At this time the Russians had taken up a strong position in the Balkan
mountain range, and entrenched themselves within a short distance of the
enemy.
After a night and a day of aimless wandering, Jacob Lancey found himself
at last in a rocky defile between the hostile lines. How he got there
he could not tell, but there he was, in a position of imminent danger,
with the sentinels of the belligerent armies on either side of him.
Evening was setting in when he made this discovery, and recoiled,
happily without having been seen, into a narrow rocky place where the
fast-failing light had already deepened into gloom. A cold white fog
was slowly creeping up from the valleys and covering the hill-sides.
It is in such places and circumstances that men conceive and execute
designs, which, according to their nature, are deeds of recklessness or
of heroism. Two such ventures were afoot that night.
In the Russian camp preparations were being made for a night attack on a
village in possession of the Turks, and out of which, with a view to
future movements, it was deemed necessary to drive them. In this
village there dwelt a youth, an intimate friend of Dobri Petroff. The
two had played with each other in childhood, had roamed about the
country together in boyhood, and, when they reached man's estate, had
become faster friends than ever, being bound by the ties of intellectual
as well as physical sympathy. When this friend, Petko Borronow, left
Yenilik at the death of his mother, it was to take charge of the little
farm in the Balkan mountains,--the desolate home where his sister
Giuana, an invalid, and a beautiful girl, was now left in solitude.
In his capacity of scout, Petroff was always in the neighbourhood of
headquarters, and was frequently summoned to the tent of the general
commanding, to be interrogated. Thus he chanced to overhear occasional
remarks and hints which, when pieced together by his intelligent mind,
showed him pretty clearly what was pending.
He sat by the camp-fire that night, buried in meditation, with a series
of troubled wrinkles on a brow that was usually open and unclouded.
Many a time did he light his pipe and forget to smoke it, and relight
it, and again let it die out, until his comrades were impressed by his
absence of mind. Well did the scout know by that time the certain fate
of a village which was to be fought for by contending armies. To warn
his friend Borronow in time to remove his sister from the doomed village
became to the scout a duty which must be performed at all hazards, but
how to do this without deserting his post, and appearing to go over to
the enemy, was the difficulty.
"Something troubles you," said his young friend Andre Vanovitch, who had
for some time sat smoking quietly at his side, gazing into the fire, and
thinking, no doubt, of the girl with the auburn hair, far away in the
land of the Muscove.
"Yes, I'm troubled about friends," was the scout's laconic answer.
"Oh! they're all right, you may be sure, now that our fellows have
crossed the Danube in such force," said Andre, supposing that the other
referred to his family.
"Perhaps!" returned Petroff, and relapsed into silence.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he had overheard some expression among
the officers around the General of a desire to know more particularly
about the disposition of the Turkish force, and the suggestion that a
spy should be sent out. His brow cleared at once; with almost a
triumphant look on his countenance, he turned sharply to Andre, and
seized his arm.
"Well, Dobri," said the latter, with a smile and look of surprise, "I
have had perfect faith in the strength of your grip without requiring
positive proof."
"Listen," said the scout earnestly. "I have a job to do, and a risk to
run."
"That is obvious to every one in the division," returned Andre, with a
touch of the smile still curling his young moustache.
"Ay, but I mean a private job, and a great risk--the risk of being shot
as a traitor or a spy, and I want you, Andre, to clear my character with
the Russians if it fares ill with me."
Petroff's unwonted energy of action and earnestness of look and tone
produced their effect on the young dragoon. He listened intently while
his friend told him of his intended plan.
"But why go into the enemy's lines without permission?" objected Andre.
"Why risk being thought a deserter when you have only to go and ask
leave? It seems to me they would be only too glad to accept your
services as a spy."
"I'm not certain that they would accept them," replied the scout, with a
return of the perplexed look; "and if they chanced to refuse leave, my
case would be hopeless, because I could not and would not dare to act in
opposition to positive orders; whereas, if I go off without leave, I
shall only be blamed for undertaking a foolish or reckless act; that is,
if I return in safety. If I don't return at all, it won't matter what
is said or done, but I should count on you, Andre, explaining that I did
not desert."
"But," returned Andre, "if you merely go to warn and save your friends,
I think the General won't think much of your spying."
"You do me injustice, lad," said Petroff quietly. "I shall enter the
enemy's lines as a real spy. I will visit every point of his position,
ascertain the number of his troops, count his guns, and bring in such
information as will make the General wink, I hope, at my having acted
without orders. It would please me better to go with permission, but I
cannot allow the lives of my friends to hang upon the chance humour of a
Russian general. You must remember, Andre, that I am not a Russian
soldier, and may therefore take upon me to exercise a little more
personal liberty than you can. Why, you know," continued the scout,
with a touch of humour in his glance, as he rose and made some
preliminary preparations, "I might refuse to lead you Russians, or might
lead you to your destruction."
"You would be shot if you did," returned the dragoon quietly.
"And what if I am willing to be shot in a good cause? I should be no
greater hero than every man in your armies. But now, Andre, one more
shake of your hand. We may never meet again, and I won't part without
saying I've taken a fancy to you."
"God knows I can truly say the same to you," cried Andre, leaping up
with enthusiasm, and seizing the scout's hand with a grasp as powerful
as his own.
"And don't be angry," added Petroff, in a gentle tone, as he tightened
his belt, "if I again urge you to keep the locket always in remembrance.
You're not likely ever to forget the auburn hair, but you _may_, lad,
you may, for there is no perfection in this world, and soldiering is a
dangerous life."
Andre smiled half-contemptuously. He _felt_ that the advice was
needless. Petroff also smiled kindly, for he knew that it might be
needful.
Neither of these men was very deeply impressed with the fact that
keeping before the mental eye the Maker of the "auburn hair," and of all
other blessed human influences, was a better and safer refuge. But what
matter? Does not our Creator in all His dealings make use of means?
Does He not lead us step by step from a lower to a higher level? There
are no ready-made human angels in this life, male or female, with
full-grown wings to bear them over the troubles of earth to a state of
sudden sanctification. We are in a rebel world, and, when lifted from
the pit by a Saviour's hand, the steps by which the Spirit of God leads
us upwards are numerous as well as varied, including sometimes--I write
without irreverence--such footholds as "auburn hair."
Disguised as a Bulgarian rustic, Dobri Petroff left the Russian camp,
passed the outposts, and, under cover of the fog, gained the neutral
ground between the two armies.
Of course the sentries on both sides were numerous as well as vigilant--
especially so on such a night. It therefore behoved him to advance with
extreme caution. Creeping from mound to rock, and bush to knoll, he
reached a small clump of bushes, into which he entered for the purpose
of resting a few minutes and considering well his future movements.
A thrill of excitement ran through his frame when he discovered that he
was not alone in this thicket. A man sat there leaning against a tree
as if asleep. The scout crouched and drew a revolver. A moment
sufficed to show that his arrival had not been observed. No wonder, for
his approach had been like that of a cat! He was now in great
perplexity. The man was evidently not a sentinel of either
belligerent--that was plain, but it was equally plain that he was armed.
To shoot him would be impossible without putting the sentries of both
sides on the alert. To pass him in so small a thicket, without
attracting attention, would be difficult. To draw back would
necessitate a long detour, involving loss of precious time and increase
of risk. A thought occurred to him. Many a time had he hunted among
these mountains, and well accustomed was he to glide with serpentine
caution towards his game. He would stalk him! Petroff seldom thought
twice in cases of emergency. He unbuckled his sword quietly and hung it
on a branch, and leant his carbine against a tree, resolving to trust to
his great personal strength alone, for he did not mean to sacrifice life
if he could avoid it. In case of being driven to extremity, his knife
and revolver would suffice.
Then, sinking down until he became lost among the deep shadows of bush
and brake, he began the slow, laborious, and silent process of gliding
towards his unconscious victim.
This was one of those ventures to which we have referred as being afoot
on that foggy night. The other venture had some points of similarity to
it, though the end in view was different.
Let us turn aside for a little to the Turkish camp.
There, round one of the watch-fires, a considerable distance to the
rear, stood a group of Turkish soldiers chatting and smoking. Although
not so noisy as the Russians round their camp-fires, these Turks were by
no means taciturn. There was a touch, now and then, of dry humour in
the remarks of some, and a sedate chuckle occasionally. Among them
stood Eskiwin and his resuscitated friend Ali Bobo. The latter,
although not naturally boastful, had been so nettled by a big comrade
underrating his courage and muscular power, in regard to which latter
he, Bobo, was rather vain, that he vowed he would prove both by going to
the front and bringing in, single-handed, a live Russian sentinel!
The big comrade laughed contemptuously, whereupon Ali Bobo rose to carry
out his threat, but was warned by his mates of the danger of being shot
by his own commander for going on such an errand without leave. Bobo
replied that his captain would forgive him when he presented his Russian
prisoner. As it was clear that the angry little man was in earnest, his
friend Eskiwin vowed he would go with him, and the big comrade agreed to
regard the deed as a sufficient proof of Ali Bobo's strength and prowess
if a Russian should be brought in by the two of them. Bobo would have
preferred to go alone, but Eskiwin would take no denial.
Accordingly the two adventurous fellows went off and were soon lost in
the fog. In a short time they reached the front, and began to move with
excessive caution in order to pass their own sentries unobserved.
Ali Bobo, it must be remarked, had not originated this idea of stalking
sentinels. Some Albanians in the army had already done so with great
success; but these ferocious murderers had done it for the mere pleasure
of killing their enemies, without any other end in view. Their method
was to creep towards a wearied sentinel, which they did with comparative
ease, being expert mountaineers. Each man on reaching his victim sprang
on him from behind, clapped a hand on his mouth, crushed his neck, after
the manner of garrotters, with his strong left arm, and drawing a long
keen knife thrust it into his heart.
But our adventurers had no such murderous design as this. To capture a
live Russian was their aim.
The front reached, and the Turkish line of sentries safely passed in the
fog, they came unexpectedly on two Russian horsemen who were cautiously
riding towards the Turkish lines. These horsemen were Sergeant
Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff. They had been visiting the
outposts, and, before returning, were making a little private
reconnaissance of the enemy's disposition, for Gotsuchakoff and
Shoveloff were enthusiasts in their way, and fond of adventure.
The ground at the spot being much broken, and affording facility for
concealment, especially to men on foot, Eskiwin and Ali Bobo crept
unseen upon a low cliff, and lay down behind a mass of rocks.
The Russians chanced to select the same spot as a point of observation,
but, instead of riding to the top of the eminence, where they would have
been rather conspicuous, they rode under the cliff and halted just
below,--not far distant from the spot where the Turks lay, so that
Eskiwin, craning his long neck over the rocks, could look down on the
helmets of the Russian cavaliers.
For some minutes the sergeant and corporal conversed in whispers. This
was exceedingly tantalising to the friends above! The hiss of their
voices could be distinctly heard. Eskiwin's long arm could almost have
reached them with a lance. Presently the corporal rode slowly away,
became dim in the fog, and finally disappeared, while the sergeant
remained immoveable like an equestrian statue.
"This," whispered Ali Bobo solemnly, "is more than I can stand."
Eskiwin whispered in reply that he would have to stand it whether he
could or not.
Bobo didn't agree with him (not an unusual condition of mind with
friends). He looked round. A huge stone lay at his elbow. It seemed
to have been placed there on purpose. He rose very slowly, lifted the
stone, held it in a position which is familiar to Scotch Highlanders,
and hurled it with tremendous force down on the head of Sergeant
Gotsuchakoff.
The sergeant bowed to circumstances. Without even a cry, he tumbled off
his horse and laid his helmet in the dust.
The Turks leaped down, seized him in their powerful arms, and carried
him away, while the frightened horse bolted. It followed, probably, an
animal instinct, and made for the Russian lines.
The corporal chanced to return at that moment. The Turks dropped their
burden and lay flat down beside it. Seeing that his friend was gone,
and hearing the clatter of his retreating charger, Corporal Shoveloff
put spurs to his steed and followed.
The Turks then rose, tied the legs of the sergeant with his own
sword-belt, lest he should recover inopportunely, and bore him to a
neighbouring thicket which loomed darkly through the fog.
"Fate smiles upon us," whispered Ali Bobo, as the comrades entered the
bushes and laid their burden down.
If Bobo had known that he had laid that burden down within ten yards of
the spot where Dobri Petroff was preparing, as I have described, to
stalk the figure he had discovered in the same thicket, he might have
recalled the sentiment in reference to Fate. But Bobo did not know.
Suddenly, however, he discovered the figure that Petroff was stalking.
It was leaning against a tree. He pointed it out to Eskiwin, while the
scout, interrupted in his plans, sank into darkness and watched the
result with much curiosity and some impatience.
Just then the figure roused itself with a heavy sigh, looked sleepily
round, and, remarking in an undertone, "It's an 'orrible sitooation,"
turned itself into a more comfortable position and dropped off again
with another sigh.
But Ali Bobo did not allow it to enjoy repose. He glided forward, and,
with a spring like that of a cat, laid his hand upon its mouth and threw
it violently to the ground. With the aid of Eskiwin he pinned it, and
then proceeded to gag it.
All this Dobri Petroff observed with much interest, not unmingled with
concern, for he perceived that the new-comers were Turks, and did not
like the idea of seeing a man murdered before his eyes. But the thought
of his friend Petko Borronow, and what he had at stake, restrained him
from action. He was however at once relieved by observing that, while
the short Turk kneeled on the prisoner's chest and kept his mouth
covered, so as to prevent his crying out, the tall Turk quickly tied his
legs and hands. It was thus clear that immediate death was not
intended.
The scout's interest, to say nothing of surprise, was increased by what
followed. When the short Turk, pointing a revolver at the prisoner's
head, removed his hand so as to admit of speech, that prisoner's first
utterance was an exclamation of astonishment in tones which were
familiar to Petroff's ear. This was followed by exclamations of
recognition from the Turks, and the short man seizing one of victim's
tied hands shook it warmly.
At that moment the scout's eyes were opened still wider with amazement,
for the unfortunate Sergeant Gotsuchakoff--who, as I have said, had been
laid down a few yards from him, and whom he had almost forgotten--began
to recover consciousness and growled something in an undertone about its
being "far too soon to turn out."
Petroff recognised the well-known growl of the sergeant. In an instant
he glided to his side, laid his hand on his mouth, and whispered--
"Gotsuchakoff, be still for your life! I am Dobri Petroff. Do you
understand?"
He looked close to the sergeant's eyes, and saw that he was understood.
At once he removed his hand, and untied the belt which fastened the
sergeant's feet.
Gotsuchakoff was too well used to war's alarms to give way to
unreasonable curiosity. He instantly perceived that the scout required
of him the utmost circumspection for some reason or other, and, in the
spirit of a true soldier, awaited orders in total silence, ready for
prompt action.
This was well, because there was little time to spare. When Petroff
directed the sergeant's attention to the Turks they were busy undoing
the bonds of their prisoner.
Without saying another word, the scout glided swiftly forward. He was
promptly followed by the sergeant. Next moment both men leaped on the
Turks and had them by their throats.
Eskiwin was no match for Gotsuchakoff, who bore him back and held him
like a vice. As for Ali Bobo, strong though he was, he felt himself to
be a perfect baby in the grasp of the scout. The two men submitted at
once, and while Petroff ordered them in a low tone to keep silence,
enforcing the order with the touch of a revolver's muzzle, the sergeant
quickly bound their arms behind them.
The scout turned to the prisoner, who was sitting on the ground with
eyes dilated to the uttermost, and mouth wide open. He sat perfectly
speechless.
There was just light enough to make darkness visible. Petroff looked
close in to the face of the man whom he had been about to stalk.
"Lancey!" he exclaimed.
"Dobri Peterhuff," gasped the other.
"Why, where _did_ you come from?" asked the scout in Turkish, which he
was aware Lancey had been attempting to learn.
"Dobri, my friend," replied the other solemnly, in English, "if this is
a dream, it is the most houtrageous dream that I've 'ad since I was a
babby. But I'm used to 'em now--only I do wish it was morning."
The scout smiled, not because of what was said, which of course he did
not understand, but because of the Englishman's expression. But time
pressed; too much had already been lost. He therefore contented himself
by giving Lancey a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned to the
sergeant.
"Gotsuchakoff," said he, "I'm out on special service, and have already
been delayed too long. This man," pointing to Lancey, "is an Englishman
and a friend--remember that. The others are Turks. You know what to do
with them. I cannot help you, but you won't need help."
"Just so," replied Gotsuchakoff, with an intelligent nod, "only lend a
hand to tie them together and then be off about your business."
"Lancey," said Ali Bobo, while the operation was being performed, "zat
big Bulgar beast he say you's his friend."
"Big he is, a beast he's not, and a friend he was," replied Lancey, with
a dazed look.
Further conversation was cut short by the sergeant ordering the trio to
move on. He led them towards the Russian lines by a cord passed round
Bobo's neck, and carried a revolver in his right hand. Dobri Petroff
immediately disappeared in the opposite direction.
At a later hour that night he entered the cottage of young Borronow.
Giuana, Petko's sister, reclined on a rude but comfortable couch. She
was singularly pretty and innocent-looking, but very delicate and young.
Her friends called her Formosa Giuana or Pretty Jane. Petko had been
seated beside her, talking about the war, when his friend entered with a
quick stealthy motion and laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Dobri!" exclaimed the youth.
"Petko, there is danger at hand. Mischief is in the air. Time is
precious. I may not say what it is, but you know me--I am not easily
alarmed. You must promise me to quit this village with your sister
within one hour."
"But, Dobri, why?--what?--"
"Petko, no questions. More than that, no remarks," interrupted the
scout earnestly and firmly. "Another time I will explain. At present I
ask you to trust, believe, and obey your friend. If you would save your
life and that of Giuana leave this village within an hour. Go where you
will, but leave it."
"I will both trust and obey you, Dobri," said Petko, returning the
squeeze of his friend's hand, which he had not yet let go.
"I said that time pressed, Petko; God be with you! Farewell."
The scout turned, stooped to kiss Giuana on her pale cheek, and before
either could utter another word was gone.
By midnight Dobri Petroff had made his rounds--now as a carter gruffly
and clumsily driving a cart and horse of which he had managed to possess
himself; anon as a stupid countryman belonging to the village on the
height, noisily wanting to know why the Turks had robbed him of the said
cart and horse, which he had conveniently tipped over a precipice, and
vowing that he would carry his complaint against the army to the Sultan
himself; once he was fain to act the part of a drunk man, almost
incapable of taking care of himself.
During his perambulations he ran frequent risk of being shot by
irascible Bashi-Bazouks or wearied Albanians; was more than once looked
on with suspicion, and frequently suffered rough treatment, but he acted
his part well. Nothing could draw from him a word or look beyond
average intelligence.
No indignity could rouse him to more than the warfare of abuse, and the
result was that long before dawn he found himself once more close to the
front.
But fortune seemed inclined to fail him here. He was creeping
cautiously among a heap of rocks when a sentinel of the advanced line of
the Turks discovered and challenged him. Petroff knew well that escape
by running would be impossible, for he was only six yards distant. He
made therefore no reply, but sank on the ground, keeping his eye,
however, sharply on the advancing sentinel. His only cause of anxiety
was that the Turk might fire at him, in which case his doom would have
been sealed. The Turk, however, preferred to advance and thrust his
bayonet into him.
Petroff had calculated on and was prepared for this. He caught the
bayonet and checked its progress between his ribs. Another moment and
the Turk lay on his back with the stock of his own rifle broken over his
skull. The scuffle had attracted the next sentry, who ran to his
comrade's assistance. The scout instantly made the best use of his
legs. He was as fleet as a mountain deer, but the rifle-ball was
fleeter. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and almost fell. The
alarm was given. Sentries on both sides fired, and another bullet
grazed his temple, causing blood to flow freely down his face. Still he
ran steadily on, and in a few minutes was safe within the Russian lines.
He was seized, of course, by those who first met him, and, not being
known to them, was at once carried before a captain of dragoons, who
knew him.
By the captain he was sent to the tent of the General--the younger
Skobeleff,--to whom he related the important information which he had
obtained at so great risk.
"Thank you, my fine fellow," said the General, when Petroff had
finished; "you have done good service--are you badly wounded?"
"No--nothing worth mentioning," replied the scout, but as he spoke a
feeling of giddiness oppressed him. He fainted and fell as he left the
General's tent, and was carried on a stretcher to the rear.
Before the grey dawn had dissipated the mists of morning, the village on
the height was fought for, lost, and won; its dwellings were reduced to
ashes, and those of its inhabitants who had escaped massacre were
scattered like sheep among the gorges of their native hills; but Petko
and Giuana Borronow were safe--at least for the time--with a kinsman,
among the higher heights of the Balkan range.