I presume that I need scarcely inform my reader that, notwithstanding
the predicament in which a preceding chapter left me, and the tenor of
that paragraph which caused such consternation among my warm-hearted
Welsh friends at Craigaderyn, I was _not_ drowned in the Black Sea,
though my dip in the waters thereof was both a cold and deep one. Such
fellows as I, are, perhaps, hard to kill--at least, I hope so. On
rising to the surface, I found myself minus forage-cap, sword, and
revolver, and also my horse, which, being sorely wounded, floated away
out of the creek into which we had fallen (or been hurled by the
Cossack lances), and the poor animal was helplessly drowned, without
making any attempt to swim landward. This was, perhaps, fortunate for
me, as the Cossacks saw it drifting in the moonlight, and continued to
fire at it with their carbines, leaving me to scramble quietly ashore
unnoticed and unseen.
My swimming powers are very small; thus, when just about to sink a
second time, I was fortunate enough to grasp some sturdy juniper
bushes, that grew among the rocks and overhung the water. Aided by
these I gained footing on a ledge in safety, and remained there for a
few minutes, scarcely venturing to breathe, until all sounds ceased on
the cliffs above, and the flashing of the Cossacks' carbines, and
their wild hurrahs died away; and the moment I was assured of silence,
I proceeded steadily, but not without great difficulty, to climb to
the summit of the opposite side of the creek, my recently fractured
arm feeling stiff and feeble the while, three lance-prods bleeding
pretty freely, and my undress uniform wet, sodden, and becoming
powdered fast by the still falling flakes of snow. Even amid all that
bodily misery I thought more sorrowfully than bitterly of her I had
lost.
"Estelle gone from me, a terrible death before me, either by capture
or privation," thought I. "What have I done, O God, to be dealt with
thus hardly?"
Even mortification that I had failed in the execution of my once
coveted duty, existed no longer in my heart, at that time at least. At
last I gained the summit; the uprisen moon was shining on the
far-stretching Euxine, and casting a path of glittering splendour on
its waters, even to the foot of the cliffs on which I stood. On the
other side, to my comfort, the scouting Cossacks had entirely
disappeared. That Count Volhonski, once my pleasant companion in
Germany, and in whose way, coincidence and chance had so often cast
me, should have fallen by my hand, was certainly a source of deep
regret to me; but for a time only; a sense of my own pressing danger
soon became paramount to all minor considerations. Exposure to the
keen wind from the sea on ground so lofty, the night having closed in,
and the snow flakes falling, all rendered shelter, warmth, and dry
clothing, with dressing for the lance-thrusts, most necessary, if I
would save my life; and yet in seeking to obtain these, I ran the most
imminent risk of summarily losing it.
I was, I knew, far in rear of the advanced line of all the Russian
posts, and was certain to fall, alive or dead, into their hands at
some time or other; so drawing Lord Raglan's despatch to Marshal
Canrobert from my breast-pocket--a piece of wet pulpy paper--I
destroyed and cast it away; an unwise proceeding, perhaps, as it was
the only credential I possessed to prove that I was not a--spy, but
simply an officer on duty, who had lost his way. The cliffs of marble
that bordered the shore were silent and lonely. The tall mountains of
the Yaila range, their sides bristling with sombre pines and rent by
old volcanic throes into deep chasms and rugged ravines of rock, rose
on my left; a little Tartar village, the feeble lights of which I
could discern, nestled at their base about a mile distant. Should I
endeavour to reach it, and risk or lose all at once? By this time I
had struck upon a path which soon led to a roadway between vineyard
walls, and ere long these were replaced by what appeared to be the
trees of a park, between the branches of which the moon and the stars
shone on the slanting snow-flakes and turned them to diamonds and
prisms. In summer, the cypress and olive, the pomegranate and laurel
trees, the quince and the Byzantine poplar, made all that road lovely.
Then it was dreary enough, especially to me. Anon I came to a stately
gate of elaborate cast-iron work, between two ornate pillars of the
native red-and-white marble, surmounted each by some heraldic design.
It stood invitingly open; the track of recent carriage-wheels lay
there; and beyond the now white sheet of snow that covered a spacious
park, there towered a handsome mansion, in that quaint and almost
barbaric style of architecture peculiar to the châteaux of the Crimea,
half Russian, half Turkish, with four domes, shaped like inverted
onions, but of clearly-burnished copper, surmounting four slender
tourelles, and under the broad cornices of which the pigeons--the holy
birds of Muscovy--were clustered in cooing rows. In front was a pretty
porch, under the open arches of which hung a large coloured lamp;
while many lights, all suggestive of heat and comfort, were gleaming
through the rich hangings of the windows on the snowy waste without.
It was evidently the country residence of some wealthy Russian
landholder, and there I felt more certain and safe in seeking shelter
than among the wood-cutting boors or Tartar herdsmen of the village;
yet my heart had more misgivings than hope as I approached it.
If the Russians, even in time of peace, are ever suspicious of
strangers, how was I likely to be received there in time of war?
Should I fall among good Samaritans, kindly perhaps; if otherwise, I
might be accused of spying in an enemy's country, be hanged, shot,
knouted perhaps, and sent to Siberia, for my horrible surmises were
endless. But to remain where I was would be to die; so I boldly
approached, not the door, but a lower window that overlooked a
balustraded terrace on which a flood of light from within was falling.
Between hangings of pale blue satin laced with silver, and through the
double sashes of the windows, which were ornamented with false flowers
in the old Russian fashion, I perceived a handsome and lofty
apartment, the furniture of which was singularly elaborate and florid.
It seemed, with its drapery, sofas, fauteuils, statuettes under glass
shades, and its pretty watercolours hung on the wall, to be a tiny
drawing-room or ladies' boudoir; but on one side, built into the
partition and forming a part thereof, were the stone ribs of a
_peitchka_ or Russian stove, faced with brilliantly-coloured
porcelain. Through 'these ribs the light of a cheerful fire shone
across the softly carpeted floor; and above the stove was an _eikon_,
or Byzantine Madonna, with a bright metal halo like a gilt horseshoe
round the head; a little silver lamp hung before it. From this a tiny
jet of flame shot upward, while a golden tassel dangled below.
In the foreground, between the window and the glowing wall-stove at a
table littered with books and needlework, were seated two ladies in
easy-chairs, their feet resting on tabourettes, as they cosily read by
the softened light of a great shaded lamp. One seemed young; the other
somewhat portly and advanced in years; and she wore a red
_sarafan_--the ancient Russian dress--a readoption about that time,
when our invasion of the Crimea acted as a powerful and angry
stimulant to the national enthusiasm of the whole empire; and at that
precise moment, I should have preferred to find this noble matron--for
such I had no doubt she was--in some dress nearer the Parisian mode.
However, in my then predicament I felt more disposed to trust to the
protection of women than of men, and so knocked gently, and then more
loudly, on the window. Both ladies started, laid down their books, and
rose. The double sashes and the false flowers placed between them
rendered my figure indistinct, if not invisible. They conferred for a
moment, and then, most fortunately for me, instead of summoning
assistance by furiously ringing the bell, or indulging in outcries, as
some ladies might have done in a land of well-ordered police, the
younger drew out a drawer, in which probably pistols lay; while the
elder boldly unclasped the sashes, threw them open, and then both
surveyed me with perplexity and with something of pity, too, as I was
bareheaded, unarmed, deadly pale, and covered with snow that in some
places was streaked with blood. The elderly lady, a keen-looking
woman, evidently with a dash of the nomadic Tartar in her blood, asked
me rather imperiously some questions in Russian--that language which
Golovine so rightly says "is altogether inaccessible to foreigners;"
but the other added, in softer French,
"Who are you, and from whence do you come?"
I replied that I was a British officer from the army before
Sebastopol, wounded and unhorsed in a recent skirmish with Cossacks;
that I had lost my way, and was literally perishing of cold, hunger,
and loss of blood.
"How come you to be here, as you have no troops in this quarter?"
asked the young lady, to my surprise and pleasure, in English, which
she spoke fluently, but with a pretty foreign accent.
"I lost my way, I have said, and being pursued have ridden far in a
wrong direction."
"Far, indeed, from Sebastopol at least; do you know where you are,
sir?"
"No."
"This is Prince Woronzow's castle of Yalta."
"Yalta!"
"On the shore of the Black Sea," she added, smiling brightly at my
surprise.
"Then I am more than thirty miles in _rear_ of the Russian posts in
the valley of Inkermann!"
"Yes; and as a soldier, must know that you are in great danger of the
darkest suspicions if you are taken."
"I am aware of that," said I, faintly, as a giddiness came over me,
and I leaned against the open sash of the window; "but I care not what
happens."
The elder lady, who had a son with the army in Sebastopol, now said
something energetically, and in my favour apparently, and the other
added, softly and kindly, "Enter, sir, and we shall succour you."
The closed sashes excluded the icy air, I felt myself within the warm
influence of the peitchka, and then the three smarting lance-wounds
began to bleed afresh.
"Madame Tolstoff," said the younger lady, in French, "we must act
warily here, if we would prevent this poor fellow becoming a prisoner
of war, or worse. Bring here old Ivan Yourivitch the _dvornik_."
This was the butler, but it also signifies "servant."
"Can you trust him in this matter?"
"In any matter, implicitly. His wife nursed me and my brother too.
There is a perilous romance in all this, and to his care I shall
consign our unfortunate visitor, who does seem in a very bad way."
After a little explanation and some stringent directions, she confided
me to a white-headed butler, who wore a livery that looked like
semi-uniform, and he took me to his own rooms. He jabbered a great
deal in Russ, of which I knew not a word, but first he gave me a large
goblet of golden Crimskoi, the wine of the district. Then he exchanged
all my wet and sodden clothing for a suit which he selected from among
many in a large wardrobe: a caftan of dark green cloth, tied at the
waist by a scarlet sash; trousers also of dark green, with boots that
came half way up the calf of the leg. Under all I wore a soft red
shirt; and this attire I afterwards learned was the most thoroughly
national costume in Russia, being that of the Rifle Militia of the
Crown peasants--one worn by the Emperor himself on certain gala-days.
This old man, Ivan Yourivitch, also dressed tenderly the three
lance-prods, and though giddy and weak, I felt unusually comfortable
when he led me back to the presence of the two ladies, of whose names
and rank I was quite ignorant, while shrewdly suspecting that both
must be noble. Their mansion was evidently one of great magnificence,
and exhibited all that luxury in which the wealthier Russian nobles
are wont to indulge, displaying the extravagance and splendour of
petty monarchs. I saw there a broad staircase of Carrara marble, and
lackeys flitting about in the powdered wigs and liveries of the old
French court; apartments with tessellated floors and roofs of fretted
gold; furniture in ormolu and mother-of-pearl; hangings of silk and
cloth-of-gold; and in that castle of Yalta were ball, and card, and
tea rooms; a library, picture-gallery, and billiard-room; and
everywhere the aroma of exotic plants and perfumes; so I began to
flatter myself that I was quite as lucky as the Lieutenant of H.M.S.
Tiger, when _he_ fell into the hands of the Russians at Odessa in the
preceding May, and whose adventures made such a noise. When I rejoined
the ladies, they both laughed merrily at the rapid transformation
effected in my appearance; and the younger saying, "My brother's
shooting-clothes suit you exactly," relinquished her book, which, with
some surprise, I detected to be a Tauchnitz edition of "_Oliver
Twist!_"
"In stumbling upon us here," she added, with great sweetness of
manner, "how fortunate it is that you lighted first on Madame Tolstoff
and myself, instead of any of our Tartar or Cossack servants!"
"Fortunate indeed! I may truly bless my stars that I have fallen into
such gentle hands."
"All Russians are not the barbarians you islanders deem them; yet you
deserve a heavier punishment than we shall mete out to you, for
venturing hither to fight against holy Russia and our father the
Czar."
"May I ask if I have the honour of addressing any of the family of
Prince Woronzow!"
"O, no!" she replied. "Madame Tolstoff's son is serving in Sebastopol;
my brother serves there also; and the kind Prince has merely given us
the use of this mansion, as he has done the more regal one at Alupka
to other ladies similarly situated; and now that you know our secret,"
she added, archly, "pray what is yours?"
"Secret!--I have none."
"You were not--well, reconnoitring?"
I coloured, feeling certain that she had substituted that word for one
less pleasant to military ears.
"No, madam: while seeking to convey a despatch from Lord Raglan to
Marshal Canrobert I lost my way, fell among Cossacks, and am here."
"When my brother arrives--we expect him ere long--we shall be
compelled to confide you to his care; meantime you are safe, and here
are refreshments, of which you seem sorely in need; and for greater
secrecy, Ivan Yourivitch will serve you here."
"Who the deuce can this brother be of whom she talks so much, and
where can she have acquired such capital English?" were my surmises as
I seated myself at a side-table, and, with old Ivan standing towel in
hand at my back, fell _à la Cosaque_, on the good things before me,
with an appetite unimpaired by all that I had undergone. To the elder
lady's horror, I omitted previously to cross myself or turn towards
the _eikon_; but fragrant coffee made as only Orientals and
Continentals can make it, golden honey from the hills and woods of
Yaila, newly-laid eggs, salmon fresh from the Salghir, boar's ham from
the forests of Kaffa, and wine from Achmetchet, made a repast fit for
the gods--then how much so for a long-famished Briton! While I partook
of it the ladies conversed together in a low voice in Russian, seeming
to ignore my presence; for though full of natural female curiosity and
impatience to question me, they were too well-bred to trouble me just
then. Those who have starved as we starved in the Crimea can alone
relish and test the comforts of a good meal. You must sleep--or
doze--amid the half-frozen mud and ooze of the trenches, or in a cold
draughty tent, to know the actual luxury of clean sheets, a soft bed,
and cosy pillows. Hence it is, that though accustomed to "rough it" in
any fashion and degree, no one so keenly appreciates the warmth, the
food, and the genuine comforts of home as the old campaigner, or the
weather-worn seaman, who has perhaps doubled "the Horn," and known
what it is to hand a half-frozen topsail in a tempestuous night, with
his nails half torn out by the roots, as he lay out to windward. Yet
when I found myself in quarters so comfortable, hospitable, and
splendid, I could not but think regretfully of the regiment, of Phil
Caradoc, of Charley Gwynne, and others who were literally starving
before the enemy--starving and dying of cold and of hunger!