Bashi-Bazouks are devils—”
“Well, then,” said I, interrupting, “let us suppose Cossacks, or some other of your own irregulars instead—”
I stopped, for Nicholas had vaulted on his horse, and in another second was flying at full speed over the plain. Perhaps I was hard on him, but after the miseries I witnessed that day I could not help trying to send the truth home.
Time pressed now. The regiment to which I was attached had received orders to march. I galloped off in search of it. At first I had thought of making a hurried search for Lancey or the scout, but gave up the idea, well content to have heard that the former was alive.
The Turks at this time were advancing under Mahomet Ali Pasha on the position occupied by the Russians on the Lom river. As I joined my regiment and reported myself, I heard distant cannonading on the left, and observed troops moving off in all directions. We soon got the order to march, and, on going to the top of a small eminence, came in sight of the field of action.
To my unaccustomed eyes the country appeared to be alive with confused masses of moving men, from some of which masses there burst at intervals the rolling smoke of rifle-firing. Of course I knew that there was order and arrangement, but the only order that impressed itself on me was that of the Russian regiment at my side, as the men strode steadily forward, with compressed lips and stern yet eager glances.
The Turkish troops had moved out and taken up a position on the face of a hill under cover of some woods. As battalion after battalion marched away, I, for the first time, became impressed with the multitudes of men who constitute an army, and, at the same time, with the feeling that something like a pitched battle was about to be fought. From the elevated position on which we stood, I could see that numbers of Russian cavalry were prowling about over the plain, as if watching the movements of the enemy. The intention of the Turks soon became evident, for they suddenly swarmed out of the woods and advanced to the attack. A Russian battery on our right instantly opened on them. This was replied to vigorously by a Turkish battery opposite. While these two turned their attention on each other, the troops in the plain below came into action. They swarmed over the numerous undulations, skirmished through the scrub and the fields of corn and maize, attacked a village in a hollow, and charged on various batteries and positions of strength,—sometimes one side, sometimes the other, being successful. The thunder of the great guns increased, the tremendous rattle of small arms became continuous, with now and again exceptionally strong bursts, when whole battalions fired in volleys. The smoke soon became so dense as partly to obscure the vision.
At that moment a Turkish battalion was seen to approach the mound on which we stood, with the evident intention of storming it. At the same time I observed a squadron of Russian cavalry trot smartly round the skirt of a wood on our left and take up a position. They were not fifty yards from the spot where I stood. I could even see the expression of their faces, and I fancied that the figure and countenance of the right-hand man of the troop were familiar to me.
“He’s a fine-looking man, sir, is he not?” said a voice at my elbow.
I turned in amazement. It was Dobri Petroff! There was no room for more than a squeeze of the hand at such a moment.
“That is our friend André Vanovitch, sir.”
As he spoke I saw the captain of the troop fall from his horse. A stray ball had killed him, and this was the first thing that drew my attention to the fact that bullets were whistling over our own heads now and then.
This happened at the very moment when a staff officer galloped up to the troop with an order. Seeing what had happened, this officer put himself at the head of the troop and gave the command to advance.
I recognised the voice at once as that of Nicholas. They swept past close in front of us at full gallop, and I could see on the face of Nicholas and on that of the stalwart André the same open, gladsome, noble expression, suggestive of high chivalrous sentiment, and a desire to do noble self-sacrificing deeds for fatherland. My own heart bounded within me as I looked at them, and I could not resist bursting into a cheer, which was taken up and prolonged wildly by the troops around.
The squadron came upon the Turks unexpectedly, but they stood like true men. Courage, however, was of no avail. The dragoons were heavy and irresistible. They cut right through the Turks; turned, charged again, and scattered them like chaff. I could perceive, in the midst of the fray, the lithe forms of Nicholas and André laying about them with tremendous impetuosity.
Personal valour is necessary, but it is not omnipotent nowadays. When the squadron returned, reduced almost to a skeleton, the Turks had reformed, were largely reinforced, and came at us again with steady determination. At the same time reinforcements came pouring in on our side, and I soon found that the position we occupied was deemed one of considerable importance.
The Turks came on steadily, and now I learned, for the first time, the power of modern weapons. Our men were armed with breech-loaders, so that no time was lost in loading.
Our commander acted on a principle which is said to be usually adopted by General Skobeleff. He reserved his fire until the Turks were within a hundred yards, and then gave the order to commence. The scene that followed is indescribable. Eight hundred men fell at once before the withering blast of lead. The firing was continuous. No troops on earth could have stood it. The Turks were instantly shattered and repulsed.
When they had retired, and the smoke had partially cleared away, I saw the plain covered with slaughtered men. Some were prone and motionless in death. Some were moving slightly. Others were struggling, as if in a delirium of agony, which it was frightful to witness. A few had life enough to rise, stagger forward several paces, fall and rise again to repeat the process until death ensued.
I stood fascinated.
“God help us!” I exclaimed aloud; “these murdered hundreds represent thousands of bleeding hearts At Home, and yet the maniacs continue to kill each other as if human lives were of no account and human souls not worth a thought.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said a voice at my side, “the maniacs who cause all this are not here, but at the place you mentioned just now—at home. These fine fellows are their unhappy tools, who, with untold depths of enthusiasm and kindliness in their nature, and a good deal of devilment too, are compelled, willing or not willing, to fight for what is called ‘religion and country’!”
I found that the speaker was the special correspondent of a Scotch newspaper. As brother “specials” we fraternised immediately; but we had scarcely had time to exchange a few rapid queries and replies when our men were ordered to advance to the attack.
Very soon the ambulance corps was busily employed, and I had to devote my entire energies to the wounded who came pouring in.
Oh! it was pitiful to see the hundreds of strong and stalwart youths, who might have been the glory of succeeding generations, brought in with frames shattered beyond recovery, with brave lip compressed to check the rising cry of agony, with eyes glaring in the terrible conflict between lusty manhood and sudden death, or, with nerves utterly unstrung, giving vent to the shrieks of the maniac.
Several surgeons and students among us had extemporised an hospital in the shelter of a cliff.
One of the students, whose mind was in advance of his years and whose spirit seemed roused, came suddenly to me, during a brief interval in our labours.
“Our rulers are fools, or worse,” said he, with indignation; “what is the use of diplomacy if it cannot prevent this?”
I remonstrated with the youth on the impropriety of his language, but my new friend the “special” broke in with—
“Ah! young man, you have not yet seen enough of life to understand it. A man is a machine which regulates itself, more or less, for its own interests. A household does the same; a town does likewise; so does a state. No doubt a man sometimes fights with himself—so, too, households are addicted to disagreement, and towns are often afflicted with difference of opinion, while a state is not unacquainted with internal commotions, but, in each and all of these cases, reason and common sense prevent the people from degenerating into pure savages. It is reserved for governments alone, when they come into collision with each other, to do that. Peoples don’t desire war, my good sir, it is government—in other words, the non-combatant gentlemen at the head of the world’s affairs—who thirst for blood, backed up, of course, by such of the people as are more or less interested in the breaking out of war. In all ordinary matters humanity is satisfied to submit its cases to courts of law, to umpires, to individual or collective arbitrators. If things don’t go right, it is usually understood among Christian men and women that a little touch of forbearance here, of self-sacrifice there, of pocketing of slight affronts elsewhere, will bring things into the best possible condition, and, where these plans won’t do,—as in the case of drunkards, maniacs, and villains,—they understand and quietly practise the power of overwhelming constraint. If the Turks had been overwhelmingly constrained by Europe during the late Conference at Constantinople, we should have had no war.”
I never met with any nation so fond of argument as the Scotch! Surrounded as we were by dead and dying men, the “special” and the student (who was also Scotch) sat down and lighted their pipes to have it out. To do them justice, there was a lull at the time in the arrival of wounded men.
“But,” said the student, in that tone which is so well known to the argumentative, “is not overwhelming constraint tyranny?”
“My friend,” replied the special, lighting his pipe at the other’s cigar, “if a blackguard stole a poor widow’s purse, and six policemen took him up, compelled him to restore it, and put him in limbo, would you call that tyranny?”
“Of course not.”
“But it would be overwhelming constraint, would it not?”
“Well—ah!—yes—I see—but—”
“Of course there’s a but. Quite right. That is the word by which it is conveniently stated that the mind is not yet clear. Far be it from me to coerce you. I would, if I could, clear you. Listen, then:—
“Has not the Turk treated his Christian subjects in a way that can only be expressed as diabolical?”
“Unquestionably. Every one admits that: but he promises to govern them better in future.”
“If a thief,” said the special, “were to promise amendment and restoration of stolen property, would you let him off with the stolen property in his pocket?”
“Certainly not,” answered the student.
“Well, then, the Turk has stolen the liberty of his Christian subjects—to say nothing of his own subjects—and he only promises to give it back. He promised that more than twenty years ago, but has not done it yet. Ought he not to have been overwhelmingly constrained by the European Conference to fulfil his promises? And if he had been thus constrained, would not war have been avoided?”
“But perhaps he would have resisted,” said the student.
“No, the Turk is not mad, therefore he would not have resisted united Europe,” returned the special; “and, even suppose that he had, his resistance could not have produced such a frightful war as this, for Europe would have crushed him at once, with comparatively little bloodshed. As it is, we have left the Muscovite (with good or bad intentions, I know not which) to tackle him alone,—and the result is before you. If the Russian is upright in his intentions we have treated him shabbily, if he is false we have given him a splendid opportunity to carry out his plans. I pronounce no opinion on Russia; the sin of this war lies with Europe; certainly not with England, for, whether she behaved rightly or wrongly, she was not omnipotent at the Conference. Perhaps I should say that the sin lies with the members of that Conference who misrepresented Europe, and allowed a notorious criminal to escape.”
“There are various opinions on that subject,” said the student.
“There are various opinions on every subject,” replied the special, “but that is no reason why men and women should be content to have no opinion at all, or a bigoted one—which latter means an opinion founded largely on feeling, and formed before both sides of a question have been considered.”
An ambulance-wagon drove up at this moment. The student and I, forgetting the subject of discussion, hastened with our brethren to attend to the wretched beings who were laid shattered, bleeding, and dying on the ground before us, while the special, seeing that we had run short of water, caught up a couple of buckets and ran to a neighbouring spring. It chanced that the ground between our place of shelter and the spring was at that time swept by the fire of contending troops, but in spite of this the special coolly filled his buckets and brought them in—happily without being injured.
The battle raged during the whole of that day all over the plain. Being taken up almost exclusively with our duties, we surgeons had little time to observe the progress of the fight; nevertheless, mindful of my character as a reporter, I took advantage of an occasional moment of relaxation to jot down a few notes.
There was a hill not far from that on which we stood which was held by a Russian regiment. Around it the fight appeared to rage very fiercely. The roar of artillery and the incessant rattle of small arms had by this time gathered in force until it resembled a storm. Hundreds of white puffs all over the field told of death from shots which were too far off to be heard, while the belching of a battery on the hill just mentioned caused the very earth to tremble.
The Turks at this point executed a flank movement, and attempted to take the hill by storm. At the same time one of their batteries appeared on the top of a ridge opposite, and began to play on the hill with terrible precision. To counteract this a Russian battery of three guns was despatched. I saw the horses come galloping in from the rear; one of the guns was limbered up, and off they went like the wind. At that moment a shell from the Turkish battery fell right under the gun, and, exploding, blew it, with the men and horses, into the air. The other guns reached the hill in safety, wheeled into position, and, for a time, checked the Turkish fire. Nevertheless, undeterred by the withering salvos, the Turks came on in powerful columns till they drew near to the hotly contested point.
At the foot of it the Russians had dug trenches and thrown up earth-works the night before. I observed with surprise that, as the attacking columns advanced, the Russian rifle-fire ceased, though the battery continued to cut lanes in the living masses. It occurred to me that our men were reserving fire according to the Skobeleff plan. In this I was right. When the Turks were within a hundred yards of the trenches the defenders fired as one man. The front ranks of the enemy fell like corn before the scythe; those in rear charged with irresistible impetuosity over their dead comrades. But the Russians had anticipated such an event. They had placed mines in the ground, which, when the Turks passed over them, were fired, and hundreds of men were blown into the air. This checked them. For a time they recoiled and were thrown into disorder. At that moment a young officer rallied them and charged again. The trenches were entered and a hand-to-hand conflict ensued. With my field-glass I could see the fierce expressions of the men as they drove their reeking bayonets right through their enemies, and the appalling gasp and glare of eye in those whose mortal career had been thus suddenly brought to a close. Yells of fury, shouts, curses, clubbed rifles, battered skulls, unearthly shrieks, smoke and blood—who can imagine or describe such a scene!
The Russian soldier fights well. His courage is equal to that of the men of other nations, and his weight gives him the advantage over some, but nothing can resist the power of overwhelming numbers.
Sitting on a height, and comfortably watching the battle through telescopes, the Turkish generals quietly move the “men” on the bloody board. Hundreds of Turks have perished. What matter? there are thousands on thousands ready to follow. Turkey must maintain her “integrity.” Pashas must wallow in wealth. Millions of peasants must toil to accomplish these ends; if need be, they must die. The need at present is—to die. “Push on more battalions to reinforce them” is the order. No doubt the hundreds who have fallen, and the thousands who must yet fall, will leave hundreds of wives and thousands of children to hopeless mourning; but what of that? they are only canaille, cared for by nobody in particular, but God. No doubt the country must suffer for it. We must pay for war. We shall have an enormous national debt—that can’t be helped, and other countries have the same,—besides, we can borrow from rich trusting nations, and repudiate our debts; our land shall feel the drain of its best young blood for generations yet to come, but time heals most sores; people will multiply as heretofore; fate is unavoidable, and Allah is great! Moreover, what does it all matter to us so long as our integrity is maintained, our seraglios remain intact, and our coffers are filled? That hillock must be taken. It is a priceless hillock. Like other hillocks, no doubt, and not very promising in an agricultural point of view, but still a priceless hillock, which must be carried at any cost, for on our obtaining it depends somehow (we can’t say exactly how) the honour of our name, the success of our arms, the weal of the Turkish empire.
And so another order is given; fresh troops are hurled into the trenches, already filled with dead and dying; and the hillock is carried by storm, swept over with fierce cries of “Allah! Allah!” which mingle strangely with Russian curses, and is then left behind and regarded with as much indifference as if it were the most insignificant mass of earth and stone in all Bulgaria!
Flying backwards, the beaten Russians come panting towards the hill on which we stand, and rally, while our men advance, meet and stop the enemy, charge and overthrow them, turn the tide of battle, retake the hillock which has cost so much, and ultimately things remain in statu quo when the blessed shades of evening put an end to the frightful scene—leaving nothing whatever accomplished on either side, except the legitimate and ordinary end of most wars, namely—death and destruction!
I had just finished dressing the wounds of a soldier, at the end of this terrible episode, when a touch on my shoulder caused me to look up. It was Dobri Petroff.
“Have you seen your servant Lancey?” he asked quickly.
“No. I had intended to ask if you knew anything about him when the beginning of this carnage drove him and everything else out of my mind. Do you know where he is?”
“I saw him not five minutes since, looking wildly for you.”
While Petroff was speaking, Lancey appeared, running towards me, bloodstained, blackened with powder, and with a rifle on his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty One.
More of the Results of War.
I need not trouble the reader with an account of the meeting with my faithful servant. While we were still engaged in questioning each other, I noticed that the countenance of our friend the scout wore an anxious and almost impatient expression.
“Anything wrong, Dobri?” I inquired.
“God knows!” he replied in a solemn tone, which impressed me much. “A rumour has come that the Circassians or the Bashi-Bazouks—I know not which, but both are fiends and cowards—have been to Venilik, and—”
He stopped abruptly.
“But that village was in the hands of the Russians,” I said, at once understanding his anxiety.
“It may be so, but I go to see without delay,” he replied, “and have only stopped thus long to know if you will go with me. These brutes kill and wound women and children as well as men. Perhaps your services may— Will you go?”
He spoke so earnestly, and his face looked so deadly pale, that I felt it impossible to refuse him. I was much exhausted by the prolonged labours of the day, but knew that I had reserve strength for an emergency.
“Give me a few minutes,” said I,—“just to get leave, you know. I can’t go without leave.”
The scout nodded. In ten minutes I had returned. Meanwhile, Lancey had prepared my horse and his own. Swallowing a can of water, I vaulted into the saddle. It was very dark, but Petroff knew every foot of the country. For several hours we rode at a smart gallop, and then, as day was breaking, drew near to Venilik. As we approached, I observed that the bold countenance of the scout became almost pinched-looking from anxiety. Presently we observed smoke against the sky, and then saw that the village had undoubtedly been burned. I glanced at Petroff nervously. There was no longer a look of anxiety on his face, but a dark vindictive frown.
He increased his pace to racing speed. As we followed close at his heels, I observed that he drew a knife from his belt, and with that as a spur urged on his jaded steed. At last we reached the outskirts of the village, and dashed through. Blackened beams, ruined houses, dead men and women, met our horrified gaze on every side.
At the well-known turn of the road, where the bypath joined it, Dobri vaulted from his horse, and let the animal go, while he ran towards his dwelling. We also dismounted and followed him. Then a great and terrible shout reached our ears. When we came to the cottage we found the scout standing motionless before his old home, with his hands clasped tightly, and his eyes riveted to the spot with a glare of horror that words cannot describe.
Before him all that had been his home was a heap of blackened ashes, but in the midst of these ashes were seen protruding and charred bones. It did not require more than one glance to show that recognition of the remains was impossible. Everything was reduced to cinders.
As we gazed an appalling cry rang in our ears, and next moment a young woman darted out from behind a piece of the blackened walls with a knife in her hand.
“Hah! are you come back, you devils?” she shrieked, and flew at Dobri, who would certainly have been stabbed, for he paid no attention to her, if I had not caught her wrist, and forced the knife from her grasp. Even then she sprang at him and fastened her fingers in his neck while she cried, “Give me back my child, I say! give me my child, you fiend!”
She stopped and looked earnestly in his face, then, springing back, and standing before him with clenched hands, she screamed—
“Ha, haa! it is you, Dobri! why did you not come to help us? traitor—coward—to leave us at such a time! Did you not hear the shrieks of Marika when they dragged her from your cottage? Did you not see the form of little Dobri quivering on the point of the Circassian’s spear? Were you deaf when Ivanka’s death-shriek pierced my ears like—. Oh! God forgive me, Dobri, I did not mean to—”
She stopped in the torrent of her wrath, stretched both arms convulsively towards heaven, and, with a piercing cry for “Mercy!” fell dead at our feet.
Still the scout did not move. He stood in the same half-shrinking attitude of intense agony, glaring at the ruin around him.
“Dobri,” said I at last, gently touching his arm, and endeavouring to arouse him.
He started like one waking out of a dream, hurled me aside with such violence that I fell heavily to the ground, and rushed from the spot at full speed.
Lancey ran after him, but soon stopped. He might as well have chased a mountain hare. We both, however, followed the track he had pursued, and, catching our horses, passed into the village.
“It’s of no use to follow, sir,” said Lancey, “we can’t tell which way ’e’s gone.”
I felt that pursuit would indeed be useless, and pulled up with the intention of searching among the ruins of the village for some one who might have escaped the carnage, and could give me information.
The sights that met our eyes everywhere were indeed terrible. But I pass over the sickening details with the simple remark, that no ordinary imagination could conceive the deeds of torture and brutality of which these Turkish irregulars had been guilty. We searched carefully, but for a long time could find no one.
Cattle were straying ownerless about the place, while dogs and pigs were devouring the murdered inhabitants. Thinking it probable that some of the people might have taken refuge in the church, we went to it. Passing from the broad glare of day into the darkened porch, I stumbled over an object on the ground. It was the corpse of a young woman with the head nearly hacked off, the clothes torn, and the body half burnt. But this was as nothing to the scene inside. About two hundred villagers—chiefly women, children, aged, and sick—had sought refuge there, and been slaughtered indiscriminately. We found the dead and dying piled together in suffocating heaps. Little children were crawling about looking for their mothers, wounded mothers were struggling to move the ghastly heaps to find their little ones. Many of these latter were scarce recognisable, owing to the fearful sword-cuts on their heads and faces. I observed in one corner an old man whose thin white hair was draggled with blood. He was struggling in the vain endeavour to release himself from a heap of dead bodies that had either fallen or been thrown upon him.
We hastened to his assistance. After freeing him, I gave him a little brandy from my flask. He seemed very grateful, and, on recovering a little, told us, with many a sigh and pause for breath, that the village had been sacked by Turkish irregular troops, Circassians, who, after carrying off a large number of young girls, returned to the village, and slaughtered all who had not already fled to the woods for refuge.
While the old man was telling the mournful tale I observed a little girl run out from behind a seat where she had probably been secreting herself, and gaze wildly at me. Blood-stained, dishevelled, haggard though she was, I instantly recognised the pretty little face.
“Ivanka!” I exclaimed, holding out my arms.
With a scream of delight she rushed forward and sprang into them. Oh how the dear child grasped me,—twined her thin little arms round me, and strained as if she would crush herself into my bosom, while she buried her face in my neck and gave way to restful moans accompanied by an occasional convulsive sob!
Well did I understand the feelings of her poor heart. For hours past she had been shocked by the incomprehensible deeds of blood and violence around her; had seen, as she afterwards told me, her brother murdered, and her mother chased into the woods and shot by a soldier; had sought refuge in the church with those who were too much taken up with their own terrible griefs to care for her, and, after hours of prolonged agony and terror, coupled with hunger and thirst, had at last found refuge in a kindly welcome embrace.
After a time I tried to disengage her arms, but found this to be impossible without a degree of violence which I could not exert. Overcome by the strain, and probably by long want of rest, the poor child soon fell into a profound slumber.
While I meditated in some perplexity as to how I should act, my attention was aroused by the sudden entrance of a number of men. Their dress and badges at once told me that they formed a section of that noble band of men and women, who, following close on the heels of the “dogs of war,” do all that is possible to alleviate the sufferings of hapless victims.—God’s work going on side by side with that of the devil! In a few minutes surgeons were tenderly binding up wounds, and ambulance-men were bearing them out of the church from which the dead were also removed for burial.
“Come, Lancey,” said I, “our services here are happily no longer required. Let us go.”
“Where to, sir?” said Lancey.
“To the nearest spot,” I replied after a moment’s thought, “where I can lie down and sleep. I am dead beat, Lancey, for want of rest, and really feel unable for anything. If only I can snatch an hour or two, that will suffice. Meanwhile, you will go to the nearest station and find out if the railway has been destroyed.”
We hurried out of the dreadful slaughter-house, Ivanka still sound asleep on my shoulder, and soon discovered an outhouse in which was a little straw. Rolling some of this into a bundle for a pillow, I lay down so as not to disturb the sleeping child. Another moment and I too was steeped in that profound slumber which results from thorough physical and mental exhaustion.
Lancey went out, shut the door, fastened it, and left us.
Chapter Twenty Two.
The Fall of Plevna.
The events which followed the massacre in the Bulgarian village remain in my mind, and ever must remain as a confused dream, for I was smitten that night with a fever, during the course of which—part of it at least—I was either delirious or utterly prostrate.
And who can tell, save those who have passed through a similar condition, the agonies which I endured, and the amazing fancies by which I was assailed at that time! Of course I knew not where I was, and I cared not. My unbridled fancy led me everywhere. Sometimes I was in a bed, sometimes on horseback; now in hospital attending wounded people, most of whom I noticed were women or little children; then on a battle-field, cheering the combatants with all my power, or joining them, but, when I chanced to join them, it was never for the purpose of taking, but of saving life. Often I was visited by good spirits, and also by bad. One of these latter, a little one, made a deep impression on me. His particular mission seemed to lie in his power to present before me, within a flaming frame, pictures of whatever I wished to behold. He was wonderfully tractable at first, and showed me whatever I asked for,—my mother, Bella, Nicholas, and many of my friends,—but by degrees he insisted on showing what I did not wish to see, and among these latter pictures were fearful massacres, and scenes of torture and bloodshed. I have a faint recollection of being carried somewhere in a jolting wagon, of suffering from burning thirst which no one seemed to care to relieve, of frequent abrupt stoppages, while shouts, shrieks, and imprecations filled my ears; but whether these things were realities or fancies, or a mingling of both, I cannot tell, for assuredly the bad spirit never once succeeded in showing me any picture half so terrible as those realities of war which I had already beheld.
One day I felt a peculiar sensation. It seemed to me that my intellectual faculties became more active, while those of my body appeared to sink.
“Come,” said I to the demon who had wearied me so much; “come, you troublesome little devil, and show me my man Lancey. I can see better than usual; present him!”
Immediately Lancey stood by my side. He looked wonderfully real, and I noticed that the fiery frame was not round him as it used to be. A moment later, the pretty face of Ivanka also glided into the picture.
“Hallo!” I exclaimed, “I didn’t ask you to send her here. Why don’t you wait for orders—eh?”
At this Lancey gently pushed Ivanka away.
“No, don’t do that,” I cried hastily; “I didn’t mean that; order her back again—do you hear?”
Lancey appeared to beckon, and she returned. She was weeping quietly.
“Why do you weep, dear?” I asked in Russian.
“Oh! you have been so ill,” she replied, with an anxious look and a sob.
“So, then,” I said, looking at Lancey in surprise, “you are not delusions!”
“No, sir, we ain’t; but I sometimes fancy that everythink in life is delusions since we comed to this ’orrible land.”
I looked hard at Ivanka and Lancey again for some moments, then at the bed on which I lay. Then a listless feeling came over me, and my eyes wandered lazily round the chamber, which was decidedly Eastern in its appearance. Through a window at the farther end I could see a garden. The sun was shining brightly on autumnal foliage, amidst which a tall and singular-looking man walked slowly to and fro. He was clad in flowing robes, with a red fez on his head which was counterbalanced by a huge red beard.
“At all events he must be a delusion,” said I, pointing with a hitch of my nose to the man in question.
“No, sir, ’e ain’t; wery much the rewerse.—But you mustn’t speak, sir; the doctor said we was on no account to talk to you.”
“But just tell me who he is,” I pleaded earnestly; “I can’t rest unless I know.”
“Well, sir, I s’pose it won’t do no ’arm to tell you that ’e’s a Pasha—Sanda Pasha by name—a hold and hintimate friend of mine,—the Scotch boy, you know, that I used to tell you about. We are livin’ in one of ’is willas. ’E’s in disgrace, is Sanda Pasha, just now, an’ superseded. The day you was took bad, sir, Russians came into the willage, an’ w’en I come back I found ’em swarmin’ in the ’ouses an’ loop-’oling the walls for defence, but Sanda Pasha came down on ’em with a harmy of Turks an’ drove ’em out. ’E’s bin a-lickin’ of ’em all up an’ down the country ever since, but the other Pashas they got jealous of ’im, specially since ’e’s not a real Turk born, an’ the first rewerse that come to ’im—as it will come to every one now an’ again, sir—they left ’im in a fix instead of sending ’im reinforcements, so ’e was forced to retreat, an’ the Sultan recalled ’im. It do seem to me that the Turkish Government don’t know good men when they’ve got ’em; an’, what’s more, don’t deserve to ’ave ’em. But long before these things ’appened, w’en ’e found that you was my master an’ Ivanka our friend, ’e sent us to the rear with a strong guard, an’ ’ere we are now in one of ’is willas, in what part o’ the land is more than I can tell—near Gallipopolly, or somethink like that, I believe.”
“So, then, we are prisoners?” said I.
“Well, I s’pose we are, sir, or somethink o’ the sort, but, bless your ’art, sir, it’s of no manner of consiquence. We are treated like princes and live like fighting-cocks.—But you mustn’t talk, sir, you mustn’t indeed, for the doctor gave strict orders that we was to keep you quiet.”
Lancey’s communications were of so surprising a nature, so varied and so suggestive, that my mind was overwhelmed in the mere attempt to recall what he had said; in another moment I had forgotten all, and dropped into a deep, dreamless, refreshing slumber.
During the period that I was thus fighting, as it were, with death—in which fight, through God’s blessing, I finally gained the victory—the fight between the Russians and the Turks had progressed apace; victory leaning now to the former, now to the latter. Many bloody engagements had taken place on the plains of Bulgaria and among the Balkan mountains, while Osman Pasha had carried on for some time that celebrated defence of Plevna which afterwards carried him to the front rank of the Turkish generals, and raised him, in the world’s estimation, above them all. Everywhere breech-loading weapons, torpedoes, telegraphs, monster cannon, and novel appliances of modern warfare, had proved that where hundreds fell in the days of our fathers, thousands fall in our own—that the bloody game is immensely more expensive and deadly than it used to be, and that if war was folly before, it is sheer madness now.
The first great attack had been made on the redoubts in front of Plevna, and in assaulting one of these poor Dobri Petroff distinguished himself so highly for desperate, reckless courage, that he drew the special attention of General Skobeleff, who sent for him, probably to offer him some appointment, but whatever it might be the scout declined promotion or reward. His object was to seek what he styled honourable death in the front of battle. Strange to say, he led a sort of charmed life, and the more he sought death the more it appeared to avoid him. Somewhat like Skobeleff himself, he stood unhurt, many a time, when balls were whistling round him like hail, and comrades were mown down in ranks and heaps around him.
In all armies there are men who act with heroic valour and desperate daring. Some are urged thereto by calm contempt of danger, coupled with a strong sense of duty. It was something like this, probably, that induced Skobeleff to expose himself so recklessly on almost all occasions. It was simply despair, coupled with natural lion-like courage, that influenced the wretched scout.
Nicholas Naranovitsch had also acquired a name among his fellows for that grand sweeping fervour in attack which we are wont to associate with the heroes and demigods of ancient story. But Nicholas’s motive was a compound of great physical strength, hot-blooded youth, and a burning desire to win distinction in the path of duty.
One consequence of the scout’s return to headquarters was that he frequently met Nicholas, and felt an intense drawing towards him as being one who had shown him sympathy and kindness in that home which was now gone for ever. Deep was the feeling of pity which Nicholas felt when the scout told him, in a few sternly-uttered sentences, what had occurred at Venilik; and when Dobri expressed a desire to attach himself to Nicholas as his servant, the latter was only too glad to agree. Each knew the other well by report, and felt that the connection would be mutually agreeable.
At last one of the greatest events of the war approached. Plevna had been so closely hemmed in by Russian troops, and cut off from supplies, that the garrison was reduced to starvation. In this extremity, as is well known, Osman Pasha resolved on the desperate attempt to cut his way out of the beleaguered position.
Snow had fallen heavily, and the ground was white with it—so were the huts of the Russian soldiers, who, welcoming the snowfall as a familiar reminiscence of home, went about cooking their food and singing joyously. The houses of Plevna, with blue lines of smoke curling above them, were faintly visible through the driving snow. Now and then the sullen boom of a great gun told of the fell work that the forces had assembled there to execute.
“We are ordered to the front to-night, Dobri,” said Nicholas, as he entered his tent hurriedly, unbuckled his sword, and sat down to a hasty meal. “Our spies have brought information that Osman means to play his last card. Our field telegraphs have spread the news. We even know the particular point where the attempt to cut through our lines is to be made. The troops are concentrating. I have obtained leave to join the advance columns. Just see that my revolvers are in order, and look to your own. Come after that and feed. Without food a man can do nothing.”
The scout made no reply. Ever since the terrible calamity that had befallen him he had been a taciturn semi-maniac, but there was a glitter in his black eye that told of latent fires and deadly purpose within.
During the night another spy came in, reporting that Osman was concentrating his men near the bridge over the Vid, and that he had issued three days’ rations to the troops, with a hundred and fifty cartridges and a new pair of sandals to each man. About the same time there came a telegram to the effect that lights were moving about with unwonted activity in Plevna, and something unusual was evidently afoot. Thus the report of the first spy was partly corroborated.
Meanwhile Nicholas and Dobri Petroff, mounting in the dark hours of morning, rode through the snowstorm—which was gradually abating—in the direction of the bridge over the Vid, while Skobeleff himself proceeded towards the Krishina redoubts, which, it was reported, were being abandoned. The report was true; he took possession of these redoubts unopposed, and instantly put them in a state of defence.
Meanwhile Osman, with his brave but worn-out band, made his last sortie from Plevna.
The grey light of a dull wintry morning broke and revealed masses, like darker clouds of the threatening storm, driving across the plain. These were the Ottoman troops—some say 20,000 men—rushing like baited tigers towards the trenches. Suddenly there came the thunderous roar of a hundred heavy guns, followed by the crash and incessant rattle of the rifles. The deciding battle had begun. The mists of early morning mingled with the smoke of fire-arms, so that the movements of men were not visible in many places. In others a few fighting companies were just visible, showing indistinctly through the haze for a minute or two, while sheets of flame played in front of their rifles like trickling lines of electric light. Elsewhere, from the cliffs above the Vid, globes of fire were seen to rend the mists, as cannon played their part in the deadly game, while the fearful cries of maddened and wounded men mingled with the crashing of artillery. Here and there numerous bullock-wagons were seen rolling slowly along, and horses and cattle were galloping wildly about the plain. It was a scene that might have made the flesh of the most callous people creep with pitying horror.
Advancing as far as possible under cover of their bullock-wagons, the Turks began to play their part with vigour, but the Russians opened on them from one of their batteries with shell and shrapnel, whilst the men in the trenches sent a rain of bullets from their Berdan breech-loaders. The terrified oxen, tearing about madly, or falling, soon rendered the wagon-cover useless. Then the Turks forsook it, and, with a wild shout, charged the first line of trenches. These were held by a Siberian regiment. The Turks swept over them like a tornado, poured into the battery, where the artillerymen, who stood to their guns like heroes, were bayoneted almost to a man. Thus the first investing circle was broken, but here Ottoman courage was met by irresistible force, and valour quite equal to its own, and here the tide of battle turned.
Nicholas Naranovitsch, despatched by General Strukoff, galloped towards the scene of action.
“Come, Dobri!” he cried, with blazing eyes that told of excitement almost too strong to be mastered, “there is work for you and me now.”
Petroff, mounted and ready, awaiting the orders of his master, sprang out at the summons from a troop of the first brigade of grenadiers, who were at she moment preparing to advance. They dashed forward. An order had been intrusted to Nicholas, but he never delivered it. He was met by advancing hosts of the enemy. He turned aside, intending to execute his mission, if possible, by a détour. In this effort he was caught up, as it were, and carried on by the Russian grenadiers, who flung themselves on the Turks with irresistible fury. In another moment his horse fell under him. Dobri instantly dismounted, but the horse which he meant to offer to his master also fell, and the two were carried onward. The opposing forces met. A hand-to-hand fight ensued—man to man, bayonet to bayonet. The Turks clung to the guns in the captured battery with obstinate bravery. Nicholas and Dobri having both broken their sabres at the first onset, seized the rifles of fallen men and laid about them with a degree of overpowering energy, which, conserved and expended rightly for the good of man, might have made each a noted benefactor of the human race, but which, in this instance, resulted only in the crushing in of a few dozen Turkish skulls!
Gradually the stabbing and smashing of “God’s image,” on the part of the Russians, began to tell. The Turks gave way, and finally took to flight.
But shortly before this occurred there was a desperate effort made by a handful of Turks to retrieve the fortunes of the day. It was personally led by Sanda Pasha, who, reinstated by the vacillating and contemptible powers at Constantinople, had been sent—too late—to the relief of Plevna.
At the first rush the Pasha fell. He was only wounded, but his followers thought he was killed, and, stung with rage and despair, fought like fiends to avenge him. At that moment the Russian general rode up to a neighbouring eminence and had his attention drawn to this point in the battle.
He ordered up reinforcements. Nicholas and his man now seemed on the point of having their wishes gratified. Poor Petroff’s desire to meet an honourable death had every chance of being realised, while the thirst for military distinction in Nicholas had at last a brilliant opportunity of being quenched.
As the fight in this part of that bloody field progressed, it concentrated into a knot around the two heroes. Just then a fresh body of Turkish infantry charged, led by the Nubian, Hamed Pasha, whose horse had been killed under him. Dobri Petroff and Hamed rushed at one another instantly; each seemed at once to recognise the other as a worthy foeman. The great hacked sword whistled for a few minutes round the scout’s head so fast that it required his utmost agility to parry cut and thrust with his rifle, but a favourable chance soon offered, and he swung the stock of his piece at his adversary’s head with such force as to break the sword short off at the hilt. The Nubian sprang at Dobri like a tiger. They grappled, and these men of herculean mould were so well matched that for a few seconds they stood quivering with mighty but fruitless efforts to bear each other down. It was at this moment that the Russian reinforcements came up, fired a volley, and charged. Dobri and Hamed dropped side by side, pierced with bullets. Nicholas also fell. The raging hosts passed over them, and the Turks were driven over the plain like autumn leaves before the gale.
Immediately after, a battery of horse artillery swept across the hotly-contested ground, the wheels of the heavy ordnance and the hoofs of the half-mad horses crashing over the heads said limbs of all who chanced to lie in their way.
Oh! it is bitter to reflect on the grand courage that is mis-displayed in the accursed service of war! Beaten, overwhelmed, crushed, all but annihilated, the poor peasant-soldiers of Turkey, who probably knew nothing whatever about the cause for which they fought, took shelter at last behind the broken wagons under which they had advanced, and then turned at bay. Others made for the deep banks of the Vid, where they re-formed, and instantly began to return the Russian fire.
The sortie was now virtually repulsed. It was about half-past eight. The Turks, evidently apprehensive that the enemy would charge and drive them back into the gorge which led to Plevna, remained on the defensive. The Russians, obviously afraid lest the enemy should attempt another sortie, also remained on the defensive. For four hours they continued in this condition, “during which period the battle raged,” it was said, “with the utmost fury,” but it is also admitted that very little damage was done to either side, “for both armies were under cover!” In other words, the belligerents remained for four hours in the condition of a couple of angry costermongers, hooting and howling at each other without coming to blows, while shot and shell and powder and lead were being expended for nothing, at a rate which added thousands sterling to the burdens of the peace-loving members of both countries!
“About twelve o’clock,” according to an eye-witness, “the firing began to diminish on both sides, as if by mutual agreement.”
I have a very thorough appreciation of this idea of “mutual agreement.” It is well known among schoolboys. When two of these specimens of the rising generation have been smashing each other’s faces, blackening each other’s eyes, and bleeding each other’s noses for three-quarters of an hour, without having decided a victory, they both feel a strong desire to stop, are ready to “give in,” and, on the smallest encouragement from “seconds,” will shake hands. Indeed, this well-known and somewhat contemptible state of mind is familiar to a larger growth of boys—happily not in England—called duellists. We deliberately call the state of mind “contemptible,” because, if a matter is worth fighting for (physically), it ought to be fought for to the “bitter end.” If it is not worth fighting for, there should be no fighting at all!
However, as I have said, the fire began to slacken about mid-day, and then gradually ceased. The silence that succeeded was deeply impressive—also suggestive. Half-an-hour later a white flag was seen waving from the road that ran round the cliffs beyond the bridge.
Plevna had fallen. Osman Pasha and his army had surrendered. In other words—the fate of the Turkish Empire was sealed!