In the rifle-pits many of our men lay dead or dying, and a few paces
beyond them brought me among Russians in the same pitiable condition.
One, who had been shot through the chest, lay on his back, half in and
half out of his lurking hole; his eyes were glazing, bubbles of blood
and froth were oozing through his thick black moustaches, which were
matted by the cartridges he had bitten. Another was shot through the
lungs, and his breath seemed to come with a wheezing sound through the
orifice.
There, too, lay the luckless Russian "potted" by Hugh Price. He was
one of the imperial 26th, for that number was on his shoulder-straps.
On his breast were several copper medals. Others who were able, taking
advantage of the cessation of hostilities, were crawling away on their
hands or knees towards the town or trenches, in search of water, of
succour, and of some kind friend to bind their wounds; and encouraged
by the lull in the firing, the little birds were twittering about
those ghastly pits in search of biscuit-crumbs or other food.
The ground was studded thickly with rusty fragments of exploded
shells, nails, bottles, grape and canister shot; other places were
furrowed up, or almost paved with half-buried cannon-balls of every
calibre; and here and there, in the crater made by a mine, lay a
forgotten corpse in sodden uniform, gray faced with red; and yet
singularly enough, amid these horrors, there were springing through
the fertile earth many aromatic shrubs, and a vast number of the
_colchicum autumnale_, a beautiful blue crocus-like flower, with which
the Crimea abounds.
The Russian drum, hoarse, wooden, and ill-braced, again sounded, and
mine replied; then we saw an officer coming towards us from the
entanglements of the abattis, with his sword sheathed and waving a
white handkerchief. He was a tall grim-looking man, of what rank I
could not determine, as all the enemy's officers in the field, from
the general down to the last-joined praperchick, or ensign, wore long,
ungraceful greatcoats of brownish gray cloth, having simply facings
and shoulder-straps. He carried a wooden canteen and an old battered
telescope, worn crosswise by two leather straps, and had several
silver medals, won doubtless in battle against Schamyl in Circassia.
It is a common belief in England that every Russian gentleman speaks
French; but though he may do so better than another foreigner--for he
who can pronounce Muscovite "words of ten or twelve consonants apiece"
may well speak anything--it is chiefly the language of the court and
of diplomacy; and in this instance, when, after saluting each other
profoundly, and eyeing each other with stern scrutiny, I addressed the
officer in the language of our allies, he replied in German, which I
knew very imperfectly.
I made him understand, however, that my message was for the officer in
command of the left bastion.
He replied, that to be taken into Sebastopol, or even to be led
nearer, required that the eyes of myself and the drummer should be
blindfolded, to which I assented; and he proceeded carefully to muffle
Dicky Roll and me in such a manner as to place us in utter darkness.
He then gave me his arm, I took the drummer by the hand, and in this
grotesque fashion, which excited some laughter in the trenches, the
trio proceeded, stumbling and awkwardly, towards the city.
I heard the increasing buzz of many voices around us, the unbarring of
a heavy wicket, the clatter of musket-butts on the pavement, and
occasionally a hoarse order or word of command issued in what seemed
the language of necromancy. Caissons, and wagons heavily laden,
rattled along the streets; I felt that I was _inside_ Sebastopol; but
dared not without permission unbind my eyes, save at the risk of being
run through the body by this fellow in the long coat, or made a
prisoner of war, and despatched towards Perecop with my hands tied to
the mane of a Cossack pony.
The sensation and the conviction were most tantalising; but I was
compelled to submit, and knew that we were proceeding through the
thoroughfares of that place towards which I had daily turned my
field-glass with the most intense curiosity, and which we knew to be
one vast garrison rather than a town, with whole streets of barracks,
arsenals, and government houses.
A change of sounds and of atmosphere warned me that we were within
doors. My guide withdrew the bandages, and then Dicky and I looked
around us, dazzled with light, after being in darkness for nearly half
an hour. I was in a large whitewashed room, plainly furnished,
uncarpeted, heated by a stove of stone in one corner, with an _eikon_
in another. On the table of polished deal lay some books, a copy or
two of the _Invalide Russe_, the _Moskauer Zeitung_, Panaeff's
_Russian Snobs_, the vernacular for that familiar word being
_khlishch_. On the walls hung maps and documents--orders of the day,
perhaps--in Russian.
Through the two large windows, which we were warned not to approach, I
obtained a glimpse of the hill on which the residence of Prince
Menschikoff was situated. On one side I saw that the streets ran in
parallel lines down to the water edge; on the other to where the new
naval arsenals lay, in the old Tartar town which was known by the name
of Achtiare in the days of Thomas Mackenzie, the Scoto-Russian admiral
who first created Sebastopol, and whose _khutor_, farm or forest for
producing masts, excited so much speculation among our Highland
Brigade. Everywhere I saw great cannon bristling, all painted
pea-green, with a white cross on the breech.
The jingle of spurs caused me to turn, and Dicky to lift his hand to
his cap in salute. We saw a tall and handsome Russian officer, of
imposing appearance, enter the room. His eyes were dark, yet sharp and
keen in expression; he had black strongly-marked eyebrows and an
aquiline nose, with a complexion as clear as a woman's, a pretty ample
beard, and close-shorn hair. He, too, wore the inevitable greatcoat;
but it was open in this instance, and I could see the richly-laced
green uniform and curious flat silver epaulettes of the Vladimir
Regiment, with the usual number of medals and crosses, for all the
armies of Nicholas were well decorated. He bowed with great courtesy,
and said in French,
"You have, I understand, a message for me from my Lord Raglan?"
I bowed.
"Before I listen to it you must have some refreshment; your drummer
can wait outside."
I bowed again. A soldier-servant placed on the table decanters of
Crimskoi wine, with a silver salver of biscuits and pastilla, or
little cakes made of fruit and honey; and of these I was not loath to
partake, while the soldier in attendance led away Dicky Roll, who eyed
me wistfully, and said, as he went out,
"For God's sake don't forget me, Captain Hardinge; I don't like the
look of them long-coated beggars at all."
I was somewhat of Dicky's opinion; and being anxious enough to get
back to the trenches, stated briefly my message.
"You have, I fear, come on a bootless errand," replied the Russian,
"as no officer of your army was, to my knowledge, either killed or
taken by us on the night in question; though certainly a man may
easily be hit in the dark, and crawl away to some nook or corner, and
there die and lie unseen. But the Pulkovnick Ochterlony, who keeps the
list of prisoners, will be the best person to afford you information
on the matter. Remain with me, and assist yourself to the Crimskoi,
while I despatch a message to him."
He drew a glazed card from an embossed case, and pencilling a
memorandum thereon, sent his orderly with it, while we seated
ourselves, entered into conversation, and pushed the decanter
fraternally to and fro.
"I have just come from hearing the Bishop of Sebastopol preach in the
great church to all the garrison off duty," said he, laughing; "and he
has been promising us great things--honour in this world, and glory in
the next--if we succeed in driving you all into the Euxine."
"There are plenty of opportunities afforded here of going to heaven."
"A good many, too, of going the other way; however, I must not tell
you all, or even a part, of what the bishop said. He did all that
eloquence could do to fire the religious enthusiasm--superstition, if
you will--of our soldiers and his language was burning."
"Then you are on the eve of another sortie," said I, unwarily.
"I have not said so," he replied, abruptly, while his eyes gleamed,
and handing me his silver cigar-case, on which was engraved a coronet,
we lapsed into silence.
The sermon he referred to was that most remarkable one preached on the
evening of Saturday, the 4th of November, before one of the most
memorable events of the war. In that discourse, this Russian-Greek
bishop, with his coronal mitre on his head, glittering with precious
gems, a crozier whilom borne by St. Sergius in his hand, his silver
beard floating to his girdle over magnificent vestments, stood on the
altar-steps of the great church, and assured the masses of armed men
who thronged it to the portal that the blessing of God was upon their
forthcoming enterprise and the defence of the city; that crowns of
eternal glory awaited all those martyrs who fell in battle against the
heretical French and the island curs who had dared to levy war on holy
Russia and their father the Emperor.
He told them that the English were monsters of cruelty, who tortured
their prisoners, committing unheard-of barbarities on all who fell
into their hands; that "they were bloodthirsty and abominable
heretics, whose extermination was the solemn duty of all who wished to
win the favour of God and of the Emperor." He farther assured them
that the British camp contained enormous treasures--the spoil of
India, vessels of silver and gold, sacks and casks filled with
precious stones--one-third of which was to become the property of the
victors; and he conjured them, by the memory of Michael and Feodor,
who sealed their belief in Christ with their blood, before the savage
Batu-Khan, by the black flag unfurled by Demetri Donskoi when he
marched against Mamai the Tartar, "by the forty times forty churches
of Moscow the holy," and the memory of the French retreat from it, to
stand firm and fail not; and a hoarse and prayerful murmur of assent
responded to him.
My present host was too well-bred to tell all he had just heard,
whether he believed it or not. After a pause, "If another sortie is
made," said I, "the slaughter will be frightful."
"Bah!" replied he, cynically, while tipping the white ashes from his
cigar, "a few thousands are not missed among the millions of Russia; I
presume we only get rid of those who are unnecessary in the general
scheme of creation."
"Peasants and serfs, I suppose?"
"Well, perhaps so--peasants and serfs, as you islanders suppose all
our people to be."
"Nay, as you Russians deem them."
"We shall not dispute the matter, please," said he, coldly; and now,
as I sat looking at him, a memory of his face and voice came over me.
"Count Volhonski!" I exclaimed, "have you quite forgotten me and the
duel with the Prussian at Altona?"
He started and took his cigar from his mouth.
"The Hospodeen Hardinge!" said he, grasping my hand with honest
warmth; "I must have been blind not to recognise you; but I never
before saw you in your scarlet uniform."
"It is more purple than scarlet now, Count."
"Well, our own finery is not much to boast of, though we are in a
city, and you are under canvas. But how does the atmosphere of Crim
Tartary agree with you?" he asked, laughing.
"A little too much gunpowder in it, perhaps."
"I am sorry, indeed, to find that you and I are enemies, after those
pleasant days spent in Hamburg and Altona; but when we last parted in
Denmark--you remember our mutual flight across the frontier--you were
but a subaltern, a praperchick, a sub-lieutenant, I think."
"I am a captain now."
"Ah--the Alma did that, I presume."
"Exactly."
"You will have plenty of promotion in your army, I expect, ere this
war is ended. You shall all be promoted in heaven, I hope, ere holy
Russia is vanquished."
"Well, Count, and you--"
"I am now Pulkovnick of the Vladimir Infantry."
"Did the Alma do that?"
"No; the Grand-Duchess Olga, to whom the regiment belongs, promoted me
from the Guards, as a reward for restoring her glove, which she
dropped one evening at a masked ball given in the hall of St. Vladimir
by the Emperor; so my rank was easily won."
A knock rang on the door; spurs and a steel scabbard clattered on the
floor, and then entered a stately old officer in the splendid uniform
of the Infantry of the Guard, the gilded plate on his high and
peculiarly-shaped cap bearing the perforation of more than one bullet,
and his breast being scarcely broad enough for all the orders that
covered it. He bowed to Volhonski, and saluted me with his right hand,
in which he carried a bundle of documents like lists. The Count
introduced him as "the Pulkovnick Ochterlony, commanding the
Ochterlony Battalion of the Imperial Guard." He was not at all like a
Russian, having clear gray eyes and a straight nose, and still less
like one did he seem when he addressed me in almost pure English.
"I have," said he, "gone over all the lists of officers of the Allies
now prisoners in Sebastopol, or taken since the siege and sent towards
Yekaterinoslav, and can find among them no such name as that of Major
MacG--, of the 93rd Regiment of Scottish Highlanders. If traces of him
are found, dead or alive, a message to that effect shall at once be
sent to my Lord Raglan."
"I thank you, sir," said I, rising and regarding him curiously; "you
speak very pure English for a Russian!"
"I am a Russian by birth and breeding only; in blood and race I am a
countryman of your own."
"Indeed!" said I, coldly and haughtily, "how comes it to pass that an
Englishman--"
"Excuse me, sir," said he, with a manner quite as haughty as my own,
"I did not say that I was an Englishman; but as we have no time to
make explanations on the subject, let us have together a glass of
Crimskoi, and part, for the time, friends."
His manner was so suave, his bearing so stately, and his tone so
conciliating--moreover his age seemed so great--that I clinked my
glass with his, and withdrew with Volhonski, who, sooth to say, seemed
exceedingly loath to part with me.
"Who the deuce is that officer?" I asked.
"I introduced him to you by name. He is the colonel of the Ochterlony
Battalion of the Guard, which was raised by his father, one of the
many Scottish soldiers of fortune who served the Empress Catharine;
and the man is Russian to the core in all save blood, which he cannot
help; but here is the gate, and you must be again blinded by Tolstoff.
Adieu! May our next meeting be equally pleasant and propitious!"
As we separated, there burst from the soldiery who thronged near the
gates a roar of hatred and execration, excited doubtless by the
bishop's harangue; and poor Dicky Roll shrunk close to my side as we
passed out. The ancient Scoto-Muscovite, I afterwards learned, was
styled Ochterlony of Guynde, the soldiers of whose regiment had
enjoyed from his father's time the peculiar privilege of retaining and
wearing their old cap-plates, so long as a scrap of the brass
remained, if they had once been perforated by a shot in action; and it
is known that this identical old officer--who had some three or four
nephews in the Russian Guards--had been visiting his paternal place of
Guynde, in Forfarshire, but a few months before the war broke out.
In a few minutes more, Dicky Roll and I found ourselves, with our eyes
unbandaged, once more in that pleasant locality midway between the
abattis and the trenches, towards which we made our way in all haste,
that I might report the issue of my mission concerning the Scotch
major, who, as events proved, was found alive and unhurt, luckily; and
the moment my white flag disappeared among the gabions--where all
crowded round me for news, and where I became the hero of an
hour--again the firing was resumed on both sides with all its former
fury, and the old game went on--shot and shell, dust, the crash of
stones and fascines, thirst, hunger, slaughter, and mutilation. That
the Russians had some great essay _in petto_, the words of Volhonski
left us no doubt, nor were we long kept in ignorance of what was
impending over us.