Chapter Twenty Three.
Woe to the “Auburn Hair!” After the Battle—Prowling Villains Punished.
When the white flag was seen a loud shout went up from the Russian army. Then a party of officers rode forward, and two Turkish horsemen were seen advancing. They stated that Osman himself was coming to treat with the Russians.
The spot on which they stood was covered with the grim relics of battle. The earth had been uptorn by exploding shells. Here lay a horse groaning and struggling in its agony. Close to it lay an ox, silently bleeding to death, his great, round, patient eyes looking mournfully at the scene around him. Close by, was a cart with a dead horse lying in the yoke as he had fallen, and a Turkish soldier, stretched alongside, whose head had been carried away by a cannon shot. Under the wagon was a wounded man, and close to him four others, who, drained of nearly all their life-blood, lay crouched together in helplessness, with the hoods of their ragged grey overcoats drawn down on their faces. These latter gazed at the murky sky in listless indifference, or at what was going on in a sort of weary surprise. Among them was Nicholas Naranovitsch.
Russian surgeons were already moving about the field of battle, doing what they could, but their efforts were trifling compared with the vast necessity.
At last there was a shout of “Osman!” “He comes!”
“We will give him a respectful reception,” exclaimed one Russian officer, in what is supposed by some to be the “gallant spirit of true chivalry.”
“That we will,” cried another; “we must all salute him, and the soldiers must present arms.”
“He is a great soldier,” exclaimed a third, “and has made a heroic defence.”
Even Skobeleff himself seems to have been carried away by the feeling of the moment, if we may credit report, for he is said to have exclaimed—
“He is the greatest general of the age, for he has saved the honour of his country: I will proffer him my hand and tell him so.”
“So,” thought I, when afterwards meditating on this subject, “the Turks have for centuries proved themselves to be utterly unworthy of self-government; they have shown themselves to be ignorant of the first principles of righteousness,—meum and tuum; they (or rather their rulers) have violated their engagements and deceived those who trusted them; have of late repudiated their debts, and murdered, robbed, violated, tortured those who differed from them in religious opinions, as is generally admitted,—nevertheless now, because one of their generals has shown somewhat superior ability to the rest, holding in check a powerful enemy, and exhibiting, with his men, a degree of bull-dog courage which, though admirable in itself, all history proves to be a common characteristic of all nations—that ‘honour,’ which the country never possessed, is supposed to have been ‘saved’!”
All honour to the brave, truly, but when I remember the butcheries that are admitted, by friend and foe of the Turk, to have been committed on the Russian wounded by the army of Plevna (and which seem to have been conveniently forgotten at this dramatic incident of the surrender),—when I reflect on the frightful indifference of Osman Pasha to his own wounded, and the equally horrible disregard of the same hapless wounded by the Russians after they entered Plevna,—I cannot but feel that a desperate amount of error is operating here, and that multitudes of mankind, especially innocent, loving, and gentle mankind, to say nothing of tender, enthusiastic, love-blinded womankind, are to some extent deceived by the false ring of that which is not metal, and the falser glitter of a tinsel which is anything but gold.
However, Osman did not come after all. He had been wounded, and the Russian generals were obliged to go to a neighbouring cottage to transact the business of surrender.
As the cavalcade rode away in the direction of the cottage referred to, a Russian surgeon turned aside to aid a wounded man. He was a tall strapping trooper. His head rested on the leg of his horse, which lay dead beside him. He could not have been more than twenty years of age, if so much. He had carefully wrapped his cloak round him. His carbine and sabre were drawn close to his side, as if to protect the weapons which it had always been his pride to keep bright and clean. He was a fresh handsome lad, with courage and loveableness equally stamped upon his young brow. He opened his eyes languidly as the doctor attended to him.
“Come, my fine fellow, keep up your heart,” said the doctor tenderly; “you will perhaps—that is to say, the ambulance-wagons will be round immediately, and—”
“Thank you,” interrupted the trooper quietly, “God’s blessing rest upon you. I know what you mean.—Look, sir.”
He tried to take a locket from his neck as he spoke, but could not. The doctor gently assisted him. “See,” he said, “take this to Dobri Petroff—the scout. You know him? Every one knows dashing Dobri!”
“I know him. Well?”
“Tell him to give it to her—he knows who—and—and—say it has kept me in—in heaven when sometimes it seemed to me as if I had got into hell.”
“From whom?” asked the doctor, anxiously, as the youth’s head sank forward, and the terrible pallor of approaching death came on.
“From André—”
Alas! alas for Maria with the auburn hair!
The doctor rose. His services were no longer needed. Mounting his horse, he rode away.
The ground over which he galloped was strewn with weapons. The formal surrender had been made, and each Turk, obeying literally the order to lay down his arms, had deposited his rifle in the mud where he stood.
That night a faint light shone through the murky clouds, and dimly illumined the grim battle-field.
It was deserted by all but the dead and dying, with now and then a passing picket or fatigue-party. As the night advanced, and the cold became piercing, even these seemed to have finally retired from the ghastly scene. Towards morning the moon rose high, and, piercing the clouds, at times lit up the whole battle-field. Ah! there was many a pale countenance turned wistfully on the moon that night, gazing at it until the eyes became fixed in death. There was one countenance, which, deadly white, and gashed by a Turkish sabre, had been ruddy with young life in the morning. It was that of Nicholas Naranovitsch. He lay on his back near his dead horse, and close to a heap of slaughtered men. He was so faint and so shattered by sabre-cuts and bullets as to be utterly unable to move anything but his eyes. Though almost in a state of stupor, he retained sufficient consciousness to observe what went on around him. The night, or rather the early morning, had become very still, but it was not silent, for deep sighs and low moanings, as of men suffering from prolonged and weary pain, struck on his listening ear. Now and then some wretch, unable to bear his misery, would make a desperate effort to rise, only, however, to fall back with a sharp cry or a deep-despairing groan. Here and there a man might be seen creeping a few paces on his hands and knees, and then dropping to rest for a time, after which the creeping was resumed, in the vain hope, no doubt, that some place of shelter or an ambulance might be reached at last. One of these struggling men passed close to Nicholas, and stopped to rest almost at his side. In a few minutes he rose again, and attempted to advance, but instead of doing so writhed in a hideous contortion over on his back, and stretching himself with a convulsive shudder, died with his teeth clenched and his protruding eyeballs glaring at the sky.
Suddenly a low sweet sound broke on Nicholas’s ear. It swelled gradually, and was at length recognised as a hymn with which he had been familiar in childhood. Some dying Christian soldier near him had apparently sought relief in singing praise to God. Nicholas wept as he listened. He soon found that there were sympathetic listeners besides himself, for the strains were taken up by one and another, and another, until the hymn appeared to rise from all parts of the battle-field. It was faint, however, and tremulous, for the life-blood was draining rapidly from the hearts of those who raised it. Ere long it altogether ceased.
For some time Nicholas had been aware that a wounded man was slowly gasping out his life quite close to him, but, from the position in which he lay, it was not possible to see more than his red fez. Presently the man made a powerful effort, raised himself on one elbow, and displayed the ghastly black countenance of Hamed Pasha. He looked unsteadily round him for a moment, and then sank backward with a long-drawn sigh.
Close to him, under a heap of slain, Dobri Petroff himself lay. For a long time he was unconscious, and had been nearly crushed to death by the weight of those above him. But the life which had been so strong in his huge body seemed to revive a little, and after a time he succeeded in freeing himself from the load, and raising himself on his hands, but he could not get up on his feet. A wound in the neck, which had partly closed while he was in a recumbent position, now burst out afresh. He looked at the blood with a faint sad smile, and sank down again.
Nicholas recognised him, and tried to speak, but he could neither speak nor move. It seemed to him that every part of his frame had been paralysed except his brain and eyes.
Presently the scout felt for something at his side. His flask was there; putting it to his lips he drank a little and was evidently refreshed, for he raised himself again and began to look about him.
Another moment and Petroff had discovered the Pasha, who lay near him with a look of intense longing in his eyes as he saw the flask and heard the gurgling water. A fierce frown crossed the scout’s brow for a moment, but it was instantly chased away by a look of pity. He dragged himself slowly towards the dying Turk, and held the flask to his lips.
With a murmur of thankfulness and a look of gratitude at his late enemy, the Pasha uttered a faint sigh and closed his eyes in the last long sleep of death.
The effort to drag himself even a few paces served to show Petroff how severely he had been wounded. He was in the act of raising the flask to his lips a second time, when Nicholas, by a desperate effort, succeeded in uttering a low groan.
The scout turned quickly, observed his master, and crept to his side.
“Drink, sir,” he said, knowing well that water was what Nicholas required most at such a time.
The avidity with which the latter obeyed prevented him observing that the scout was almost sinking. The successive efforts he had made had caused the blood to pour copiously from his wounds.
“You are badly hurt, Dobri, I fear,” he said, when the life-giving draught had sent new vigour into his frame, and loosed his tongue.
“Ay,” replied the scout, with a faint smile.—“I shall soon be with you now, Marika, and with the little ones and the dear Lord you loved so well and tried so hard to make me follow too. And you succeeded, Marika, though you little th—”
He stopped abruptly, swayed a moment to and fro, then fell heavily forward with his head on the bosom of his friend.
“Take some more water, Dobri,” said Nicholas anxiously. “Quick, before you lose consciousness. I have not power to move a limb to help you.—Dobri!”
He called in vain,—the scout had fainted.
Nicholas had not power at first to remove the poor fellow’s head from his chest, and he felt as if he should be suffocated. By degrees, however, he managed to roll it slightly to one side, and, at the same time, returning vigour enabled him to raise his right arm. He observed that his hand still grasped a revolver, but for some time he had no power to unclasp it. At last he succeeded, and raising Petroff’s flask with difficulty to his lips obtained another draught.
Just at that moment the moon, which had passed behind a dark cloud, shone through an opening, and he saw three men not far off searching among the dead. He was about to call to them, but a thought occurred and he restrained himself.
He was right; the three men, one of whom was habited like a priest, were rifling the dead. He saw them come up to a prostrate form which struggled on being touched. One of the three men instantly drew a knife and stabbed the wounded man. When they had searched the body and taken from it what they required they came towards the spot where Nicholas lay.
A feeling of horror came over him for a moment, but that seemed to give him strength, for he instantly grasped his revolver. Hoping, however that they might pass without observing him, he shut his eyes and lay quite still.
The three murderers drew near, talking in low tones, and seemed about to pass, when one of them stopped.
“Here’s a big-looking fellow whose boots will just fit me,” he said, stooping and seizing the scout’s leg.
“There’s an officer behind him,” said the villain in the priest’s dress; “he will be more worth stripping.”
Nicholas pointed his revolver full in the man’s face and fired, but his aim was unsteady. He had missed. Again he pulled the trigger, but it had been the last shot. The man sprang upon him. The report, however, had attracted the notice of a picket of Russian soldiers, who, well aware of the deeds of foul villainy that are practised by the followers of an army on battle-fields at night, immediately rushed up and secured the three men.
“They are murderers,” exclaimed Nicholas in reply to a question from the sergeant in command.
“Lead them out,” said the sergeant promptly.
The men were bound and set up in a row.
“Ready—present!”
A volley rang out in the night air, and three more corpses were added to the death-roll of the day.
It was summary justice, but richly deserved. Thereafter the soldiers made a rough-and-ready stretcher of muskets, on which Nicholas, who had fainted, was carefully laid and borne from the field.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Farewell to Sanda Pasha—A Scuffle, and an Unexpected Meeting.
Some time after the events narrated in the last chapter I was seated in an apartment of Sanda Pasha’s residence in Adrianople, the Turkish city next in importance to Constantinople.
My health had returned, and, although still somewhat weak, I felt sufficiently strong to travel, and had once or twice urged my kind host, who was fast recovering from his wound, to permit me, if possible, to return to the Russian lines. I had had from him, of course, a full account of the fall of Plevna, and I had also learned from another source that Nicholas had been desperately wounded; but the latter information was a mere rumour, which only rendered me the more anxious to get away.
The Pasha’s chief secretary, who spoke Russian well, informed me at this time of some of the doings of his countrymen in the city and neighbourhood. I could hardly credit him, but English “correspondents” afterwards confirmed what he said. The daily executions of Bulgarians on the slightest pretexts, without trial, were at that time so numerous that it seemed as if the Turks had determined to solve the question of Bulgarian autonomy by killing or banishing every male in the province. In one instance fifteen Bulgarian children, the youngest of whom was ten years of age, and the eldest fifteen, were condemned to hard labour for life. It was said, but not proved I believe, that these young people had committed murder and contributed to the insurrection. At this time there were over 20,000 refugees in Adrianople, all of whom were women and children whose protectors had either been massacred or forced to join the army.
The secretary evidently rejoiced in the slaying and otherwise getting rid of Bulgarian men, but he seemed to have a slight feeling of commiseration for the helpless refugees, among whom I had myself witnessed the most heart-rending scenes of mental and physical suffering.
Wherever I wandered about the town there were groups of these trembling ones, on whose pallid faces were imprinted looks of maniacal horror or of blank despair. Little wonder! Some of them had beheld the fathers, brothers, lovers, around whom their heart-strings twined, tortured to death before their eyes. Others had seen their babes tossed on spear-points and bayonets, while to all the future must have appeared a fearful prospect of want and of dreary sighing for a touch of those “vanished hands” that had passed from earth for ever.
“Philanthropic societies,” said the secretary, “have done great things for Turkey and for Russia too. Had it not been for the timely aid sent out by the charitable people in England and other countries, it is certain that many thousands of these refugees would already have been in their graves.”
I did not like the tone or looks of this secretary. He was an oily man, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Doubtless there are many of them,” I returned sharply, “who wish that they had fallen with their kindred. But you say truth: the tender-hearted and liberal ones of England and elsewhere have done something to mitigate the horrors of war, and yet there is a party among us who would draw the sword, if they were allowed, and add to the number of these wretched refugees. A pretty spectacle of consistency, truly, is presented by war! If we English were to join the Turks, as of course you wish us to do, and help you to maintain your misrule, to say nothing of the massacres which have been and still are going on around us, we should have to keep our philanthropic societies at work still longer, and thus we should be seen cutting men down with one hand and binding them up with the other,—roaring like fiends as we slaughter sires, and at the same time, with the same voice, softly comforting widows and fatherless children. Oh, sir, if there is a phrase of mockery on the face of this earth, it is the term ‘civilised warfare’!”
Before the secretary had time to reply the Pasha entered, accompanied by Lancey.
“Mr Childers,” said the Pasha, sitting down on a cushion beside me, “I have managed it at last, though not without difficulty, but when a man wants to help an old school-mate in distress he is not easily put down. You have to thank Lancey for anything I have done for you. There is, it seems, to be an exchange of prisoners soon, and I have managed that you and Lancey shall be among the number. You must be ready to take the road to-morrow.”
I thanked the Pasha heartily, but expressed surprise that one in so exalted a position should have found difficulty in the matter.
“Exalted!” he exclaimed, with a look of scorn, “I’m so exalted as to have very narrowly missed having my head cut off. Bah! there is no gratitude in a Turk—at least in a Turkish grandee.”
I ventured to suggest that the Pasha was in his own person a flat—or rather sturdy—contradiction of his own words, but he only grinned as he bowed, being too much in earnest to smile.
“Do you forget,” he continued, “that I am in disgrace? I have served the Turk faithfully all my life, and now I am shelved at the very time my services might be of use, because the Sultan is swayed by a set of rascals who are jealous of me! And is it not the same with better men than myself? Look at Mehemet Ali, our late commander-in-chief, deposed from office by men who had not the power to judge of his capacities—for what? Did he not say with his own lips, to one of your own correspondents, that although he had embraced the religion of Mohammed they never could forget or forgive the fact that he was not born a Turk, but regarded him as a Giaour in disguise; that his elevation to power excited secret discontent among the Pashas, which I know to be true; that another Pasha thwarted instead of aiding him, while yet another was sent to act the spy on him. Is not this shameful jealousy amongst our leaders, at a time when all should have been united for the common weal, well known to have operated disastrously in other cases? Did not Osman Pasha admit as much, when he complained bitterly, after the fall of Plevna, that he had not been properly supported? Our rank and file are lions in the field—though I cannot allow that they are lambs anywhere else—but as for our— Bah! I have said enough. Besides, to tell you the truth, I am tired of the Turks, and hate them.”
Here my servant interrupted the Pasha with a coolness and familiarity that amused me much.
“Sandy,” said he, with a disapproving shake of the head, “you oughtn’t to go an’ speak like that of your hadopted nation.”
The Pasha’s indignation vanished at once. He turned to Lancey with a curious twinkle in his eye.
“But, my good fellow,” he said, “it isn’t my hadopted nation. When I came here a poor homeless wanderer the Turks adopted me, not I them, because they found me useful.”
“That,” returned Lancey, “should ’ave called hout your gratitood.”
“So it did, Lancey. Didn’t I serve them faithfully from that day to this, to the best of my power, and didn’t I shave my head and wear their garb, and pretend to take to their religion all out of gratitude?”
“Worse and worse,” retorted Lancey; “that was houtrageous ’ypocrisy. I’m afraid, Sandy, that you’re no better than you used to be w’en you smashed the school-windows an’ went about playin’ truant on the Scottish ’ills.”
“No better indeed,” returned the Pasha, with a sudden touch of sadness; “that is true, but how to become better is the difficulty. Islamism fills a land with injustice, robbery, and violence; while, in order that such things may be put right, the same land is desolated, covered with blood, and filled with lamentation, in the name of Christianity.”
Here I could not refrain from reminding the Pasha that the professors of religion did not always act in accordance with their profession, and that the principles of the “Prince of Peace,” when carried out, even with average sincerity, had an invariable tendency to encourage peace and good-will among men, which was more than could be said of the doctrines of Mohammed.
“It may be so,” said the Pasha, with a sigh.
“Meanwhile, to return to our point, you will find everything ready for your journey at an early hour to-morrow.”
“But what of little Ivanka Petroff?” I asked. “She must go with us.”
The Pasha seemed a little perplexed. “I had not thought of that,” he said; “she will be well-cared for here.”
“I cannot go without her,” said I firmly.
“No more can I,” said Lancey.
“Well, that shall also be arranged,” returned the Pasha, as he left us.
“Never saw nothink like ’im,” observed Lancey; “’e sticks at nothink, believes nothink, cares for nothink, an’ can do hanythink.”
“You are showing want of gratitude now, Lancey, for it is plain that he cares a good deal for you.”
Lancey admitted that he might, perhaps, have been a little harsh in expressing himself, and then went off to prepare for the journey.
“We are going back again to your own country, Ivanka,” said I, gently stroking the child’s head, as we sat together in the same room, some hours later.
Ivanka raised her large eyes to mine.
“There is no home now,” she said, in a mournful voice.
“But we shall find father there, perhaps.”
The child dropped her eyes, and shook her head, but made no further remark. I saw that tears were trickling down her cheeks, and, feeling uncertain as to how far she realised her forlorn condition, refrained from further speech, and drew her little head upon my breast, while I sought to comfort her with hopes of soon meeting her father.
Snow lay on the ground when we bade farewell to our kind host. “Good-bye, Sanda Pasha; I shall hope to see you in England one of these days,” said I at parting.
“Farewell, Sandy,” said my man, grasping the Pasha’s hand warmly, and speaking in a deeply impressive tone; “take the advice of a wery old friend, who ’as your welfare at ’art, an’ leave off your evil ways, w’ich it’s not possible for you to do w’ile you’ve got fifty wives, more or less, shaves your ’ead like a Turk, and hacts the part of a ’ypocrite. Come back to your own land, my friend, w’ich is the only one I knows on worth livin’ in, an’ dress yourself like a Christian.”
The Pasha laughed, returned the squeeze heartily, and said that it was highly probable he would act upon that advice ere another year had passed away.
Half an hour later we were driving over the white plains, on which the sun shone with dazzling light.
I felt unusual exhilaration as we rattled along in the fresh frosty air, and crossed the fields, which, with the silvered trees and bushes, contrasted so pleasantly with the clear blue sky. I began to feel as if the horrible scenes I had lately witnessed were but the effects of a disordered imagination, which had passed away with fever and bodily weakness.
Ivanka also appeared to revive under those genial influences with which God surrounds His creatures, for she prattled a little now and then about things which attracted her attention on the road; but she never referred to the past. Lancey, too, was inspirited to such an extent that he tackled the Turkish driver in his own tongue, and caused the eyes of that taciturn individual occasionally to twinkle, and his moustache to curl upwards.
That night we slept at a small road-side inn. Next day we joined a group of travellers, and thus onward we went until we reached the region where the war raged. Here we were placed under escort, and, with some others, were exchanged and set free.
Immediately I hired a conveyance and proceeded to the Russian rear, where I obtained a horse, and, leaving Ivanka in charge of Lancey at an inn, hastened to headquarters to make inquiries about Nicholas and Petroff.
On the way, however, I halted to telegraph to the Scottish Bawbee, and to write a brief account of my recent experiences among the Turks.
I was in the midst of a powerful article—powerful, of course, because of the subject—on one of the war-episodes, when I heard a foot on the staircase. I had placed my revolver on the table, for I was seated in a room in a deserted village. One wall of the room had been shattered by a shell, while most of the furniture was more or less broken by the same missile, and I knew well that those sneak-marauders who infest the rear of an army were in the habit of prowling about such places.
Suddenly I heard a loud shout on the staircase, followed by the clashing of swords. I leaped up, seized the revolver, and ran out. One man stood on the stair defending himself against two Circassians. I knew the scoundrels instantly by their dress, and not less easily did I recognise a countryman in the grey tweed shooting coat, glengarry cap, and knickerbockers of the other. At the moment of my appearance the Englishman, who was obviously a dexterous swordsman, had inflicted a telling wound on one of his adversaries. I fired at the other, who, leaping nearly his own height into the air, fell with a crash down the staircase. He sprang up, however, instantly, and both men bolted out at the front door and fled.
The Englishman turned to thank me for my timely aid, but, instead of speaking, looked at me with amused surprise.
“Can it be?” I exclaimed; “not possible! you, Biquitous?”
“I told you we should probably meet,” he replied, sheathing his sword, “but I was not prophetic enough to foretell the exact circumstances of the meeting.”
“Come along, my dear fellow,” said I, seizing his arm and dragging him up-stairs; “how glad I am! what an unexpected—oh! never mind the look of the room, it’s pretty tight in most places, and I’ve stuffed my overcoat into the shell-hole.”
“Don’t apologise for your quarters, Jeff,” returned my friend, laying his sword and revolver on the table; “the house is a palace compared with some places I’ve inhabited of late. The last, for instance, was so filthy that I believe, on my conscience, an irish pig, with an average allowance of self-respect, would have declined to occupy it.—Here it is, you’ll find it somewhere near the middle.”
He handed me a small sketch-book, and, while I turned over the leaves, busied himself in filling a short meerschaum.
“Why, how busy you must have been!” said I, turning over the well-filled book with interest.
“Slightly so,” he replied. “Some of these will look pretty well, I flatter myself, in the Evergreen Isle, if they are well engraved; but that is the difficulty. No matter how carefully we correspondents execute our sketches, some of these engravers—I won’t say all of them—make an awful mess of ’em.
“Yes, you may well laugh at that one. It was taken under fire, and I can tell you that a sketch made under fire is apt to turn out defective in drawing. That highly effective and happy accidental touch in the immediate foreground I claim no credit for. It was made by a bullet which first knocked the pencil out of my hand and then terminated the career of my best horse; while that sunny gleam in the middle distance was caused by a piece of yellow clay being driven across it by the splinter of a shell. On the whole, I think the sketch will hardly do for the Evergreen, though it is worth keeping as a reminiscence.”
My friend and I now sat down in front of a comfortable fire, fed with logs from the roof of a neighbouring hut, but we had not chatted long before he asked me the object of my visit to headquarters.
“To inquire about my friend Nicholas Karanovitsch,” I said.
From the sudden disappearance of the look of careless pleasantry from my friend’s face, and the grave earnest tone in which he spoke, I saw that he had bad news to tell.
“Have you not heard—” he said, and paused.
“Not dead?” I exclaimed.
“No, not dead, but desperately wounded.” He went on in a low rapid voice to relate all the circumstances of the case, with which the reader is already acquainted, first touching on the chief points, to relieve my feelings.
Nicholas was not dead, but so badly wounded that there was no chance of his ever again attaining to the semblance of his old self. The doctors, however, had pronounced him at last out of danger. His sound constitution and great strength had enabled him to survive injuries which would have carried off most men in a few days or hours. His whole frame had been shattered; his handsome face dreadfully disfigured, his left hand carried away, and his right foot so grievously crushed by a gun-carriage passing over it that they had been obliged to amputate the leg below the knee. For a long time he had lain balancing between life and death, and when he recovered sufficiently to be moved had been taken by rail to Switzerland. He had given strict orders that no one should be allowed to write to his friends in England, but had asked very anxiously after me.
Biquitous gave me a great many more particulars, but this was the gist of his sad news. He also told me of the fall of Dobri Petroff.
“Nicholas had fainted, as I told you,” he said, “just before the picket by which he had been rescued lifted him from the ground, and he was greatly distressed, on recovering, to find that his faithful follower had been left behind. Although he believed him to be dead, he immediately expressed an earnest wish that men should be sent to look for and recover the body. They promised that this should be done, but he never learned whether or not they had been successful.”
“And you don’t know the name of the place in Switzerland to which Nicholas has been sent?” I asked.
“Not sure, but I think it was Montreux, on the Lake of Geneva.”
After all this sad news I found it impossible to enjoy the society of my eccentric friend, and much though I liked him, resolved to leave the place at once and make arrangements to quit the country.
I therefore bade him farewell, and hastened back to the inn where I had left Ivanka and Lancey.
The grief of the dear child, on hearing that her father had fallen on the battle-field, was for a time uncontrollable. When it had abated, I said:—
“There is no one here to love you now, my little darling, but God still loves you, and, you see, has sent me and Lancey to take care of you.—Come, we will return to Venilik.”
I did not dare at this time to raise hopes, which might soon be dashed to pieces, in the heart of the poor forlorn child, and therefore did not say all that was in my mind; but my object in returning to Venilik was to make inquiry after her mother. My own hopes were not strong, but I did not feel satisfied that we had obtained sufficient proof that Marika had been killed.
Our search and inquiries, however, were vain. Venilik was almost deserted. No one could tell anything about the Petroff family that we did not already know. It was certainly known that many persons—men and women—had fled to the neighbouring woods, and that some had escaped, but it was generally believed that Marika had been burnt in her own cottage. No doubt, however, was entertained as to the fate of her little boy; for there were several people who had seen him thrust through and held aloft on the point of a Circassian spear. When I told of Dobri Petroff having fallen by the side of Nicholas, several of the villagers said they had heard of that from other sources.
As nothing further could be done, I resolved to adopt Ivanka, and take her away with me.
My preparations were soon made, a conveyance was obtained, and before many days were over I found myself flying by road and rail far from the land where war still raged, where the fair face of nature had been so terribly disfigured by human wrath—so fearfully oppressed with human woe.
Chapter Twenty Five.
Describes a Wreck, and the Triumph of Love.
A Swiss châlet on a woody knoll, high up on the grand slopes that bathe their feet in the beautiful Lake of Geneva.
It is evening—a bright winter evening—with a golden glory in the sky which reminds one powerfully of summer, and suggests the advent of spring.
In the neighbouring town of Montreux there are busy people engaged in the labours of the day. There are also idlers endeavouring to “kill” the little span of time that has been given them, in which to do their quota of duty on the earth. So, also, there are riotous young people who are actively fulfilling their duty by going off to skate, or slide down the snow-clad hills, after the severer duties connected with book and slate have been accomplished. These young rioters are aided and abetted by sundry persons of maturer years, who, having already finished the more important labours of the day of life, renew their own youth, and encourage the youngsters by joining them.
Besides these there are a few cripples who have been sent into the world with deficient or defective limbs—doubtless for wise and merciful ends. Merciful I say advisedly, for, “shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” These look on and rejoice, perchance, in the joy of the juveniles.
Among them, however, are some cripples of a very different stamp. The Creator sent these into the world with broad shoulders, deep chests, good looks, gladsome spirits, manly frames, and vigorous wills. War has sent them here—still in young manhood—with the deep chests pierced by bullets or gashed by sabres, with the manly frames reduced to skeletons, the gladsome spirits gone, the ruddy cheeks hollow and wan, and the vigorous wills—subdued at last.
A few of these young cripples move slowly about with the aid of stick or crutch, trying to regain, in the genial mountain air, some of the old fire which has sunk so low—so very low. Others, seated in wheel-chairs, doubled up like old, old men, are pushed about from point to point by stalwart mountaineers, while beside them walk sisters, mothers, or, perchance, young wives, whose cheery smiles and lightsome voices, as they point out and refer to the surrounding objects of nature, cannot quite conceal the feelings of profound and bitter sorrow with which they think of the glorious manhood that has been lost, or the tender, pitiful, heart-breaking solicitude with which they cherish the poor shadow that remains.
In a large airy apartment of the châlet on the woody knoll, there is one who occupies a still lower level than those to whom we have just referred—who cannot yet use the crutch or sit in the wheelchair, and on whose ear the sounds of glee that enter by the open window fall with little effect.
He reclines at full length on a bed. He has lain thus, with little effort to move, and much pain when such effort was made, for many weary weeks. Only one side of his face is visible, and that is scarred and torn with wounds, some of which are not yet healed. The other side is covered with bandages.
I am seated by his side, Ivanka is sitting opposite, near to the invalid’s feet, listening intently, if I may be allowed to say so, with her large black eyes, to a conversation which she cannot understand.
“You must not take so gloomy a view of your case, Nicholas. The doctors say you will recover, and, my good fellow, you have no idea what can be done by surgery in the way of putting a man together again after a break-down. Bella would be grieved beyond measure if I were to write as you wish.”
I spoke cheerily, more because I felt it to be a duty to do so, than because I had much hope.
The invalid paused for a few minutes as if to recover strength. Then he said—
“Jeff, I insist on your doing what I wish. It is unkind of you to drag me into a dispute when I am so weak. Tell the dear girl that I give her up—I release her from our engagement. It is likely that I shall die at any rate, which will settle the question, but if I do recover—why, just think, my dear fellow, I put it to you, what sort of husband should I make, with my ribs all smashed, my right leg cut off, my left hand destroyed, an eye gone, and my whole visage cut to pieces. No, Jeff—”
He paused; the light vein of humour which he had tried to assume passed off, and there was a twitching about the muscles of his mouth as he resumed—
“No, Bella must never see me again.”
Ivanka looked from the invalid’s face to mine with eyes so earnest, piercing, and inquiring, that I felt grieved she did not understand us.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, very sorry,” said I, “but Bella has already been written to, and will certainly be here in a day or two. I could not know your state of mind on my first arrival, and, acting as I fancied for the best, I wrote to her.”
Nicholas moved uneasily, and I observed a deep flush on his face, but he did not speak.
That evening Ivanka put her arms round my neck, told me she loved Nicholas because of his kindness to her father, and besought me earnestly to tell her what had passed between us.
A good deal amused, I told her as much as I thought she could understand.
“Oh! I should so like to see Bella,” she said.
“So you shall, dear, when she comes.”
“Does she speak Russian?”
“Yes. She has been several times in Russia, and understands the language well.”
As I had predicted, Bella arrived a few days after receiving my letter. My mother accompanied her.
“Oh, Jeff, this is dreadful!” said my poor mother, as she untied her bonnet-strings, and sat down on the sofa beside Bella, who could not for some time utter a word.
“What child is that?” added my mother quickly, observing Ivanka.
“It is the daughter of Dobri Petroff.—Let me introduce you, Ivanka, to my mother, and to my sister Bella—you know Bella?”
I had of course written to them a good deal about the poor child, and Bella had already formed an attachment to her in imagination. She started up on hearing Ivanka’s name, and held out both hands. The child ran to her as naturally as the needle turns to the pole.
While my mother and I were talking in a low tone about Nicholas, I could not avoid hearing parts of a conversation between my sister and Ivanka that surprised me much.
“Yes, oh! yes, I am quite sure of it. Your brother told me that he said he would never, never, never be so wicked as to let you come and see him, although he loved you so much that he—”
“Hush, my dear child, not so loud.”
Bella’s whisper died away, and Ivanka resumed—
“Yes, he said there was almost nothing of him left. He was joking, you know, when he said that, but it is not so much of a joke after all, for I saw—”
“Oh! hush, dear, hush; tell me what he said, and speak lower.”
Ivanka spoke so low that I heard no more, but what had reached my ear was sufficient to let me know how the current ran, and I was not sorry that poor Bella’s mind should be prepared for the terrible reality in this way.
The battle of love was fought and won that day at Nicholas’s bedside, and, as usual, woman was victorious.
I shall not weary the reader with all that was said. The concluding sentences will suffice.
“No, Nicholas,” said Bella, holding the right hand of the wounded soldier, while my mother looked on with tearful, and Ivanka with eager, eyes, “no, I will not be discarded. You must not presume, on the strength of your being weak, to talk nonsense. I hold you, sir, to your engagement, unless, indeed, you admit yourself to be a faithless man, and wish to cast me off. But you must not dispute with me in your present condition. I shall exercise the right of a wife by ordering you to hold your tongue unless you drop the subject. The doctor says you must not be allowed to talk or excite yourself, and the doctor’s orders, you know, must be obeyed.”
“Even if he should order a shattered man to renounce all thoughts of marriage?” asked Nicholas.
“If he were to do that,” retorted Bella, with a smile, “I should consider your case a serious one, and require a consultation with at least two other doctors before agreeing to submit to his orders. Now, the question is settled, so we will say no more about it. Meanwhile you need careful nursing, and mother and I are here to attend upon you.”
Thus with gentle raillery she led the poor fellow to entertain a faint hope that recovery might be possible, and that the future might not be so appallingly black as it had seemed before. Still the hope was extremely faint at first, for no one knew so well as himself what a wreck he was, and how impossible it would be for him, under the most favourable circumstances, ever again to stand up and look like his former self. Poor Bella had to force her pleasantry and her lightsome tones, for she also had fears that he might still succumb, but, being convinced that a cheerful, hopeful state of mind was the best of all medicines, she set herself to administer it in strong doses.
The result was that Nicholas began to recover rapidly. Time passed, and by slow degrees he migrated from his bed to the sofa. Then a few of his garments were put on, and he tried to stand on his remaining leg. The doctor, who assisted me in moving and dressing the poor invalid, comforted him with the assurance that the stump of the other would, in course of time, be well enough to have a cork foot and ankle attached to it.
“And do you know,” he added, with a smile, “they make these things so well now that one can scarcely tell a false foot from a real one,—with joint and moveable instep, and toes that work with springs, so that people can walk with them quite creditably—indeed they can; I do not jest, I assure you.”
“Nothing, however, can replace the left hand or the lost eye,” returned Nicholas, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“There, my dear sir,” returned the doctor, with animation, “you are quite wrong. The eye, indeed, can never be restored, though it will partially close, and become so familiar to you and your friends that it will almost cease to be noticed or remembered; but we shall have a stump made for the lower arm, with a socket to which you will be able to fix a fork or a spoon, or—”
“Why, doctor,” interrupted Nicholas, “what a spoon you must be to—”
“Come,” returned the doctor heartily, “that’ll do. My services won’t be required here much longer I see, for I invariably find that when a patient begins to make bad jokes, there is nothing far wrong with him.”
One morning, when we had dressed our invalid, and laid him on the sofa, he and I chanced to be left alone.
“Come here, Jeff,” he said, “assist me to the glass—I want to have a look at myself.”
It was the first time he had expressed such a desire, and I hesitated for a moment, not feeling sure of the effect that the sight might have on him. Then I went to him, and only remarking in a quiet tone, “You’ll improve, you know, in the course of time,” I led him to the looking-glass.
He turned slightly pale, and a look of blank surprise flitted across his face, but he recovered instantly, and stood for a few seconds surveying himself with a sad expression.
Well might he look sad, for the figure that met his gaze stooped like that of an aged man; the head was shorn of its luxuriant curls; the terrible sabre-cut across the cheek, from the temple to the chin, which had destroyed the eye, had left a livid wound, a single glance at which told that it would always remain as a ghastly blemish; and there were other injuries of a slighter nature on various parts of the face, which marred his visage dreadfully.
“Yes, Jeff,” he said, turning away slowly, with a sigh, and limping back to his couch, “there’s room for improvement. I thought myself not a bad-looking fellow once. It’s no great matter to have that fancy taken out of me, perhaps, but I grieve for Bella, and I really do think that you must persuade her to give up all idea of—”
“Now, Nic,” said I, “don’t talk nonsense.”
“But I don’t talk nonsense,” he exclaimed, flushing with sudden energy, “I mean what I say. Do you suppose I can calmly allow that dear girl to sacrifice herself to a mere wreck, that cannot hope to be long a cumberer of the ground?”
“And do you suppose,” I retorted, with vehemence, “that I can calmly allow my sister to be made a widow for life?—a widow, I say, for she is already married to you in spirit, and nothing will ever induce her to untie the knot. You don’t know Bella—ah! you needn’t smile,—you don’t indeed. She is the most perversely obstinate girl I ever met with. Last night, when I mentioned to her that you had been speaking of yourself as a mere wreck, she said in a low, easy-going, meek tone, ‘Jeff, I mean to cling to that wreck as long as it will float, and devote my life to repairing it.’ Now, when Bella says anything in a low, easy-going, and especially in a meek tone, it is utterly useless to oppose her: she has made up her mind, drawn her sword and flung away the scabbard, double-shotted all her guns, charged every torpedo in the ship, and, finally, nailed her colours to the mast.”
“Then,” said Nicholas, with a laugh, “I suppose I must give in.”
“Yes, my boy, you had better. If you don’t, just think what will be the consequences. First of all, you will die sooner than there is any occasion for; then Bella will pine, mope, get into bad health, and gradually fade away. That will break down my mother, whose susceptible spirit could not withstand the shock. Of course, after that my own health would give way, and the hopes of a dear little—well, that is to say, ruination and widespread misery would be the result of your unnatural and useless obstinacy.”
“To save you all from that,” said Nicholas, “of course I must give in.”
And Nicholas did give in, and the result was not half so disastrous as he had feared.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Some More of War’s Consequences.
Let us turn once more to the Balkan Mountains. Snow covers alike the valley and the hill. It is the depth of that inhospitable season when combative men were wont, in former days, to retire into winter quarters, repose on their “laurels,” and rest a while until the benign influences of spring should enable them to recommence the “glorious” work of slaying one another.
But modern warriors, like modern weapons, are more terrible now than they used to be. They scout inglorious repose—at least the great statesmen who send them out to battle scout it for them. While these men of super-Spartan mould sit at home in comfortable conclave over mild cigar and bubbling hookah, quibbling over words, the modern warrior is ordered to prolong the conflict; and thus it comes to pass that Muscovite and Moslem pour out their blood like water, and change the colour of the Balkan snows.
In a shepherd’s hut, far up the heights, which the smoke of battle could not reach, and where the din of deadly strife came almost softly, like the muttering of distant thunder, a young woman sat on the edge of a couch gazing wistfully at the beautiful countenance of a dead girl. The watcher was so very pale, wan, and haggard, that, but for her attitude and the motion of her great dark eyes, she also might have been mistaken for one of the dead. It was Marika, who escaped with only a slight flesh-wound in the arm from the soldier who had pursued her into the woods near her burning home.
A young man sat beside her also gazing in silence at the marble countenance.
“No, Petko, no,” said Marika, looking at the youth mournfully, “I cannot stay here. As long as the sister of my preserver lived it was my duty to remain, but now that the bullet has finished its work, I must go. It is impossible to rest.”
“But, Marika,” urged Petko Borronow, taking his friend’s hand, “you know it is useless to continue your search. The man who told me said he had it from the lips of Captain Naranovitsch himself that dear Dobri died at Plevna with his head resting on the captain’s breast, and—”
The youth could not continue.
“Yes, yes,” returned Marika, with a look and tone of despair, “I know that Dobri is dead; I saw my darling boy slain before my eyes, and heard Ivanka’s dying scream; no wonder that my brain has reeled so long. But I am strong now. I feel as if the Lord were calling on me to go forth and work for Himself since I have no one else to care for. Had Giuana lived I would have stayed to nurse her, but—”
“Oh that the fatal ball had found my heart instead of hers!” cried the youth, clasping his hands and gazing at the tranquil countenance on the bed.
“Better as it is,” said Marika in a low voice. “If you had been killed she would have fallen into the hands of the Bashi-Bazouks, and that would have been worse—far worse. The Lord does all things well. He gave, and He has taken away—oh let us try to say, Blessed be His name!”
She paused for a few minutes and then continued—
“Yes, Petko, I must go. There is plenty of work in these days for a Christian woman to do. Surely I should go mad if I were to remain idle. You have work here, I have none, therefore I must go. Nurses are wanted in the ambulance corps of our—our—deliverers.”
There was no sarcasm in poor Marika’s heart or tone, but the slight hesitation in her speech was in itself sarcasm enough. With the aid of her friend Petko, the poor bereaved, heart-stricken woman succeeded in making her way to Russian headquarters, where her sad tale, and the memory of her heroic husband, at once obtained for her employment as a nurse in the large hospital where I had already spent a portion of my time—namely, that of Sistova.
Here, although horrified and almost overwhelmed, at first, at the sight of so much and so terrible suffering, she gradually attained to a more resigned and tranquil frame of mind. Her sympathetic tenderness of heart conduced much to this, for she learned in some degree to forget her own sorrows in the contemplation of those of others. She found a measure of sad comfort, too, while thus ministering to the wants of worn, shattered, and dying young men, in the thought that they had fought like lions on the battle-field, as Dobri had fought, and had lain bleeding, crushed, and helpless there, as Dobri had lain.
Some weeks after her arrival there was a slight change made in the arrangements of the hospital. The particular room in which she served was selected as being more airy and suited for those of the patients who, from their enfeebled condition, required unusual care and nursing.
The evening after the change was effected, Marika, being on what may be called the night-shift, was required to assist the surgeons of the ward on their rounds. They came to a bed on which lay a man who seemed in the last stage of exhaustion.
“No bones broken,” said one surgeon in a low tone to another, to whom he was explaining the cases, “but blood almost entirely drained out of him. Very doubtful his recovery. Will require the most careful nursing.”
Marika stood behind the surgeons. On hearing what they said she drew nearer and looked sadly at the man.
He was gaunt, cadaverous, and careworn, as if from long and severe suffering, yet, living skeleton though he was, it was obvious that his frame had been huge and powerful.
Marika’s first sad glance changed into a stare of wild surprise, then the building rang with a cry of joy so loud, so jubilant, that even those whose blood had almost ceased to flow were roused by it.
She sprang forward and leaped into the man’s outstretched arms.
Ay, it was Dobri Petroff himself—or rather his attenuated shadow,—with apparently nothing but skin and sinew left to hold his bones together, and not a symptom of blood in his whole body. The little blood left, however, rushed to his face, and he found sufficient energy to exclaim “Thank the Lord!” ere his senses left him.
It is said that joy never kills. Certainly it failed to do so on this occasion. Dobri soon recovered consciousness, and then, little by little, with many a pause for breath, and in tones that were woefully unlike to those of the bold, lion-like scout of former days, he told how he had fainted and fallen on the breast of his master, how he had lain all night on the battle-field among the dead and dying, how he had been stripped and left for dead by the ruffian followers of the camp, and how at last he had been found and rescued by one of the ambulance-wagons of the Red Cross.
When Marika told him of the death of their two children he was not so much overwhelmed as she had anticipated.
“I’m not so sure that you are right, Marika,” he said, after a long sad pause. “That our darling boy is now in heaven I doubt not, for you saw him killed. But you did not see Ivanka killed, and what you call her death-shriek may not have been her last. We must not be too ready to believe the worst. If I had not believed you and them to have been all murdered together, I would not have sought death so recklessly. I will not give up hope in that God who has brought you back, and saved me from death. I think that darling Ivanka is still alive.”
Marika was only too glad to grasp at and hold on to the hope thus held out—feeble though the ground was on which it rested, and it need scarcely be said that she went about her hospital duties after that with a lightness and joy of heart which she had not felt for many a day.
Dobri Petroff’s recovery was now no longer doubtful. Day by day his strength returned, until at last he was dismissed cured.
But it must not be supposed that Dobri was “himself again.” He stood as erect, indeed, and became as sturdy in appearance as he used to be, but there was many a deep-seated injury in his powerful frame which damaged its lithe and graceful motions, and robbed it of its youthful spring.
Returning to the village of Venilik at the conclusion of the armistice, the childless couple proceeded to rebuild their ruined home.
The news of the bold blacksmith’s recovery, and return with his wife to the old desolated home, reached me at a very interesting period of our family history—my sister Bella’s wedding day.
It came through my eccentric friend U. Biquitous, who, after going through the Russo-Turkish war as correspondent of the Evergreen Isle, had proceeded in the same capacity to Greece. After detailing a good many of his adventures, and referring me to the pages of the EI for the remainder of his opinions on things in general, he went on, “By the way, in passing through Bulgaria lately, I fell in with your friend Dobri Petroff, the celebrated scout of the Balkan army. He and his pretty wife send their love, and all sorts of kind messages which I totally forget. Dobri said he supposed you would think he was dead, but he isn’t, and I can assure you looks as if he didn’t mean to die for some time to come. They are both very low, however, about the loss of their children, though they still cling fondly to the belief that their little girl Ivanka has not been killed.”
Here, then, was a piece of news for my mother and family!—for we had regularly adopted Ivanka, and the dear child was to act that very day as one of Bella’s bridesmaids.
I immediately told my mother, but resolved to say nothing to Ivanka, Nicholas, or Bella, till the ceremony was over.
It was inexpressibly sad to see Nicholas Naranovitsch that day, for, despite the fact that by means of a cork foot he could walk slowly to the church without the aid of a crutch, his empty sleeve, marred visage, and slightly stooping gait, but poorly represented the handsome young soldier of former days.
But my sister saw none of the blemishes—only the beauties—of the man.
“You’ve only got quarter of a husband, Bella,” he said with a sad smile when the ceremony was over.
“You were unnecessarily large before,” retorted Bella. “You could stand reducing; besides, you are doubled to-day, which makes you equal to two quarters, and as the wife is proverbially the better half, that brings you up nearly to three quarters, so don’t talk any more nonsense, sir. With good nursing I shall manage, perhaps, to make a whole of you once more.”
“So be it,” said Nicholas, kissing her. When they had left us, my mother called me—
“Jeff,” she said, with a look of decision in her meek face which I have not often observed there, “I have made up my mind that you must go back to Turkey.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, Jeff. You had no right, my dear boy, to bring that child away from her home in such a hurry.”
“But,” said I remonstratively, “her home at the time I carried her off was destroyed—indeed, most of the village was a smoking ruin, and liable at any moment to be replundered by the irregular troops of both sides, while Ivanka’s parents were reported dead—what could I do?”
“I don’t know what you could do in those circumstances, but I know what you can do now, and that is, pack your portmanteau and prepare to take Ivanka to Venilik. The child must be at once restored to her parents. I cannot bear to think of their remaining in ignorance of her being alive. Very likely Nicholas and Bella will be persuaded to extend their honeymoon to two, or even three, months, and join you in a tour through the south of Europe, after which you will all come home strong and well to spend the winter with me.”
“Agreed, mother; your programme shall be carried out to the letter, if I can manage it.”
“When,” asked my mother, “did your friend say he passed through that village?”
I opened his letter to ascertain, when my eye fell on a postscript which had escaped me on the first perusal. It ran thus—
“P.S. I see no reason why I should not ask you to wish me joy. I’m going to be married, my boy, to Blue-eyes! I could not forget her. I had no hope whatever of discovering her. I had settled in my mind to live and die an old bachelor, when I suddenly met her. It was in Piccadilly, when I was home, some months ago, in reference to an increase of my nominal salary from the EI (which by the way came to nothing—its original figure). I entered a ’bus and ran my head against that of a lady who was coming out. I looked up to apologise, and was struck dumb. It was Blue-eyes! I assisted her to alight, and stammered, I know not what, something like—‘A thousand pardons—surely we have met—excuse me—a mistake—Thunderer—captain, great guns, torpedoes, and blazes—’ in the midst of which she smiled, bowed, and moved on. I moved after her. I traced her (reverentially) to a house. It was that of a personal friend! I visited that friend, I became particularly intimate with that friend, I positively bored that friend until he detested me. At last I met her at the house of that friend and—but why go on? I am now ‘captain’ of the Blue-eyes, and would not exchange places with any officer in the Royal Navy; we are to be married on my return, if I’m not shot, assassinated, or hanged in the meantime. U.B.”
“Ah, Jeff,” said my mother, “how I wish that you would—”
She stopped.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I returned, with a smile; “and there is a charming little—”
“Well, Jeff, why don’t you go on?”
“Well, I don’t see why I should not tell you, mother, that there is a charming little woman—the very best woman in the world—who has expressed herself willing to—you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Reader, I would gladly make a confidant of yourself in this matter, and tell you all about this charming little woman, if it were not for the fact that she is standing at my elbow at this very minute, causing me to make blots, and telling me not to write nonsense!
Before dismissing U. Biquitous, I may as well introduce here the last meeting I had with him. It was a considerable time after the war was over—after the “Congress” had closed its labours, and my friend had settled—if such a term could be applied to one who never settled—near London. Nicholas and I were sitting in a bower at the end of our garden, conversing on the war which had been happily brought to a close. Bella and my mother were seated opposite to us, the latter knitting a piece of worsted-work, the size of whose stitches and needles was suited to the weakness of her eyes, and the former busy with a pencil sketch of the superb view of undulating woodland which stretched away for miles in front of our house.
“No doubt it is as you state, Jeff,” said Nicholas, in reply to my last remark; “war is a miserable method of settling a dispute, quite unworthy of civilised, to say nothing of Christian, men; but, then, how are we to get along without it? It’s of no use saying that an evil must be put down—put a stop to—until you are able to show how it is to be stopped.”
“That does not follow,” said I, quickly; “it may be quite possible for me to see, point out, and condemn an evil although I cannot suggest a remedy and my earnest remonstrances regarding it may be useful in the way of helping to raise a general outcry of condemnation, which may have the effect of turning more capable minds than my own to the devising of a remedy. Sea-sickness is a horrible malady; I perceive it, I know it to be so. I loudly draw attention to the fact; I won’t be silenced. Hundreds, thousands, of other miserables take heart and join me. We can’t stand it! we shan’t! is the general cry. The attention of an able engineer is attracted by the noise we make, and the Calais-Douvre steamboat springs into being, a vessel which is supposed to render sea-sickness an impossibility. Whether it accomplishes this end or not is beside the question. The point is, that, by the vigorous use of our tongues and pens in condemnation of an admitted evil, we have drawn forth a vigorous attempt to get the better of it.”
“But you don’t expect to do away with war altogether?” said Nicholas.
“Certainly not; I am not mad, I am only hopeful. As long as sin reigns in this world we shall have more or less of war, and I don’t expect universal peace until the Prince of Peace reigns. Nevertheless, it is my duty to ‘seek peace,’ and in every way to promote it.”
“Come, now, let us have this matter out,” said Nicholas, lighting a cigar.
“You are as fond of argument as a Scotsman, Nic,” murmured Bella, putting a powerful touch in the foreground of her sketch.
“Suppose, now,” continued Nicholas, “that you had the power to influence nations, what would you suggest instead of war?”
“Arbitration,” said I, promptly; “I would have the nations of Europe to band together and agree never to fight but always to appeal to reason, in the settlement of disputes. I would have them reduce standing armies to the condition of peace establishments—that is, just enough to garrison our strongholds, and be ready to back up our police in keeping ruffians in order. This small army would form a nucleus round which the young men of the nation would rally in the event of unavoidable war.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Nicholas, with a smile of sarcasm, “you would then have us all disarm, beat our swords into reaping-hooks, and melt our bayonets and cannon into pots and pans. A charming idea! Now, suppose there was one of the nations—say Russia or Turkey—that declined to join this peaceful alliance, and, when she saw England in her disarmed condition, took it into her head to pay off old scores, and sent ironclads and thousands of well-trained and well-appointed troops to invade you, what would you do?”
“Defend myself,” said I.
“What! with your peace-nucleus, surrounded by your rabble of untrained young men?”
“Nicholas,” said my mother, in a mild voice, pausing in her work, “you may be as fond of argument as a Scotsman, but you are not quite as fair. You have put into Jeff’s mouth sentiments which he did not express, and made assumptions which his words do not warrant. He made no reference to swords, reaping-hooks, bayonets, cannon, pots or pans, and did not recommend that the young men of nations should remain untrained.”
“Bravo! mother; thank you,” said I, as the dear old creature dropped her mild eyes once more on her work; “you have done me nothing but justice. There is one point, however, on which I and those who are opposed to me coincide exactly; it is this, that the best way to maintain peace is to make yourself thoroughly capable and ready for war.”
“With your peculiar views, that would be rather difficult, I should fancy,” said Nicholas, with a puzzled look.
“You fancy so, because you misunderstand my views,” said I; “besides, I have not yet fully explained them—but here comes one who will explain them better than I can do myself.”
As I spoke a man was seen to approach, with a smart free-and-easy air.
“It is my friend U. Biquitous,” said I, rising and hastening to meet him.
“Ah, Jeff, my boy, glad I’ve found you all together,” cried my friend, wringing my hand and raising his hat to the ladies. “Just come over to say good-bye. I’m engaged again on the Evergreen Isle—same salary and privileges as before—freer scope, if possible, than ever.”
“And where are you going to, Mr Biquitous?” asked my mother.
“To Cyprus, madam,—the land of the—of the—the something or other; not got coached up yet, but you shall have it all in extenso ere long in the Evergreen, with sketches of the scenery and natives. I’ll order a copy to be sent you.”
“Very kind, thank you,” said my mother; “you are fond of travelling, I think?”
“Fond of it!” exclaimed my friend; “yes, but that feebly expresses my sentiments,—I revel in travelling, I am mad about it. To roam over the world, by land and sea, gathering information, recording it, collating it, extending it, condensing it, and publishing it, for the benefit of the readers of the Evergreen Isle, is my chief terrestrial joy.”
“Why, Mr Biquitous,” said Bella, looking up from her drawing, with a slight elevation of the eyebrows, “I thought you were a married man.”
“Ah! Mrs Naranovitsch, I understand your reproofs; but that, madam, I call a celestial joy. Looking into my wife’s blue eyes is what I call star-gazing, and that is a celestial, not a terrestrial, occupation. Next to making the stars twinkle, I take pleasure in travelling—flying through space,—
“Crashing on the railroads,
Skimming on the seas,
Bounding on the mountain-tops,
Battling with the breeze.
Roaming through the forest,
Scampering on the plain,
Never stopping, always going,
Round and round again.”
“How very beautiful,—so poetical!” said Bella.
“So suggestively peaceful,” murmured Nicholas.
“Your own composition?” asked my mother.
“A mere morceau,” replied my friend, modestly, “tossed off to fill up a gap in the Evergreen.”
“You should write poetry,” said I.
“Think so? Well, I’ve had some notion at times, of trying my hand at an ode, or an epic, but, man, I find too many difficulties in the way. As to ‘feet,’ now, I can’t manage feet in poetry. If it were inches or yards, one might get along, but feet are neither one thing nor another. Then, rhyme bothers me. I’ve often to run over every letter in the alphabet to get hold of a rhyme—click, thick, pick, rick, chick, brick—that sort of thing, you know. Sentiment, too, is very troublesome. Either I put too much or too little sentiment into my verses; sometimes they are all sentiment together; not unfrequently they have none at all; or the sentiment is false, which spoils them, you know. Yes, much though I should like to be a poet, I must content myself with prose. Just fancy, now, my attempting a poem on Cyprus! What rhymes with Cyprus? Fyprus, gyprus, highprus, kyprus, lyprus, tryprus, and so on to the end. It’s all the same; nothing will do. No doubt Hook would have managed it; Theodore could do anything in that way, but I can’t.”
“Most unfortunate! But for these difficulties you might have been a second Milton. You leave your wife behind, I suppose,” said Bella, completing her sketch and shutting the book.
“What!” exclaimed my volatile friend, becoming suddenly grave, “leave Blue-eyes behind me! leave the mitigator of my woes, the doubler of my joys, the light of my life behind me! No, Mrs Naranovitsch, Blue-eyes is necessary to my existence; she inspires my pen and corrects my spelling; she lifts my soul, when required, above the petty cares of life, and enables me to take flights of genius, which, without her, were impossible, and you know that flights of genius are required, occasionally, of the correspondent of a weekly—at least of an Irish weekly. Yes, Blue-eyes goes with me. We shall levant together.”
“Are bad puns allowed in the Evergreen?” I asked.
“Not unless excessively bad,” returned my friend; “they won’t tolerate anything lukewarm.”
“Well, now, Biquitous,” said I, “sit down and give Nicholas, who is hard to convince, your opinion as to the mode in which this and other countries ought to prepare for self-defence.”
“In earnest, do you mean?”
“In earnest,” said I.
“Well, then,” said my friend, “if I were in power I would make every man in Great Britain a trained soldier.”
“Humph!” said Nicholas, “that has been tried by other nations without giving satisfaction.”
“But,” continued U. Biquitous, impressively, “I would do so without taking a single man away from his home, or interfering with his duties as a civilian. I would have all the males of the land trained to arms in boyhood—during school-days—at that period of life when boys are best fitted to receive such instruction, when they would ‘go in’ for military drill, as they now go in for foot-ball, cricket, or gymnastics—at that period when they have a good deal of leisure time, when they would regard the thing more as play than work—when their memories are strong and powerfully retentive, and when the principles and practice of military drill would be as thoroughly implanted in them as the power to swim or skate, so that, once acquired, they’d never quite lose it. I speak from experience, for I learned to skate and swim when a boy, and I feel that nothing—no amount of disuse—can ever rob me of these attainments. Still further, in early manhood I joined the great volunteer movement, and, though I have now been out of the force for many years, I know that I could ‘fall in’ and behave tolerably well at a moment’s notice, while a week’s drill would brush me up into as good a soldier as I ever was or am likely to be. Remember, I speak only of rank and file, and the power to carry arms and use them intelligently. I would compel boys to undergo this training, but would make it easy, on doctor’s certificate, or otherwise, for anxious parents to get off the duty, feeling assured that the fraction of trained men thus lost to the nation would be quite insignificant. Afterwards, a few days of drill each year would keep men well up to the mark; and even in regard to this brushing-up drill I would make things very easy, and would readily accept every reasonable excuse for absence, in the firm belief that the willing men would be amply sufficient to maintain our ‘reserve force.’ As to the volunteers, I would encourage them as heretofore, and give them more honour and privileges than they possess at present. Thus would an army be ever ready to spring into being at a day’s notice, and be thoroughly capable of defending hearths and homes in a few weeks.
“For our colonies and our authority at home, I would have a very small, well-paid, and thoroughly efficient standing army, which would form a perfect model in military matters, and a splendid skeleton on which the muscle and sinew of the land might wind itself if invasion threatened. For the rest, I would keep my bayonets and artillery in serviceable condition, and my ‘powder dry.’ If all Europe acted thus, she would be not less ready for war than she is now, and would have all her vigorous men turned into producers instead of consumers, to the immense advantage of the States’ coffers, to the great comfort of the women and children, to the lessening of crime and poverty, and to the general well-being of the world at large.”
“My dear sir,” said Nicholas, with a laugh, “you were born before your time.”
“It may be so,” returned the other, lightly, “nevertheless I will live in the hope of seeing the interests of peace more intelligently advanced than they have been of late; and if the system which I suggest is not found to be the best, I will rejoice to hear of a better, and will do my best to advocate it in the Evergreen Isle. But now I must go; Blue-eyes and Cyprus await me. Farewell.”
U. Biquitous shook hands heartily, and walked rapidly away down the avenue, where he was eventually hidden from our view by a bush of laurel.
To return from this digression.
It is not difficult in these days to “put a girdle round the world.” Ivanka and I soon reached the village of Venilik.
It was a sad spectacle of ruin and desolation, but we found Dobri Petroff and Marika in the old home, which had been partially rebuilt. The blacksmith’s anvil was ringing as merrily as ever when we approached, and his blows appeared to fall as heavily as in days gone by, but I noticed, when he looked up, that his countenance was lined and very sad, while his raven locks were prematurely tinged with grey.
Shall I describe the meeting of Ivanka with her parents? I think not. The imagination is more correct and powerful than the pen in such cases. New life seemed from that moment to be infused into the much-tried pair. Marika had never lost her trust in God through all her woes, and even in her darkest hours had refused to murmur. She had kissed the rod that smote her, and now she praised Him with a strong and joyful heart.
Alas! there were many others in that village, and thousands of others throughout that blood-soaked land, who had no such gleam of sunshine sent into the dark recesses of their woe-worn hearts—poor innocent souls these, who had lost their joy, their possessions, their hope, their all in this life, because of the mad, unreasonable superstition that it is necessary for men at times to arrange their differences by war!
War! what is it? A monster which periodically crushes the energies, desolates the homes, swallows thousands of the young lives, and sweeps away millions of the money of mankind. It bids Christianity stand aside for a time. It legalises wholesale murder and robbery. It affords a safe opportunity to villainy to work its diabolic will, so that some of the fairest scenes of earth are converted into human shambles. It destroys the labour of busy generations, past and present, and saddles heavy national debt on those that are yet unborn. It has been estimated that the national debts of Europe now amount to nearly 3000 millions sterling, more than three-fourths of which have been required for war and warlike preparations, and that about 600 millions are annually taken from the capital and industry of nations for the expense of past, and the preparation for future wars. War tramples gallantry in the dust, leaves women at the mercy of a brutal soldiery, slaughters old men, and tosses babes on bayonet-points. All this it does, and a great deal more, in the way of mischief; what does it accomplish in the way of good? What has mankind gained by the wars of Napoleon the First, which cost, it is said, two million of lives, to say nothing of the maimed-for-life and the bereaved? Will the gain or the loss of Alsace and Lorraine mitigate or increase in any appreciable degree the woe of French and Prussian widows? Will the revenues of these provinces pay for the loss consequent on the stagnation of trade and industry? What has been gained by the Crimean war, which cost us thousands of lives and millions in money? Nothing whatever! The treaties which were to secure what had been gained have been violated, and the empire for which we fought has been finally crushed.
When waged in self-defence war is a sad, a horrible necessity. When entered into with a view to national aggrandisement, or for an idea, it is the greatest of crimes. The man who creeps into your house at night, and cuts your throat while you are asleep in bed, is a sneaking monster, but the man who sits “at home at ease,” safe from the tremendous “dogs” which he is about to let loose, and, with diplomatic pen, signs away the peace of society and the lives of multitudes without serious cause, is a callous monster. Of the two the sneak is the less objectionable, because less destructive.
During this visit to Venilik, I spent some time in renewing my inquiries as to the fate of my yacht’s crew, but without success, and I was forced to the sad conclusion that they must either have been drowned or captured, and, it may be, killed after reaching the land. Long afterwards, however, I heard it rumoured that Mr Whitlaw had escaped and returned to his native country. There is, therefore, some reason to hope that that sturdy and true-hearted American still lives to relate, among his other stirring narratives, an account of that memorable night when he was torpedoed on the Danube.
Before finally bidding adieu to the Petroff family, I had many a talk with Dobri on the subject of war as we wandered sadly about the ruined village. The signs of the fearful hurricane by which it had been swept were still fresh upon it, and when I looked on the burnt homesteads, the trampled crops, and neglected fields, the crowds of new-made graves, the curs that quarrelled over unburied human bones, the blood-stained walls and door-posts, the wan, almost bloodless, faces of the few who had escaped the wrath of man, and reflected that all this had been brought about by a “Christian” nation, fighting in the interests of the Prince of Peace, I could not help the fervent utterance of the prayer: “O God, scatter thou the people that delight in war!”