Some time after the events narrated in the last chapter I was seated in
an apartment of Sanda Pasha's residence in Adrianople, the Turkish city
next in importance to Constantinople.
My health had returned, and, although still somewhat weak, I felt
sufficiently strong to travel, and had once or twice urged my kind host,
who was fast recovering from his wound, to permit me, if possible, to
return to the Russian lines. I had had from him, of course, a full
account of the fall of Plevna, and I had also learned from another
source that Nicholas had been desperately wounded; but the latter
information was a mere rumour, which only rendered me the more anxious
to get away.
The Pasha's chief secretary, who spoke Russian well, informed me at this
time of some of the doings of his countrymen in the city and
neighbourhood. I could hardly credit him, but English "correspondents"
afterwards confirmed what he said. The daily executions of Bulgarians
on the slightest pretexts, without trial, were at that time so numerous
that it seemed as if the Turks had determined to solve the question of
Bulgarian autonomy by killing or banishing every male in the province.
In one instance fifteen Bulgarian children, the youngest of whom was ten
years of age, and the eldest fifteen, were condemned to hard labour for
life. It was said, but not proved I believe, that these young people
had committed murder and contributed to the insurrection. At this time
there were over 20,000 refugees in Adrianople, all of whom were women
and children whose protectors had either been massacred or forced to
join the army.
The secretary evidently rejoiced in the slaying and otherwise getting
rid of Bulgarian men, but he seemed to have a slight feeling of
commiseration for the helpless refugees, among whom I had myself
witnessed the most heart-rending scenes of mental and physical
suffering.
Wherever I wandered about the town there were groups of these trembling
ones, on whose pallid faces were imprinted looks of maniacal horror or
of blank despair. Little wonder! Some of them had beheld the fathers,
brothers, lovers, around whom their heart-strings twined, tortured to
death before their eyes. Others had seen their babes tossed on
spear-points and bayonets, while to all the future must have appeared a
fearful prospect of want and of dreary sighing for a touch of those
"vanished hands" that had passed from earth for ever.
"Philanthropic societies," said the secretary, "have done great things
for Turkey and for Russia too. Had it not been for the timely aid sent
out by the charitable people in England and other countries, it is
certain that many thousands of these refugees would already have been in
their graves."
I did not like the tone or looks of this secretary. He was an oily man,
with a touch of sarcasm.
"Doubtless there are many of them," I returned sharply, "who wish that
they had fallen with their kindred. But you say truth: the
tender-hearted and liberal ones of England and elsewhere have done
something to mitigate the horrors of war, and yet there is a party among
us who would draw the sword, if they were allowed, and add to the number
of these wretched refugees. A pretty spectacle of consistency, truly,
is presented by war! If we English were to join the Turks, as of course
you wish us to do, and help you to maintain your misrule, to say nothing
of the massacres which have been and still are going on around us, we
should have to keep our philanthropic societies at work still longer,
and thus we should be seen cutting men down with one hand and binding
them up with the other,--roaring like fiends as we slaughter sires, and
at the same time, with the same voice, softly comforting widows and
fatherless children. Oh, sir, if there is a phrase of mockery on the
face of this earth, it is the term `civilised warfare'!"
Before the secretary had time to reply the Pasha entered, accompanied by
Lancey.
"Mr Childers," said the Pasha, sitting down on a cushion beside me, "I
have managed it at last, though not without difficulty, but when a man
wants to help an old school-mate in distress he is not easily put down.
You have to thank Lancey for anything I have done for you. There is, it
seems, to be an exchange of prisoners soon, and I have managed that you
and Lancey shall be among the number. You must be ready to take the
road to-morrow."
I thanked the Pasha heartily, but expressed surprise that one in so
exalted a position should have found difficulty in the matter.
"Exalted!" he exclaimed, with a look of scorn, "I'm so exalted as to
have very narrowly missed having my head cut off. Bah! there is no
gratitude in a Turk--at least in a Turkish grandee."
I ventured to suggest that the Pasha was in his own person a flat--or
rather sturdy--contradiction of his own words, but he only grinned as he
bowed, being too much in earnest to smile.
"Do you forget," he continued, "that I am in disgrace? I have served
the Turk faithfully all my life, and now I am shelved at the very time
my services might be of use, because the Sultan is swayed by a set of
rascals who are jealous of me! And is it not the same with better men
than myself? Look at Mehemet Ali, our late commander-in-chief, deposed
from office by men who had not the power to judge of his capacities--for
what? Did he not say with his own lips, to one of your own
correspondents, that although he had embraced the religion of Mohammed
they never could forget or forgive the fact that he was not born a Turk,
but regarded him as a Giaour in disguise; that his elevation to power
excited secret discontent among the Pashas, which I know to be true;
that another Pasha thwarted instead of aiding him, while yet another was
sent to act the spy on him. Is not this shameful jealousy amongst our
leaders, at a time when all should have been united for the common weal,
well known to have operated disastrously in other cases? Did not Osman
Pasha admit as much, when he complained bitterly, after the fall of
Plevna, that he had not been properly supported? Our rank and file are
lions in the field--though I cannot allow that they are lambs anywhere
else--but as for our--Bah! I have said enough. Besides, to tell you
the truth, I am tired of the Turks, and hate them."
Here my servant interrupted the Pasha with a coolness and familiarity
that amused me much.
"Sandy," said he, with a disapproving shake of the head, "you oughtn't
to go an' speak like that of your hadopted nation."
The Pasha's indignation vanished at once. He turned to Lancey with a
curious twinkle in his eye.
"But, my good fellow," he said, "it isn't my hadopted nation. When I
came here a poor homeless wanderer the Turks adopted _me_, not I _them_,
because they found me useful."
"That," returned Lancey, "should 'ave called hout your gratitood."
"So it did, Lancey. Didn't I serve them faithfully from that day to
this, to the best of my power, and didn't I shave my head and wear their
garb, and pretend to take to their religion all out of gratitude?"
"Worse and worse," retorted Lancey; "that was houtrageous 'ypocrisy.
I'm afraid, Sandy, that you're no better than you used to be w'en you
smashed the school-windows an' went about playin' truant on the Scottish
'ills."
"No better indeed," returned the Pasha, with a sudden touch of sadness;
"that is true, but how to become better is the difficulty. Islamism
fills a land with injustice, robbery, and violence; while, in order that
such things may be put right, the same land is desolated, covered with
blood, and filled with lamentation, in the name of Christianity."
Here I could not refrain from reminding the Pasha that the professors of
religion did not always act in accordance with their profession, and
that the principles of the "Prince of Peace," when carried out, even
with average sincerity, had an invariable tendency to encourage peace
and good-will among men, which was more than could be said of the
doctrines of Mohammed.
"It may be so," said the Pasha, with a sigh.
"Meanwhile, to return to our point, you will find everything ready for
your journey at an early hour to-morrow."
"But what of little Ivanka Petroff?" I asked. "She must go with us."
The Pasha seemed a little perplexed. "I had not thought of that," he
said; "she will be well-cared for here."
"I cannot go without her," said I firmly.
"No more can I," said Lancey.
"Well, that shall also be arranged," returned the Pasha, as he left us.
"Never saw nothink like 'im," observed Lancey; "'e sticks at nothink,
believes nothink, cares for nothink, an' can do hanythink."
"_You_ are showing want of gratitude now, Lancey, for it is plain that
he cares a good deal for you."
Lancey admitted that he might, perhaps, have been a little harsh in
expressing himself, and then went off to prepare for the journey.
"We are going back again to your own country, Ivanka," said I, gently
stroking the child's head, as we sat together in the same room, some
hours later.
Ivanka raised her large eyes to mine.
"There is no _home_ now," she said, in a mournful voice.
"But we shall find father there, perhaps."
The child dropped her eyes, and shook her head, but made no further
remark. I saw that tears were trickling down her cheeks, and, feeling
uncertain as to how far she realised her forlorn condition, refrained
from further speech, and drew her little head upon my breast, while I
sought to comfort her with hopes of soon meeting her father.
Snow lay on the ground when we bade farewell to our kind host.
"Good-bye, Sanda Pasha; I shall hope to see you in England one of these
days," said I at parting.
"Farewell, Sandy," said my man, grasping the Pasha's hand warmly, and
speaking in a deeply impressive tone; "take the advice of a wery old
friend, who 'as your welfare at 'art, an' leave off your evil ways,
w'ich it's not possible for you to do w'ile you've got fifty wives, more
or less, shaves your 'ead like a Turk, and hacts the part of a
'ypocrite. Come back to your own land, my friend, w'ich is the only one
I knows on worth livin' in, an' dress yourself like a Christian."
The Pasha laughed, returned the squeeze heartily, and said that it was
highly probable he would act upon that advice ere another year had
passed away.
Half an hour later we were driving over the white plains, on which the
sun shone with dazzling light.
I felt unusual exhilaration as we rattled along in the fresh frosty air,
and crossed the fields, which, with the silvered trees and bushes,
contrasted so pleasantly with the clear blue sky. I began to feel as if
the horrible scenes I had lately witnessed were but the effects of a
disordered imagination, which had passed away with fever and bodily
weakness.
Ivanka also appeared to revive under those genial influences with which
God surrounds His creatures, for she prattled a little now and then
about things which attracted her attention on the road; but she never
referred to the past. Lancey, too, was inspirited to such an extent
that he tackled the Turkish driver in his own tongue, and caused the
eyes of that taciturn individual occasionally to twinkle, and his
moustache to curl upwards.
That night we slept at a small road-side inn. Next day we joined a
group of travellers, and thus onward we went until we reached the region
where the war raged. Here we were placed under escort, and, with some
others, were exchanged and set free.
Immediately I hired a conveyance and proceeded to the Russian rear,
where I obtained a horse, and, leaving Ivanka in charge of Lancey at an
inn, hastened to headquarters to make inquiries about Nicholas and
Petroff.
On the way, however, I halted to telegraph to the _Scottish Bawbee_, and
to write a brief account of my recent experiences among the Turks.
I was in the midst of a powerful article--powerful, of course, because
of the subject--on one of the war-episodes, when I heard a foot on the
staircase. I had placed my revolver on the table, for I was seated in a
room in a deserted village. One wall of the room had been shattered by
a shell, while most of the furniture was more or less broken by the same
missile, and I knew well that those sneak-marauders who infest the rear
of an army were in the habit of prowling about such places.
Suddenly I heard a loud shout on the staircase, followed by the clashing
of swords. I leaped up, seized the revolver, and ran out. One man
stood on the stair defending himself against two Circassians. I knew
the scoundrels instantly by their dress, and not less easily did I
recognise a countryman in the grey tweed shooting coat, glengarry cap,
and knickerbockers of the other. At the moment of my appearance the
Englishman, who was obviously a dexterous swordsman, had inflicted a
telling wound on one of his adversaries. I fired at the other, who,
leaping nearly his own height into the air, fell with a crash down the
staircase. He sprang up, however, instantly, and both men bolted out at
the front door and fled.
The Englishman turned to thank me for my timely aid, but, instead of
speaking, looked at me with amused surprise.
"Can it be?" I exclaimed; "not possible! _you_, Biquitous?"
"I told you we should probably meet," he replied, sheathing his sword,
"but I was not prophetic enough to foretell the exact circumstances of
the meeting."
"Come along, my dear fellow," said I, seizing his arm and dragging him
up-stairs; "how glad I am! what an unexpected--oh! never mind the look
of the room, it's pretty tight in most places, and I've stuffed my
overcoat into the shell-hole."
"Don't apologise for your quarters, Jeff," returned my friend, laying
his sword and revolver on the table; "the house is a palace compared
with some places I've inhabited of late. The last, for instance, was so
filthy that I believe, on my conscience, an irish pig, with an average
allowance of self-respect, would have declined to occupy it.--Here it
is, you'll find it somewhere near the middle."
He handed me a small sketch-book, and, while I turned over the leaves,
busied himself in filling a short meerschaum.
"Why, how busy you must have been!" said I, turning over the well-filled
book with interest.
"Slightly so," he replied. "Some of these will look pretty well, I
flatter myself, in the _Evergreen Isle_, if they are well engraved; but
that is the difficulty. No matter how carefully we correspondents
execute our sketches, some of these engravers--I won't say all of them--
make an awful mess of 'em.
"Yes, you may well laugh at that one. It was taken under fire, and I
can tell you that a sketch made under fire is apt to turn out defective
in drawing. That highly effective and happy accidental touch in the
immediate foreground I claim no credit for. It was made by a bullet
which first knocked the pencil out of my hand and then terminated the
career of my best horse; while that sunny gleam in the middle distance
was caused by a piece of yellow clay being driven across it by the
splinter of a shell. On the whole, I think the sketch will hardly do
for the _Evergreen_, though it is worth keeping as a reminiscence."
My friend and I now sat down in front of a comfortable fire, fed with
logs from the roof of a neighbouring hut, but we had not chatted long
before he asked me the object of my visit to headquarters.
"To inquire about my friend Nicholas Karanovitsch," I said.
From the sudden disappearance of the look of careless pleasantry from my
friend's face, and the grave earnest tone in which he spoke, I saw that
he had bad news to tell.
"Have you not heard--" he said, and paused.
"Not dead?" I exclaimed.
"No, not dead, but desperately wounded." He went on in a low rapid
voice to relate all the circumstances of the case, with which the reader
is already acquainted, first touching on the chief points, to relieve my
feelings.
Nicholas was not dead, but so badly wounded that there was no chance of
his ever again attaining to the semblance of his old self. The doctors,
however, had pronounced him at last out of danger. His sound
constitution and great strength had enabled him to survive injuries
which would have carried off most men in a few days or hours. His whole
frame had been shattered; his handsome face dreadfully disfigured, his
left hand carried away, and his right foot so grievously crushed by a
gun-carriage passing over it that they had been obliged to amputate the
leg below the knee. For a long time he had lain balancing between life
and death, and when he recovered sufficiently to be moved had been taken
by rail to Switzerland. He had given strict orders that no one should
be allowed to write to his friends in England, but had asked very
anxiously after me.
Biquitous gave me a great many more particulars, but this was the gist
of his sad news. He also told me of the fall of Dobri Petroff.
"Nicholas had fainted, as I told you," he said, "just before the picket
by which he had been rescued lifted him from the ground, and he was
greatly distressed, on recovering, to find that his faithful follower
had been left behind. Although he believed him to be dead, he
immediately expressed an earnest wish that men should be sent to look
for and recover the body. They promised that this should be done, but
he never learned whether or not they had been successful."
"And you don't know the name of the place in Switzerland to which
Nicholas has been sent?" I asked.
"Not sure, but I think it was Montreux, on the Lake of Geneva."
After all this sad news I found it impossible to enjoy the society of my
eccentric friend, and much though I liked him, resolved to leave the
place at once and make arrangements to quit the country.
I therefore bade him farewell, and hastened back to the inn where I had
left Ivanka and Lancey.
The grief of the dear child, on hearing that her father had fallen on
the battle-field, was for a time uncontrollable. When it had abated, I
said:--
"There is no one here to love you now, my little darling, but God still
loves you, and, you see, has sent me and Lancey to take care of you.--
Come, we will return to Venilik."
I did not dare at this time to raise hopes, which might soon be dashed
to pieces, in the heart of the poor forlorn child, and therefore did not
say all that was in my mind; but my object in returning to Venilik was
to make inquiry after her mother. My own hopes were not strong, but I
did not feel satisfied that we had obtained sufficient proof that Marika
had been killed.
Our search and inquiries, however, were vain. Venilik was almost
deserted. No one could tell anything about the Petroff family that we
did not already know. It was certainly known that many persons--men and
women--had fled to the neighbouring woods, and that some had escaped,
but it was generally believed that Marika had been burnt in her own
cottage. No doubt, however, was entertained as to the fate of her
little boy; for there were several people who had seen him thrust
through and held aloft on the point of a Circassian spear. When I told
of Dobri Petroff having fallen by the side of Nicholas, several of the
villagers said they had heard of that from other sources.
As nothing further could be done, I resolved to adopt Ivanka, and take
her away with me.
My preparations were soon made, a conveyance was obtained, and before
many days were over I found myself flying by road and rail far from the
land where war still raged, where the fair face of nature had been so
terribly disfigured by human wrath--so fearfully oppressed with human
woe.