IN WHICH LANCEY IS TRIED, SUSPECTED, BLOWN UP, CAPTURED, HALF-HANGED,
DELIVERED, AND ASTONISHED.
We must turn now to poor Lancey, from whom I parted in the waters of the
Danube, but with whose fate and doings I did not become acquainted until
long afterwards.
As I had anticipated, he missed the vessel of the Turkish flotilla
towards which he had struck out, but fortunately succeeded in grappling
the chain cable of that which lay next to it, and the crew of which, as
the reader will recollect, I had roused by a shout in passing.
Lancey soon let the Turks know where he was. A boat being lowered, he
was taken on board, but it was clear to him that he was regarded with
much suspicion. They hurried him before the officer in charge of the
deck, who questioned him closely. The poor fellow now found that his
knowledge of the Turkish language was much slighter than, in the pride
of his heart, while studying with me, he had imagined. Not only did he
fail to understand what was said to him, but the dropping of h's and the
introduction of r's in wrong places rendered his own efforts at reply
abortive. In these circumstances one of the sailors who professed to
talk English was sent for.
This man, a fine stalwart Turk, with a bushy black beard, began his
duties as interpreter with the question--
"Hoosyoo?"
"Eh? say that again," said Lancey, with a perplexed look.
"Hoosyoo?" repeated the Moslem, with emphasis.
"Hoosyoo," repeated Lancey slowly. "Oh, I see," (with a smile of sudden
intelligence,) "who's you? Just so. I'm Jacob Lancey, groom in the
family of Mrs Jeff Childers, of Fagend, in the county of Devonshire,
England."
This having been outrageously misunderstood by the Turk, and
misinterpreted to the officer, the next question was--
"Wessyoocumfro?"
"Wessyoocumfro?"
Again Lancey repeated the word, and once more, with a smile of sudden
intelligence, exclaimed, "Ah, I see: w'ere's you come from? Well, I
last come from the water, 'avin' previously got into it through the
hupsettin' of our boat."
Lancey hereupon detailed the incident which had left him and me
struggling in the water, but the little that was understood by the Turks
was evidently not believed; and no wonder, for by that time the Russians
had been laying down torpedoes in all directions about the Danube, to
prevent the enemy from interfering with their labours at the pontoon
bridges. The Turkish sailors were thus rendered suspicious of every
unusual circumstance that came under their notice. When, therefore, a
big, powerful, and rather odd-looking man was found clinging to one of
their cables, they at once set him down as an unsuccessful torpedoist,
and a careful search was instantly made round the vessel as a
precaution.
Meanwhile Lancey was led rather roughly down to the cabin to be
questioned by the captain.
The cabin, although very luxurious in its fittings, was not so richly
ornate as had been anticipated by the English groom, whose conceptions
of everything had been derived from the Arabian Nights' Entertainments,
or rather from a fanciful imagination fed by that romantic work. The
appearance of the Turkish captain, however, and the brightly-coloured
costume of an officer who sat by his side, were sufficiently striking
and Oriental.
On Lancey being placed before him, the captain turned and said a few
words to the officer at his side, who was a splendid fellow, in the
prime of life, with a square bony frame and red beard, which harmonised,
if it did not contrast, with his scarlet fez and blue tassel. A rich
Eastern shawl encircled his waist, from the folds of which peeped the
handles of a brace of pistols.
He looked at the dripping Englishman earnestly and sternly for a few
moments, and the slightest tinge of a smile lighted his grave
countenance as he said in broken, but sufficiently fluent English--
"The captin do want you to repeat vat you have say on deck."
Lancey repeated it, with a considerable number of additions, but no
variations.
After translating it all, and listening to something in reply, the
officer turned again to Lancey.
"The captin," he said, with quiet gravity, "bids me tell to you that you
is a liar."
Lancey flushed deeply. "I would tell _you_," he said, with a frown, "to
tell the captain that 'e's another, on'y that would show I was as
bad-mannered as 'imself."
"If I do tells him zat," returned the officer, "you should have your
head cutted off immediately."
Lancey's indignation having already half-cooled, and his memory being
refreshed just then with some vivid remembrances of the Eastern mode of
summoning black slaves by the clapping of hands, followed by the flying
off of heads or the prompt application of bowstrings to necks, he said,
still however with an offended air--
"Well then, tell 'im what you like, hall I've got to say is that I've
told the plain truth, an' 'e's welcome to believe it or not as 'e
likes."
Without the slightest change in his grave countenance, or his appearing
in the least degree offended by Lancey's free-and-easy manner, the
red-bearded officer again turned to address the captain. Lancey now
observed that the latter replied with a degree of deferential respect
which seemed unnatural in mere brother officers.
"You is regarded as a spy," said the red-beard, turning once more to
Lancey, and fixing his cold grey eye intently on him, as if to read his
thoughts.
"No, I ain't a spy," returned the unfortunate man, somewhat bitterly,
"nor never mean to be. 'Ang me if you like. I've nothink more to say."
Neither the captain nor the red-bearded officer replied, but the former
waved his hand, and the two sailors who had led Lancey to the cabin
again seized him and led him away, more roughly than before. The free
spirit of my poor servant resented this unnecessary rudeness, and he
felt a strong inclination to fight, but discretion, or some faint
remembrance of scimitars and bowstrings, induced him to submit.
Full well did he know what was the fatal doom of a spy, and a sinking of
the heart came over him as he thought of immediate execution. At the
very least, he counted on being heavily ironed and thrust into the
darkest recesses of the hold. Great, then, was his surprise when the
man who had at first acted as interpreter took him below and supplied
him with a dry shirt and a pair of trousers.
Thankfully accepting these, and standing between two guns, he put them
on.
"Who is the hofficer with the red beard?" he asked, while thus engaged.
The interpreter seemed unwilling to answer at first, but, on a
repetition of the question replied--
"Pasha."
"Pasha, eh? Ah, that accounts for the respect of the cap'n--rather
shorter in the legs these 'ere than I could 'ave wished; 'owever,
beggars, they say, mustn't be--well, they're wide enough anyhow.--A
Pasha, is 'e? Don't look like a sailor, though. Is 'e a sailor?"
"No," replied the interpreter sharply.
"Well, well, no offence meant," said Lancey, buttoning his shirt. "If
you don't feel commoonicative _I_ won't trouble you, no more than to
thank 'ee for the shirt an' trousers, which the latter bein' dry is a
blessin', though they air a trifle short in the legs an' wide in the
'ips."
After this Lancey was supplied with food.
While he was eating it he was startled by sudden rushing and shouting,
which was immediately followed by the discharge of musketry on deck. He
sprang up, and seeing that the Turkish sailors were grasping their arms
and swarming up the hatchways, he mingled with one of the streams. No
one paid any attention to him. At that moment he felt a shock which he
afterwards described as resembling an earthquake or the blowing up of a
powder-magazine. Part of the planking near to where he stood was
shattered. Some of the guns appeared almost to leap for an instant a
few inches into the air. Gaining the deck he ascertained that an attack
of Russian torpedo-boats was going on. It was, in fact, the attack
which I have already described, the monitor by which Lancey was rescued
being that which had been selected by the Russian commander as his
victim.
When the second torpedo exploded, as already described, Lancey was
standing near the gangway, and saw that the men were lowering the boats
in urgent haste, for the vessel was evidently sinking.
"Yoos know 'bout dat," said a stern voice near him. At the same moment
he was seized by the interpreter and another man, who made an effort to
hurl him into the sea. But Lancey was strong, and tenacious of life.
Before a third sailor, who was about to aid his comrades, could act, the
red bearded officer appeared with the captain and was about to descend
into the boat when he observed Lancey struggling in the grasp of the
sailors.
"Spy!" he exclaimed in the Turkish tongue, "you must not escape. Get
into the boat."
The sailors fell back. Lancey, not sure whether to regard this as
temporary deliverance or his death-warrant, hesitated, but at a sign
from the Pasha he was collared by five or six men and hurled into the
bottom of the boat, where he lay, half-stunned, while they rowed towards
the shore. Before reaching it, however, he was still doomed to rough
handling, for one of the shots from the large guns, which were fired
almost at random from the flotilla, accidentally struck the boat and
sent it to the bottom.
Lancey was a good swimmer. The cold water restored him to full vigour,
and he struck out boldly for the shore. He soon left the boat's crew
behind, with the exception of one man who kept close to his side all the
way. As they neared the shore, however, this man suddenly cried out
like one who is drowning. A second time he cried, and the gurgling of
his voice told its own tale. The stout Englishman could not bear to
leave a human being to perish, whether friend or foe. He swam towards
the drowning man and supported him till their feet touched bottom.
Then, perceiving that he was able to stagger along unassisted, Lancey
pushed hurriedly from his side in the hope of escaping from any of the
crew who might reach land, for they were evidently the reverse of
friendly.
He landed among a mass of bulrushes. Staggering through them, and
nearly sinking at every step, he gradually gained firmer footing.
"Ah, Jacob," he muttered to himself, pausing for a few minutes' rest,
"little did you think you'd git into such an 'orrible mess as this w'en
you left 'ome. Sarves you right for quittin' your native land."
With this comforting reflection he pushed on again, and soon found
himself on a road which led towards a town, or village, whose lights
were distinctly visible.
What should he do? The village was on the Bulgarian side, and the
natives, if not enemies, would of course become so on learning from any
of the saved men of the monitor who he was. To swim across the Danube
he felt was, after his recent exertions, impossible. To remain where he
was would be to court death among the frogs.
Lancey was a prompt man. Right or wrong, his conclusions were soon come
to and acted on. He decided to go straight to the village and throw
himself on the hospitality of the people. In half an hour he found
himself once more a prisoner! Worse than that; the interpreter, who was
among the men saved from the wreck, chanced to discover him and
denounced him as a spy. The mood in which the Turks then were was not
favourable to him. He was promptly locked up, and about daybreak next
morning was led out to execution.
Poor Lancey could scarcely credit his senses. He had often read of such
things, but had never fully realised that they were true. That he, an
innocent man, should be hung off-hand, without trial by jury or
otherwise, in the middle of the nineteenth century, was incredible!
There was something terribly real, however, in the galling tightness of
the rope that confined his arms, in the troop of stern horsemen that
rode on each side of him, and in the cart with ropes, and the material
for a scaffold, which was driven in front towards the square of the
town. There was no sign of pity in the people or of mercy in the
guards.
The contrivance for effecting the deadly operation was simple in the
extreme,--two large triangles with a pole resting on them, and a strong
rope attached thereto. There was no "drop." An empty box sufficed, and
this was to be kicked away when the rope was round his neck.
Even up to the point of putting the rope on, Lancey would not believe.
Reader, have you ever been led out to be hanged? If not, be thankful!
The conditions of mind consequent on that state of things is appalling.
It is also various.
Men take it differently, according to their particular natures; and as
the nature of man is remarkably complex, so the variation in his feeling
is exceedingly diverse.
There are some who, in such circumstances, give way to abject terror.
Others, whose nervous system is not so finely strung and whose sense of
justice is strong, are filled with a rush of indignation, and meet their
fate with savage ferocity, or with dogged and apparent indifference.
Some, rising above sublunary matters, shut their eyes to all around and
fix their thoughts on that world with which they may be said to be more
immediately connected, namely, the next.
Lancey went through several of these phases. When the truth first
really came home to him he quailed like an arrant coward. Then a sense
of violated justice supervened. If at that moment Samson's powers had
been his, he would have snapped the ropes that bound him like
packthread, and would have cut the throat of every man around him. When
he was placed upon the substitute for a "block," and felt by a motion of
his elbows his utter powerlessness, the dogged and indifferent state
came on, but it did not last. It could not. His Christian training was
adverse to it.
"Come," he mentally exclaimed, "it is God's will. Quit you like a man,
Jacob--and die!"
There is no doubt that in this frame the brave fellow would have passed
away if he had not been roused by the loud clattering of horses' feet as
a cavalcade of glittering Turkish officers dashed through the square.
In front of these he observed the red-bearded officer who had acted as
interpreter in the cabin of the Turkish monitor.
There came a sudden gush of hope! Lancey knew not his name, but in a
voice of thunder he shouted--
"'Elp! 'elp! 'allo! Pasha! Redbeard!--"
The executioner hastened his work, and stopped the outcry by tightening
the rope.
But "Redbeard" had heard the cry. He galloped towards the place of
execution, recognised the supposed spy, and ordered him to be released,
at the same time himself cutting the rope with a sweep of his sword.
The choking sensation which Lancey had begun to feel was instantly
relieved. The rope was removed from his neck, and he was gently led
from the spot by a soldier of the Pasha's escort, while the Pasha
himself galloped coolly away with his staff.
If Lancey was surprised at the sudden and unexpected nature of his
deliverance, he was still more astonished at the treatment which he
thereafter experienced from the Turks. He was taken to one of the best
hotels in the town, shown into a handsome suite of apartments, and
otherwise treated with marked respect, while the best of viands and the
choicest of wines were placed before him.
This made him very uncomfortable. He felt sure that some mistake had
occurred, and would willingly have retired, if possible, to the hotel
kitchen or pantry; but the waiter, to whom he modestly suggested
something of the sort, did not understand a word of English and could
make nothing of Lancey's Turkish. He merely shook his head and smiled
respectfully, or volunteered some other article of food. The worthy
groom therefore made up his mind to hold his tongue and enjoy himself as
long as it lasted.
"When I wakes up out o' this remarkable and not unpleasant dream," he
muttered, between the whiffs of his cigarette, one evening after dinner,
"I'll write it out fair, an' 'ave it putt in the _Daily Noos_ or the
_Times_."
But the dream lasted so long that Lancey began at last to fear he should
never awake from it. For a week he remained at that hotel, faring
sumptuously, and quite unrestrained as to his movements, though he could
not fail to observe that he was closely watched and followed wherever he
went.
"Is it a Plenipotentiary or a furrin' Prime Minister they take me for?"
he muttered to himself over a mild cigar of the finest quality, "or
mayhap they think I'm a Prince in disguise! But then a man in disguise
ain't known, and therefore can't be follered, or, if he was, what would
be the use of his disguise? No, I can't make it out, no'ow."
Still less, by any effort of his fancy or otherwise, could he make out
why, after a week's residence at the village in question, he was ordered
to prepare for a journey.
This order, like all others, was conveyed to him by signs. Some parts
of his treatment had been managed otherwise. When, for instance, on the
night of his deliverance, it had been thought desirable that his
garments should be better and more numerous, his attendants or keepers
had removed his old wardrobe and left in its place another, which,
although it comprehended trousers, savoured more of the East than the
West. Lancey submitted to this, as to everything else, like a true
philosopher. Generally, however, the wishes of those around him were
conveyed by means of signs.
On the morning of his departure, a small valise, stuffed with the few
articles of comfort which he required, and a change of apparel, was
placed at his bed-side. The hotel attendant, who had apparently
undertaken the management of him, packed this up in the morning, having
somewhat pointedly placed within it his _robe de nuit_. Thereafter the
man bowed, smiled gravely, pointed to the door, beckoned him to follow,
and left the room.
By that time Lancey had, as it were, given himself up. He acted with
the unquestioning obedience of a child or a lunatic. Following his
guide, he found a native cart outside with his valise in it. Beside the
cart stood a good horse, saddled and bridled in the Turkish fashion.
His hotel-attendant pointed to the horse and motioned to him to mount.
Then it burst upon Lancey that he was about to quit the spot, perhaps
for ever, and, being a grateful fellow, he could not bear to part
without making some acknowledgment.
"My dear Turk, or whatever you are," he exclaimed, turning to his
attendant, "I'm sorry to say good-bye, an' I'm still more sorry to say
that I've nothin' to give you. A ten-pun-note, if I 'ad it, would be
but a small testimony of my feelin's, but I do assure you I 'av'n't got
a rap."
In corroboration of this he slapped his empty pockets and shook his
head. Then, breaking into a benignant smile, he shook hands with the
waiter warmly, turned in silence, mounted his horse and rode off after
the native cart, which had already started.
"You don't know where we're goin' to, I s'pose?" said Lancey to the
driver of the cart.
The man stared, but made no reply.
"Ah, I thought not!" said Lancey; then he tried him in Turkish, but a
shake of the head intimated the man's stupidity, or his interrogator's
incapacity.
Journeying in silence over a flat marshy country, they arrived about
mid-day at a small village, before the principal inn of which stood a
number of richly-caparisoned chargers. Here Lancey found that he was
expected to lunch and join the party, though in what capacity he failed
to discover. The grave uncommunicative nature of the Turks had
perplexed and disappointed him so often that he had at last resigned
himself to his fate, and given up asking questions, all the more
readily, perhaps, that his fate at the time chanced to be a pleasant
one.
When the party had lunched, and were preparing to take the road, it
became obvious that he was not regarded as a great man travelling
incognito, for no one took notice of him save a Turk who looked more
like a servant than an aristocrat. This man merely touched him on the
shoulder and pointed to his horse with an air that savoured more of
command than courtesy.
Lancey took the hint and mounted. He also kept modestly in rear. When
the cavalcade was ready a distinguished-looking officer issued from the
inn, mounted his charger, and at once rode away, followed by the others.
He was evidently a man of rank.
For several days they journeyed, and during this period Lancey made
several attempts at conversation with the only man who appeared to be
aware of his existence--who, indeed, was evidently his guardian. But,
like the rest, this man was taciturn, and all the information that could
be drawn out of him was that they were going to Constantinople.
I hasten over the rest of the journey. On reaching the sea, they went
on board a small steamer which appeared to have been awaiting them. In
course of time they came in sight of the domes and minarets of Stamboul,
the great city of the Sultans, the very heart of Europe's apple of
discord.
It was evening, and the lights of the city were everywhere glittering
like long lines of quivering gold down into the waters of the Bosporus.
Here the party with which Lancey had travelled left him, without even
saying good-bye,--all except his guardian, who, on landing, made signs
that he was to follow, or, rather, to walk beside him. Reduced by this
time to a thoroughly obedient slave, and satisfied that no mischief was
likely to be intended by men who had treated him so well, Lancey walked
through the crowded streets and bazaars of Constantinople as one in a
dream, much more than half-convinced that he had got somehow into an
"Arabian Night," the "entertainments" of which seemed much more real
than those by which his imagination had been charmed in days of old.
Coming into a part of the city that appeared to be suburban, his keeper
stopped before a building that seemed a cross between a barrack and a
bird-cage. It was almost surrounded by a wall so high that it hid the
building from view, except directly in front. There it could be seen,
with its small hermetically-closed windows, each covered with a wooden
trellis. It bore the aspect of a somewhat forbidding prison.
"Konak--palace," said the keeper, breaking silence for the first time.
"A konak; a palace! eh?" repeated Lancey, in surprise; "more like a
jail, _I_ should say. 'Owever, customs differ. Oos palace may it be,
now?"
"Pasha; Sanda Pasha," replied the man, touching a spring or bell in the
wall; "you goes in."
As he spoke, a small door was opened by an armed black slave, to whom he
whispered a few words, and then, stepping back, motioned to his
companion to enter.
"Arter you, sir," said Lancey, with a polite bow.
But as the man continued gravely to point, and the black slave to hold
the door open, he forbore to press the matter, and stepped in. The gate
was shut with a bang, followed by a click of bolts. He found, on
looking round, that the keeper had been shut out, and he was alone with
the armed negro.
"You're in for it now, Jacob my boy," muttered Lancey to himself, as he
measured the negro with a sharp glance, and slowly turned up the
wristband of his shirt with a view to prompt action. But the sable
porter, far from meditating an assault, smiled graciously as he led the
way to the principal door of the palace, or, as the poor fellow felt
sure it must be, the prison.