The weird prologue of the drama was enacted some years ago, yet time,
alas! does not obliterate it from my memory.
To the hail of bullets, the whistling of shells, the fitful flash of
powder, and the thunder of guns I had grown callous. During the months
I had been in Servia and Bulgaria watching and describing the terrible
struggle between Turkey and Russia, I had grown world-weary, careless of
everything, even of life. I had been present at the relief of Kars, had
witnessed the wholesale slaughter in various parts of the Ottoman
Empire, and was now attached to the Russian forces bombarding Plevna.
Those who have never experienced actual warfare cannot imagine how
terrible are the horrors of life at the front.
Picture for a moment a great multitude of men whose sole occupation is
slaughter--some with smoke-blackened faces toiling in the earthworks,
discharging their heavy field-pieces which day and night dispatch their
death-dealing missiles into the shattered town yonder, while hordes of
Cossacks and Russian grenadiers engage the enemy at every point; the
rattle of musketry and artillery is deafening, the rain of bullets
incessant, and on every side is suffering and death. And you are a
war-correspondent, a spectator, a non-combatant! You have travelled
across Europe to witness this frightful carnage, and paint word-pictures
of it for the folk at home. At any moment a stray bullet might end your
existence; nevertheless, you must not be fatigued, for after the toil of
the day your work commences, and you must find a quiet corner where you
can write a column of description for transmission to Fleet Street.
Such were the circumstances in which I was placed when, after a six
months' absence from England, I found myself before Plevna. The brief
December day was drawing to a close as I stood, revolver in hand, near
one of the great guns that at regular intervals thundered forth in
chorus with the others. I was in conversation with Captain
Alexandrovitch, a smart young officer with whom I was on very friendly
terms, and we were watching through our field-glasses the effect of our
fire upon the town.
"Now my lads," the captain shouted in Russian, to the men working the
gun. "Let us test our accuracy. See! one of Osman's officers has just
appeared on the small redoubt yonder to encourage his men. There is a
good target. See!"
Scarcely had he spoken when the men sprang back, the great gun belched
forth flame, and the shell, striking the enemy's fortification, took
part of it away, blowing the unfortunate Turkish officer into fragments.
Such are the fortunes of war!
"Good!" exclaimed Alexandrovitch, laughing; as, turning to me, he added,
"If we continue like this, we shall silence the redoubts before
to-morrow. How suicidal of Osman Pasha to imagine his handful of lean,
hungry dogs capable of defence against the army of the Great White Tzar.
Bah! We shall--"
The sentence was left unfinished, for a bullet whistled close to me, and
a second later he threw up his hands, and, uttering a loud cry of pain,
staggered and fell, severely wounded in the side.
Our ambulance and medical staff was on that day very disorganised, so,
instead of conveying him to the field hospital, they carried him into my
tent, close by.
Night fell, and for hours I knelt beside him, trying to alleviate his
agony. The surgeon had dressed the wound, and the officer lay writhing
and groaning, while by the meagre light of an evil-smelling oil-lamp I
scribbled my dispatch. At last the wounded man became quieter, and
presently slept; while I, jaded and worn, wrapped my blanket about me,
placed my revolver under my saddle, and lay down to snatch an hour's
repose.
How long I slept I scarcely know; but I was awakened by a strange
rustling.
The flap of the tent was open, and I saw against the faint grey
glimmering of the wintry morning's struggling dawn a figure stealthily
bending over the wounded man who lay asleep at my side.
The intruder wore the heavy greatcoat and round cap of a Cossack
officer, and was evidently searching my comrade's pockets.
"Who are you? What do you want?" I cried in Russian, clutching my
revolver.
The man started, withdrew his hand, and stood upright, looking down upon
me. For a moment I fixed my eyes upon the statuesque figure, and gazed
at him amazed. I am not by any means a nervous man, but there was
something weird about the fellow's appearance.
Whether it was due to the suddenness with which I had discovered him, or
whether some peculiar phenomenon was caused by his presence, I was
unable to determine.
I remember asking myself if I were really awake, and becoming convinced
that I was in possession of all my faculties.
"Speak!" I said sternly. "Speak--or I'll fire!"
Raising the weapon, I waited for a moment.
The figure remained motionless, facing the muzzle of the pistol
unflinchingly.
Again I repeated my challenge. There was, however, no reply.