I began to smile.

"I have said that her eyes seemed dark, nearly as these. Her hair was

black, thick, and wavy, but her nose and features were all smaller--more

(pardon me, monsieur) feminine, perhaps--less decided in character,

certainly; and on her breast she had a crescent of silver."

"A crescent!"

"Yes, monsieur, with a lion above it. The ornament seemed to fasten or

adorn the dress, and I saw it distinctly till she placed her hand upon

it, and then the water in the shell rippled. It is positively

miraculous," he added, turning to Captain Baudeuf, who was twirling his

moustache and smiling with obstinate incredulity.

The latter details petrified me.

Jolicoeur's description was completely that of my cousin, Cora

Calderwood. The crescent and lion was a gift I had sent her from

India--a double ornament I had picked up in the great pagoda at Rangoon,

and which she always wore, preferring it to her father's crest and every

other brooch.

"Are you satisfied, effendi?" asked the hakim, quietly, for he seemed

used to astonishment on such occasions.

"I am bewildered, at all events, hakim," said I.

"Why so?"

"It was not she I asked for or whom I named."

"How do you know? You did not see. Another looked with your eyes."

"True--but what does the vision portend?"

"You asked to see her----"

"I loved, hakim," said I, emphatically.

"Nay, she who--if Allah and the Muscovite dogs spare you--is to be your

wife, your _hanoum_. Do you not remember? Go! _Allah Kerim_! it is

_kismet_--your destiny. The destinies of all, and the hour in which we

are to die--yea, the very moment--are written by the finger of Azrael on

our foreheads at our birth--on yours also, although you believe neither

in Azrael[*] nor the Prophet. Go! the mark is there, although we see it

not."

[*] The Mahommedan Angel of Death.

With those rather solemn words ringing in my ears, bewildered and

thoroughly startled, I found myself traversing the streets of Varna with

Studhome, while the French drummers were beating _la retraite_ as the

sun went down beyond those mountains that were then echoing with the

cannon of Silistria, and while the shrill voices of the muezzins

proclaimed the hour of evening prayer from the minarets of the mosques,

into which the Moslems were pouring, with bowed heads and bare feet, to

count their beads.

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

Sleep by evil spirits troubled,

Fleeing at the matin bell;

Fears that start to eyes scarce waking,

Sighs that will not quit her cell.

As from a dream I was roused at last by Jack Studhome proffering his

cigar-case, and saying, with a smile--

"How about the year's pay, Norcliff, eh? I owe you that, I suppose?"

"Don't jest, for Heaven's sake, Jack," said I; "for I feel faint, queer,

and ill."

All that night we talked over the affair, through the medium of sundry

flasks of iced champagne, without being able to come to any conclusion

about it.

As a piece of trickery, it beat all that we had ever seen performed at

Cawnpore, Delhi, or Benares, by Indian jugglers, though at mess we had

seen those worthies swallow a sword to the hilt, or run it through a

basket, in which was concealed a child, whose blood and screams came

forth together, till the room door opened, and the little one ran in

joyously, unhurt, and without a wound; or the orange seed, which one

placed in my tumbler, where it took root, and in three minutes became a

little tree in full bearing, from which the mess plucked the oranges as

it was handed round. All such performances were beaten by that of the

hakim Abd-el-Rasig!

That Jules Jolicoeur had seen a female face--a pretty one, too--in the

clam-shell was certain, by whatever art or legerdemain that circumstance

was achieved. His astonishment was too genuine and too palpable to be

acted. The detail of the crescent brooch was a coincidence, perhaps;

but then his description of the wearer accorded so well with that of

Cora!

I resolved to seek him next day; but he was despatched on duty along the

road towards the Balkan; and, as the event proved, I became too ill to

follow him.

As we rode home from the Restaurant de l'Armee d'Orient, I was sensible

of extreme giddiness; but attributed it to the champagne. I could

scarcely guide my horse along the road that led to our camp in the vale

of Aladyn, and felt Studhome repeatedly place his hand upon my bridle to

guide me. I felt delirious, too, and next day found myself in the pangs

of that foul pest, the cholera.

It seized me at the distance of some ten miles or so from the camp, from

which I had ridden in search of Lieutenant Jolicoeur. I became so ill

that I had to dismount, and was conveyed to the kiosk of a wealthy

Armenian merchant, and there I remained in great peril for several days,

before my circumstances or my whereabouts became known to my friends or

the regiment.

I endured a severe pain or burning heat in the pit of my stomach,

accompanied by the other symptoms of cholera--cramps in the limbs, and

spasms of the intestines and muscles of the abdomen.

The pulses became faint, and at times scarcely perceptible; my skin grew

cold, and suffused by a clammy perspiration. It was an undoubted case of

spasmodic cholera.

I felt resigned and almost careless of life. There were times, however,

when I reflected sorrowfully, almost bitterly, that it was not thus I

had wished to die, unnoticed and unknown, among strangers in a foreign

land; but, luckily for myself, I could not have fallen into more worthy

hands.

The proprietor of the kiosk I have mentioned was a wealthy Armenian

merchant, a native of Kars. Whether he was animated by that inordinate

love of gain which is peculiar to his race, I know not; but he treated

me with extreme kindness and hospitality, yet I never saw either him or

any of his family. The dangerous nature of my disease was a sufficient

excuse for my being carefully secluded from his entire household, which

was numerous, as it consisted of several sons with their wives and

children, all living together as one great family, but under his own

rule, somewhat in the patriarchal mode of a Scottish clan under its

chief.

In a little airy apartment, which opened upon a high-walled and spacious

garden, I lay for many days, hovering between life and death. My

medical attendant was an Italian surgeon, attached to the Bashi Bazooks,

and wore a bright green frock-coat, long riding-boots, and a crimson

fez, with a long blue tassel and broad military button. He looked like

a reckless foreign cut-throat, with a fierce moustache, vast black

beard, and close shorn head; but his exterior belied his character and

skill.

In the old Sangrado fashion he bled me, taking twenty-five ounces of

blood from my left arm, and gave me, I remember, from eighty to a

hundred drops of laudanum, together with a teaspoonful of cayenne

pepper, in a glass of stiff brandy-and-water, steaming hot, ordering me

to drain it almost at a draught.

"Oh, Signor Dottore," said I, "whence come those dreadful spasms?"

"They are rarely accounted for satisfactorily," he replied, with

professional nonchalance; "but, if I were to venture an opinion, I

should say that the _convulsioni_ arise from distended vessels, in the

neighbourhood of the spine, on the origin of the nerves--you understand,

Signor Capitano?"

I was soon past understanding anything; but, after the hot dose, I was

wrapped in hot blankets, friction, with strong stimulating liniments,

being applied along the spine by the hard hands of two black slaves, and

heated bricks were placed to my feet and hands; and under all this

process I fainted away.

For days I was as one who is in a dream, passive in the hands of those

sable assistants, who, doubtless, thought a bowstring would have proved

a "perfect cure," and a saving of considerable trouble. The green

frogged coat, the crimson fez, and the dark face of the Italian doctor,

as he came from time to time, seemed all a portion of the phantasmagoria

which surrounded me; but there came anon a sweeter, a softer, and more

feminine face, with a lighter and a smaller hand, that seemed to touch

me and smooth my pillow; and with this vision came thoughts of Louisa,

of Cora, of the hakim Abd-el-Rasig and his magic spells, and then I

would close my eyes, wondering whether I was asleep or awake, or if in a

dream, from which I would waken, to find myself in my cool bell-tent in

the green breezy vale of Aladyn, in my familiar quarters at Canterbury,

or it might be in the dear old room of my boyhood, where my mother had

so often hung over me and watched, in Calderwood Glen, and then I seemed

to hear the cawing of the hoodiecrows among the ancient trees that

rustled their green leaves in the summer wind.

The murmuring breeze that came so pleasantly to my dreaming ear passed

over wooded mountains; but, alas! they were those of Bulgaria, and not

my native land.

Amid all the wild ideas induced by my condition was the overpowering

sense of weakness, with intense prostration and lassitude; but now,

thanks to Heaven, to human skill, to my own youth and strength, the

terrible disease was passing away.

While, by a stupidity or treachery closely akin to treason, our army,

during the hot, breathless months of a Bulgarian summer, lay rotting and

inactive at Varna, as if merely waiting the approach of winter to open a

campaign with Russia--hardy Russia, the land of ice and snows, whose

rash emperor boasted that her two most terrible generals were January

and February--the fell disease which prostrated me was making sad havoc

among my brave and patient comrades.

The 7th, 23rd, and 88th regiments, and all the infantry generally--the

Highlanders almost excepted, their Celtic costume being an admirable

safeguard by its warmth about the loins--were decimated by cholera. The

Inniskillings and 5th Dragoon Guards were reduced to mere skeletons, and

few cavalry colonels could bring more than two hundred and fifty sabres

into the field.

So much was my own corps reduced, that on one parade Beverley only

mustered two hundred lances; but many convalescents joined after. It

was remarked that many of the ambulance corps, after what was termed

"the great thunder-storm," died within five hours of being assailed by

the plague.

Thus, "hundreds of brave men, who had left the British shores, full of

high hope and manly strength, died in the valley of Aladyn, or on the

hills overlooking Varna! The army grew discontented. Though no act

unbecoming British soldiers was committed--though no breach of

discipline could be charged--it was impossible to refrain from

discontent. Murmurs, not loud but deep, made themselves heard. No man

there but burned to meet the enemy. The entire army was prepared

cheerfully to face death in the service of the country to which it had

sworn allegiance; but to remain in inactivity, exposed to pestilence,

which struck down its victims as surely, and nearly as speedily, as the

rifle-bullet, beneath a burning sun, with no power of resistance, and no

possibility of evasion, was a fate which might quell the stoutest

courage, and raise discontent in the most loyal bosom."

Seven thousand Russians, who had perished of cholera some time before,

were buried in the vicinity of our camp; and thus the green, smiling

spot which the Bulgarians named the vale of Aladyn, the bearded

Muscovites anathematized as the Valley of the Plague!

While such was the state of our inactive army at Varna, our fleet in the

Black Sea was vainly seeking to lure the Russian vessels from their

secure anchorage under the formidable batteries of Sebastopol; and the

Turkish army was exhibiting a courage which astonished all Europe.

At Giurgevo, a city on the left bank of the Danube, on the 7th of July,

a mere handful of Turks, chiefly led by a gallant Scot, styled Behram

Pasha,[*] defeated a large force of Russians, after a desperate

conflict. At Kalafat the latter sought in vain to force the passage of

the river, and drive the Osmanlees from their stronghold; and at Citate

and Oltenitza they were routed with disgrace. For neither their own

native prowess, the prayers of the Bishop of Moscow, nor the miraculous

image of St. Sergius, availed them--the blue cross of St. Andrew and the

Eagle of Muscovy fled alike before the crescent and star of Mahommed.

And now Silistria, on the Danube--"the thundering river"--became the

base of operations; and there Moussa Pasha, Butler, an Irish officer,

and my countryman, Naysmith, covered themselves with glory, while the

Hungarian exile, Omar Pasha, opposed the foe with all his available

troops.

[*] Lieutenant-Colonel Cannon.

During this time the French continued pouring into Varna, by marching

across the Balkan, the great mountain barrier of Turkey, the rocky

passes and deep defiles of which are almost impassable in winter.

On the 28th of July the Russians were driven from Wallachia; but the

Turks were utterly defeated by them at Bayazid, on the slopes of Western

Armenia, and again at Kuyukdere. Our fleets bombarded Kola, on the White

Sea, and the 4th of September saw the eagle of victory hovering over the

armies of the Czar at Petropaulovski; but thus the summer passed with us

ingloriously away, and still our army lay inactive amid a hotbed of

fever and suffering at hated Varna.

The most of these stirring events I learned after my recovery from that

illness which so nearly carried me off. I knew nothing of them while in

the house of the Armenian, and equally little did I know that Mr. De

Warr Berkeley, in the hope that I might never rejoin, was doing all he

could to blot my military reputation in the brigade to which we

belonged.

It was on a morning in June--the 23rd, I think--the same day on which

the Russians raised the siege of Silistria, leaving twelve thousand dead

before its walls--that I seemed to wake from a long and refreshing

slumber.

The vague, drowsy sense of having been surrounded by phantasms and

unrealities, and that it was not Newton Norcliff, but some one else, who

was lying there, sick and weary, had passed away with sleep. I was

conscious and coherent now, but weak with past suffering.

Through the lattices of a pretty kiosk (for that word signifies alike a

room or a house), I could see the great rose trees, covered with their

fragrant glories, standing in rows, or trained over gilded iron bowers

or arches. The leaves of the apricot, the purple plum and greengage

trees, rustled pleasantly in the passing breeze, and pleasantly, too,

there came to my ear the plashing of a marble fountain that stood in the

shaded verandah without.

Around that white marble fountain grew the great scarlet pumpkin and the

golden-coloured water-melon, their gaudy brilliance contrasting with the

green leaves amid which they nestled. The garden was an epitome of

Turkey, for there the blood-red ilex of Italy, the rose tree of Persia,

the palm of Egypt, the Indian fig, and the African aloe, with the tall,

solemn cypress, all grew side by side in the lovely parterres, through

which the sunshine fell aslant in golden flakes.

The kiosk in which I lay was floored with marble slabs. Its walls were

painted gaily with a panoramic view of Constantinople. I could

recognise the heights of Pera, and all the Propontis, from the Seraglia

point to the Seven Towers, with all the glories of the Golden Horn,

Sophia's shining cupola, the Serai Bournou, and the cypress groves,

where the dead of ages lie.

I was reposing in a pretty bed, with spotless white hangings, and lace

all so charmingly arranged, that it reminded me of a baby's cradle. A

divan of yellow silk cushions surrounded the apartment on three sides.

On the fourth it was entirely open to the verandah and garden. On this

divan I saw my undress uniform, neatly folded, with my forage-cap,

sword, and cartridge-box placed above it.

My watch and purse, Louisa's miniature and ring--I felt for the latter

involuntarily--were all lying on a little white marble tripod table by

my side, together with a beautiful china drinking vessel, which seemed

familiar to me.

A sigh of thankfulness that I was conscious, free of pain, and at

comparative ease, escaped me, and I turned to survey again the other

side of my chamber, when a remarkable female figure met my eye.

She was seated on the low divan, quite motionless. She was reading

intently, and by her costume I knew at once that she was a French sister

of charity--one of those pure in heart, great in soul, and unflinching

in purpose, who, on their saint-like mission of mercy and humanity, had

followed the allies from France.

Her dress was a plain black serge gown, with a spotless white coif,

which fell in soft folds upon her shoulders, pure as the feathers of a

dove. In her gentle face, which seemed familiar--for doubtless it had

often been before me in the intervals of suffering and delirium--there

was a kind, a peaceful, and divine expression, that underlay the lines

of premature care, suffering, and privation.

She was young; but among the dark brown hair that was braided smoothly

and modestly over her pale, serene brow, I could detect already a silver

thread or two.

So perfectly regular were her features, so straight the lines of eyebrow

and nose, that the dark, speaking eyes, and that drooping form of eyelid

peculiar to the south of Europe, alone relieved them from tameness, for

I had seen more sparkling beauty in a somewhat irregular face; but in

those dark eyes there ever shone the steady light of a soul devoted to

one great purpose; and yet at times, as I afterwards found, her manner

could become merry, almost playful.

Slight though the motion of simply turning my head, she heard it, arose

anxiously, and, coming forward, handed to me a cooling drink.

"Mademoiselle, I thank you!" said I, gratefully.

"You must not thank me, monsieur. I am simply your nurse."

"And I have disturbed you----"

"At my office--merely, monsieur, at my office, which I can read at any

time within the twenty-four hours."

"And how often do you do this?"

"Every day--all these pages--see!"

Her voice was so very silvery, her eyes so calm and lustrous, her hands

so white and small, that it was impossible not to see that she had been

highly bred, delicately nurtured, and came of some good French family.

"How long have I been here, mademoiselle?" I asked, after a pause.

"I do not know. Monsieur was here when I came."

"And who brought you to nurse me?"

"Lieutenant Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves, heard somehow that you were

here, suffering under a perilous illness. An Italian surgeon chanced to

mention it at the Restaurant de l'Armee d'Orient, and they brought me

here. We are in the house of a rich Armenian trader--a good Christian,

after his own fashion; but, O Sacre Coeur! what an odd fashion it is!"

"Ah! mademoiselle----"

"I am Archange, of the Order of Charity."

"Well, Sister Archange, you are really an angel!"

"Oh, fie! don't say so! You must think very poorly, very meanly, of me

to give me a title I dare not hope to merit, even by a thousand actions

such as attending you."

"Pardon me; I did but--but say what I thought."

"You are a child, and thought wrong," she replied, with playful

asperity. "But you have already spoken too much for one who is only

beginning to recover; so try to sleep, _mon frere_."

And, waving her hand with a pretty gesture of authority, she resumed her

missal, and read on in silence.

I slept for a time--I know not how long--it might have been an hour, or

perhaps two: but, when I looked up, she was still seated, motionless and

reading.

"_Ma soeur!_" said I, as our eyes met, and my heart swelled with

gratitude for her generous watchfulness; and she came hastily towards

me.

"_Mon frere_, what do you want?"

"You mistook my meaning when I called you an angel, and were angry with

me."

"Angry?--I? Ah, no! no! Don't say so--I am never angry; it would not

do for me to be so now."

"But I think you quite a saint to watch me thus."

"You must not say that either."

"You are so good, and I so unworthy."

"Good I may be thought, monsieur; but I shall never be a saint, like

Father Vincent de Paul--I am too wicked for that," she added, laughing

merrily; "but I try to be as good as I can."

"Have any letters come here for me?"

"Letters!" she said, with alarm in her fine eyes, and withdrawing a

pace.

"Yes; I am so anxious for them."

"Ah! now you are beginning to rave again. In your pain and delirium you

always raved about letters."

"There are, then, none?" said I, with a groan.

"I shall see, _mon frere_," and, in the kindness of her heart, after

pretending to search for what she too well knew were not to be found,

she came again to my bedside, and said there would, perhaps, be some

to-morrow.

"Still no letter!" I exclaimed, sadly, with tears in my eyes.

She laid a soft hand caressingly on my brow.

I besought her, in the most moving terms, to inquire if there were any

letters for me at our cantonments in the vale of Aladyn, heedless of the

distance and of the trouble I gave her; for I thought only of Louisa

Loftus, and that her answer to my Gallipoli missive might have reached

the regiment during my illness and absence.

"Monsieur, then, belongs to the English service?"

"No."

"The Osmanli army, then?"

"No, mademoiselle; I belong to the British," said I.

"Ah! true. But your uniform is not red?"

"All our light cavalry wear blue. Ah, _ma soeur_, seek the quarters of

the lancers serving in the Light Brigade, and see if there is a letter

for me. It will do me more good than all the doses of our Italian

doctor."

"Ah! you will be dosed by him no more."

"I am truly glad to hear it. Some of his messes were vile enough."

"Do not speak so ungratefully; but you know not what I mean or what has

happened."

"How?"

"Poor _monsieur le docteur_ is dead."

"Dead!"

"He died of cholera in the cavalry camp yesterday. He had volunteered

to attend the sick soldiers in the vale of Aladyn, and perished at his

post among them."

I was greatly shocked by this intelligence, which perhaps, it was not

wise in my little nurse to afford me at such a time.

When again I woke from sleep the shadows of evening were darkening the

room; the trellis-work and Venetian lattices that had opened to the

sunlit garden were closed now, and the sun had set. Sister Archange was

seated in her usual place upon the low divan, but looking pale and

exceedingly fatigued.

She had been at the British cavalry camp, and she had seen my friends,

but no letters had arrived for me, of that she was assured, as she had

taken one of my cards from its case to show the commanding officer.

"No letters?" I repeated, in a hollow tone.

"No; but, _monsieur mon frere_, must take courage. Many, many ships

have perished in a recent storm in the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmora,

and your letters may have gone to the bottom with the mail steamer.

Monsieur Estoodome--_monsieur l'adjudant_ he is, I think, of your

regiment--and _monsieur le colonel_, too, will ride over here to-morrow

to see you. And now there must be no more talking, but to sleep, _mon

ami_--to sleep. I must take care of you now, for _la soeur_ Archange

will not be with you always."

"What are you doing?"

"Making the sign of the cross on your forehead, _mon frere_. To-morrow I

shall tell you what it means, if you will remind me; but, for to-night,

adieu."

*CHAPTER XXXIII.*

O fondest memories! come and go,

Shine on sad times which are no more,

As sunbeams gladden waters of snow,

As wavelets kiss a barren shore:

And light with love and tenderness

The happy days which still are ours;

Whose influence, rich in April showers,

Casts round us love and tenderness.

The clatter of spurs and scabbards, and the firmer tread of feet than

one usually hears among the slipshod or slippered Moslems, next

forenoon, announced the arrival of my friends, and most welcome to me

was the appearance of Colonel Beverley, Studhome, Wilford, and Jocelyn

of ours, all fearless of cholera, as they came through the verandah of

the kiosk where I lay; and there, too, lingering without, I saw my

faithful follower, Pitblado.

They were all in full uniform and accoutred, for it was the day of a

great review; and all bowed with politeness to the sister of charity,

who immediately withdrew to the shadow of the verandah.

"I rejoice to see you, my dear boy," said the colonel; "we had all given

you up as lost to us and to the regiment."

"Lost, colonel?" I repeated.

"Faith, did we, Newton," said Studhome. "We concluded that you had been

waylaid--cut off in the flower of your youth and day-dawn of ambition,

as the novels have it--by some Bulgarian footpads or rascally Bashi

Bazooks, for I presume you know that no one can go beyond the advanced

posts with safety without a revolver."

"A rumour reached us of a British cavalry officer being conveyed

seriously ill to the house of an Armenian gentleman," resumed Beverley.

"We strongly suspected that you were the person, and the presumption

became a certainty when yesterday this young lady brought your card to

my tent at the cavalry camp."

"She is a good little saint," said I, with enthusiasm.

"And so, Norcliff, you have actually had cholera--that foul pest which

is destroying our noble army piece-meal?"

"I am recovering, as you see; but pray don't linger here, colonel.

There is danger by my side."

"Norcliff, the air we breathe is full of cholera," said Beverley,

impatiently twisting his grizzled moustache; "our poor fellows are dying

of it like sheep with the rot!"

"If the Emperor of Russia had planned the whole affair himself, he could

not have taken better measures to weaken and decimate us than this

useless camp at Varna."

"You are right, Studhome--to decimate us before the war begins," added

Jocelyn.

"When do we take the field, colonel?"

"No one knows."

"Then how long are we to remain here?"

"No one can tell. Satisfactory, isn't it? In fact, no one knows

anything."

"Except," said Studhome, "that we are giving the Russians plenty of time

to prepare a hot reception for us, if we venture to seek 'the bubble

reputation' in the Crimea--or military fame, which, as some one says,

consists of 'a few orders on a tight uniform.'"

"How far am I from the camp, colonel?"

"About five miles."

"Five miles!" I exclaimed, "Then you, my poor friend, Sister Archange,

actually walked for me ten miles under a broiling sun yesterday?"

"Yes, _monsieur le capitaine_," she replied; "and happy would I have

been could I have returned with what you wished for."

"How sorry I am! How can I ever repay, ever apologize, for the amount

of trouble I have given you?"

"Apologies are not to be thought of," said she, quietly; "and as for

repayment, we do not look for that--here, at least."

She smiled, and looked very beautiful. Twirling his

carefully-bandolined moustache, Jocelyn, who had been observing her

admiringly, was about to address her in, perhaps, rather a heedless way,

when Beverley said to him pointedly--

"Those French sisters of charity are the admiration of all the troops.

Even the stupid Turks adore them, and are bewildered by a devotion and

purity of purpose which their sensual souls cannot understand.

Mademoiselle, we have no language to describe what we owe to your

order."

The sister of charity gave the colonel a pleasant smile, and a bow full

of grace and good humour.

"Our visit," said he, "is necessarily a hurried one. We are all in full

puff, as you may see, Norcliff, for this afternoon the cavalry division

is to be reviewed before Omar Pasha and Marshal St. Arnaud."

"Hence my Lord Lucan is most anxious that each and all should appear in

his best bib and tucker," added Studhome.

After they were gone, I turned again to thank the gentle sister of

charity for the journey she had made, on a hot and breathless day,

through a camp of more than eighty thousand foreign troops, to serve me.

She only gave me one of her pleasant smiles, and; taking the miniature

of Louisa from the tripod table, said in a low voice, "Is this the lady

from whom you expect letters?"

"Yes."

She shook her head sadly, as if her survey of the tiny portrait had not

proved satisfactory.

"Why do you look thus, _ma soeur_? What do you see?"

"Much of dangerous beauty; but more of pride, of caution, tact, and cold

decision. The eyebrows nearly meet--I don't like that. The eyes are

lovely; but--but----"

"What?" I asked, almost imperiously.

"I dare not say it. I may be guilty of the sin of detraction."

"Nay, speak, I beg of you. The eyes are lovely, you say, but----"

"Have an untruthful expression."

"Ah, good heavens, don't say so!"

My heart sank as she spoke, and I sighed deeply.

"I have seen such eyes and brows once before, and I remember the sorrow

they wrought."

The paragraph which I had read in the London morning paper, on board the

_Ganges_, in the harbour of Valetta--that fulsome paragraph, at which

Berkeley had smiled so complacently and covertly--came to my memory word

for word now. Was it possible that the journal was true, and Louisa

false? After an uncomfortable pause, I related to the sister the

strange episode which occurred at the house of the hakim Abd-el-Rasig.

"_Magique!_" she exclaimed, while her large eyes became larger still,

and she crossed herself three several times with great earnestness. "_O

Sainte Dame!_ you tried the art of the great fiend, did you?"

"Who--I? Not at all! How could I? Don't imagine anything so absurd.

The man is only a trickster, like Houdin or Herr Frickel."

But she seemed so horrified at me, and "the art that none may name,"

that I was fain to explain that the whole affair originated in the

suggestion of Studhome, and some of the officers of the 2nd Zouaves, in

a moment of idleness.

"I can tell you many a tale of the wickedness of having recourse to

magic, and the retribution which falls on those who do so," said she.

"Have you ever read the writings of the fathers?"

"No, I regret exceedingly," I was beginning, when I could not help

laughing at her conceiving such a course of reading palatable to a young

cavalry officer. Even the pundits who "go in" for cramming, that they

may have the magical letters "P.S.C."[*] after their names in the "Army

List," do not go that length.

[*] Passed (final examination) at the Staff College,

"Have you ever heard of St. Jerome?" she asked, gravely.

"I think so, _ma soeur_."

"Well, I shall tell you a tale he records concerning magic, and one who

resorted thereto. Once upon a time in France, your odious Abd-el-Rasig

would have been burned alive, for there can be no doubt that, like those

of the Egyptian magicians of old, his operations are conducted with

infernal agency. Can the accounts we hear of those magicians from Moses

admit of any other construction?"

"Of course not, though I can't for the life of me see what you are

driving at."

"If ever you see him again, _mon frere_, make the sign of the cross, and

then you will see how he will shrink and whine, like Mephistopheles in

the opera, for it is a sign that always sends the thoughts heavenward.

We are told that, if St. Ephrem saw a little bird fly, he always

remembered that, with pinions outspread, it made the sign of the cross

as it soared towards heaven; but that when it folded those wings the

holy sign was marred, and the poor bird fell at once, grovelling and

fluttering, on the earth."

"Well, _ma soeur_; but the story and St. Jerome?"

"Pardon me, I had forgotten. He tells, in his life of St. Hilarion the

Hermit--ah, you never heard of him either--that a gay young man of the

town of Gaza, in Syria, fell deeply in love with a young lady, whom he

used to see occasionally in those beautiful gardens of tamarisks, figs,

and olives for which the place is still so famous; but she was pious,

devoted to Heaven and to religion, and, consequently, shunned him--a

course which only added the stings of jealousy and attraction to the

passion which she had inspired.

"His glances, his tender whispers, his presents, and professions she

treated with coldness; his attempted caresses she repulsed with anger

and disdain, till, finding all his attempts baffled and ineffectual, in

a fit of rage and despair he went to Memphis, which was then the

residence of many eminent magicians, all reputed to possess wonderful

power.

"There he remained a whole year, studying the dark mysteries under the

tutelage of the most learned, until he deemed himself sufficiently

instructed; and, exulting in his unholy knowledge, acquired chiefly

among the graves which still lie to the south and westward of Memphis,

and where one may walk for miles and miles amid bones and fragments of

crumbling mummies, he returned to Gaza, confident that now he could bend

the inflexible beauty to his will.

"Beneath the marble peristyle of her father's house he contrived to

lodge at midnight a plate of brass, whereon he had engraved a potent

spell. Hence, the first time she passed over it a wondrous illness

seized her! She became furious, says St. Jerome; she tore her glorious

hair, she gnashed her teeth, and raved over the name and image of the

very youth whom she had so repeatedly driven from her presence in

despair by her coldness and hauteur.

"In sorrow and terror her parents conducted her to the hermitage of St.

Hilarion; and then, when the holy hands of the old man crossed her, the

devil that was within her began to howl, and to confess the truth.

"'I have suffered violence!' he exclaimed, speaking with _her_ tongue,

to the fear of all.

"St. Hilarion took a branch of blessed palm, and, having dipped it in

holy water as an esperges, threw the sparkling drops profusely over her,

on which the devil exclaimed again--

"'I have been forced here against my inclination! Alas! these drops are

as freezing ice! Oh, how happy I was at Memphis among the tombs of the

dead! Oh! the pains, the tortures I suffer!'

"Then the hermit commanded him to come forth; but the devil told him

that he was detained by a brazen spell beneath the peristyle of the

maiden's house.

"So cautious was the saint, however, that he would not permit the magic

figures to be searched for till he had released the virgin, for fear he

should seem to have intercourse with incantations for the performance of

a cure, or to have believed that a devil could ever speak truth. He

observed that demons are always liars, and cunning only to deceive."

"So the damsel was released?" said I, who had listened with some

amusement to the story, which was told me with implicit faith in its

veracity.

"Yes; but the devil, ere he went back to Memphis, paid a terrible visit

to his first summoner; for the young man was found in the garden of

olives, strangled, with the marks of talons in his throat. So, _mon

ami_, never again have recourse to such persons as Abd-el-Rasig.

Promise this to your little sister, Archange!"

"I may well promise you that, or anything else you ask," said I, charmed

by her winning manner. "How sweetly your name sounds when pronounced by

yourself."

"Do you really think so?" she asked, while her dark eyebrows arched up.

"My godfather named me Archange, that I might be under the protection of

the archangels. You comprehend me, monsieur? When I joined the order

of the _soeurs de la charite_ for my noviciate in the Rue du Vieux

Colombier, to share with the Sisters of St. Martha the care of the sick

in the hospitals of Paris, they saw no reason to change it; and hence I

am still, as I was before--before I thought of being a sister of

charity--Archange."

To a sick man's ear, there was a soothing charm in the girl's voice and

its intonation. Then her broken English, her earnestness, truthfulness,

and intense faith in all the little religious legends and anecdotes with

which she amused us, were all fascinating, and there came a time when I

missed her, and then sorely. Add to all these that, in the girl's

beautiful but colourless face, there was an expression singularly pure,

noble, and frank, lofty, and at times sublime. I was very curious to

know her surname, and the reason why she had adopted a life of such

privation and peril as that of a Sister of Charity--an order so severe,

and whose duties were a ceaseless round of privation and peril. Without

being uncourteously curious, I knew not how to approach the subject; but

next day, after Jack Studhome and Fred Wilford (who rode over from the

camp) had retired, she imparted the little story of her past life of her

own accord, and the circumstance came about very simply, through a mere

remark of mine. The mail steamer had come in from Constantinople, but

Studhome had no letter for me.

"Ah, _ma soeur_ Archange, I begin to be torn by jealousy," said I.

"Why?" she asked, gently.

"I cannot say why, as the only man in England I have reason to fear is a

creature so contemptible."

"Then wherefore give way to a weakness so odious and so tempting?"

"Tempting?" I repeated.

"Yes; I mean tempting to crime."

"How strangely you speak!"

"But truly," she replied, sadly.

"I do not understand----"

"I can tell you a horrible episode," she began, impetuously; "but no,

'tis better forgotten--forgotten, if possible, than to recollect it now,

in all its sad details," she added, after a pause.

"Why?"

"You have unbosomed yourself to me, and have told to me your only

sorrow; why should I conceal mine? or why be less communicative to you?

Well, I shall tell you why I--for the sake of others, rather than even

for my own soul's welfare--dedicated myself to God and the order of

charity. By jealousy, and the revenge it inspired, I lost a brother

whom I idolized, and two friends whom I loved dearly; and, monsieur, it

all happened thus."

After a short pause, with her long dark lashes cast down, and her little

white hands folded on her knees, she told me the following story:--"My

father, M. Marie Anatole Chaverondier, resided in a little antique

chateau among the mountains of Beaujolais, where we had a property

which, though small, is fertile, and in some places is covered with fine

old wood. Our chateau is very ancient, for it had anciently been a

hunting-seat of the illustrious family of Beaujeu, who gave their name

to all that district; and thus we have rooms that many a time were

honoured by the presence of the Great Constable and the Dukes of

Bourbon.

"I can, in fancy, see that dear old chateau now, with its round turrets,

its gilded vanes, and white facade, rising above the green woodlands,

with the blue Saone flowing in front under an ancient bridge, the

central arch of which had been blown up in the wars of the old

revolution, but was now partly repaired by logs of oak, that were

half-hidden by luxuriant ivy, and beautiful red and white roses. Ah!"

she exclaimed, while her splendid eyes became suffused with tears,

"shall I ever again see the old Chateau de Chaverondier?

"My mother was dead. My father--a gentleman of the _ancien regime_, a

strict legitimist, or adherent of the old monarchy, and a worshipper in

secret of Henri V.--resided there in seclusion with his family, which

consisted of myself, my brother Claude, and three or four servants; and,

save our tutor, who was the old cure of the neighbouring village, or

monsieur le maire of Beaujeu, we had few or no visitors; and our time

glided away amid quiet pleasures, but with no sorrow, till Claude, a

tall and handsome youth, left us for the military school of St. Cyr.

"There he soon received the commission of sous-lieutenant in the 3rd

Light Infantry of the line, then commanded by Colonel Francois-Certain

de Canrobert, now marshal of our army in the East.

"I sorrowed for my brother, my lost companion, long and earnestly. We

had no more rambles now by the Sacine, in search of flowers and ferns,

or in the deep dark woodland dells around the old chateau. There was a

sad emptiness and loneliness in and around it, too. I no longer heard

my brother's clear voice singing merrily as he prepared his flies and

fishing-rod, or the report of his gun waking the echoes of the forest;

and I went to mass, to confession, and to communion alone, for my father

had become too feeble now to leave his apartment, and my chief solace

was in attending him; so, monsieur, you see that I served an early

apprenticeship in the sick chamber.

"But there were others who sorrowed for the absent Claude--the two

daughters of Montalle, the maire of Beaujeu, a wealthy proprietor of

several forges and furnaces, whose alliance my father would have opposed

with disdain and wrath; but that did not prevent us from being great

friends with Lucrece and Cecile, whom we had been in the habit of

meeting so regularly at mass, and with whom we worked in common to

decorate the altar of monsieur le cure on holidays.

"Both were remarkably handsome and sprightly girls. Cecile was fair and

gentle, and Claude, I knew, loved her, and sighed for her, even as a

boy; but Lucrece, the elder, I also knew, loved him in her secret heart,

for she had frequently told me so after his departure for St. Cyr, and

more than once I had seen a dangerous expression in her pale face and

dark eyes when Cecile spoke of him with regret or affection. Dark as

night were the eyes of Lucrece. Her nose was aquiline, and over it her

eyebrows nearly met; and she had a general expression not unlike that

which I saw in your miniature. Letters came at times to our old chateau

among the mountains of Beaujolais from the absent Claude; but it was

soon too evident that Cecile Montalle was in correspondence with him as

well as I; for she knew quite as soon as we did of Claude's movements,

and those of the 3rd Light Infantry, with which he was serving in

Africa; and she knew before we did of how he had distinguished himself

in Canrobert's famous expedition against Ahmed-Sghir, when that chief

rallied the tribes of the Bouaoun in revolt against France.

"In 1850, Claude wrote us that he had been wounded in Canrobert's

expedition against Narah, that Colonel Canrobert had granted him leave

of absence, and that he was coming home. No hearts were so happy as

ours at the old chateau, on learning that Claude was returning, and

covered with honour, too--save, perhaps, the fair-haired Cecile

Montalle. There was a radiance in her pink cheek, a sparkle in her

beautiful blue eyes, when we met at church in Beaujeu, which showed that

she, too, was mistress of the same joyous tidings; and, in the fulness

of her heart, she confessed to me that she and Claude had corresponded

long, had exchanged rings, and were mutually attached and engaged. I

loved my brother. Could I wonder that Cecile Montalle did so too?

Lucrece, who stood by us, heard all this with a lowering brow, and there

was the old and strange expression in her face which had terrified me

before as I kissed her, and got into our old-fashioned carriage to

return to the chateau, which stands some five leagues or so from

Beaujeu.

"For days I busied myself, preparing for the reception of Claude. His

old room was put in order by my own hands. Alas! I could little foresee

that he was never to tread its floor again! In fact, the unhappy

Lucrece was the victim of an absorbing and corroding jealousy; and in

her heart she was beginning to hate and to loathe her guileless and

unsuspecting sister. To add to this evil feature in our mutual

relations, when I ventured timidly to speak of Claude's engagement to my

father, he became inflamed with sudden fury. All the buried pride of the

old days of the monarchy--the days of periwigs and pasteboard skirts, of

shoe-buckles and rapiers--with the memory of past greatness, and the

time when the Constable and Dukes of Bourbon had joined our forefathers

in the chase, and shared their hospitality in Chaverondier--all this I

saw blazed up within him! His eyes flashed with fire, and his thin bent

form became erect. He had been proud of his son's brilliant career

under Canrobert; he had pictured for him a brilliant future; he already

saw him ranked among the marshals of France, reviving the past glories

of ancestors who had left their bones at Pavia, Rocroi and Ramilies.

"But now he thought all those ancient triumphs and those revived hopes

would be blighted and blotted by a disgraceful marriage with a mere

_bourgeoise_--a vulgar smelter of iron--a man who had begun life with a

hammer and bellows; a grimy manufacturer of spades, ploughs, and

pickaxes for the markets of Beaujeu, Belleville, and Chalieu!

"My father thought of his sixteen heraldic quarters, among which were

the arms of Cressi, Sante-Croix, and Segonzoe, the three noblest

families in Beaujolais, and swore by the souls of his fathers that such

a marriage could never be. He did more. He wrote a severe and sarcastic

letter to the maire of Beaujeu, warning him of his most severe

displeasure, if the correspondence between his daughter and 'Monsieur my

son, the Captain Chaverondier,' was not at once and for ever ended. To

have read that letter might have made one think that the Grand Monarque

was still flirting at the Trianon, and that the fleur-de-lis still waved

above the Bastille of St. Antoine. On the other hand the maire Montalle

was a sturdy and purse-proud republican; one who in his youth had fought

at the barricades, had sacked the Tuileries, and had actually beaten on

his drum, by order of Santerre, to drown the dying words of the son of

St. Louis! So he retorted in a manner which I do not choose to repeat;

but therewith ended all the hopes of the sweet and gentle Cecile, and of

my brave brother, who was travelling, as fast as the railway trains

could fly, through the provinces from Marseilles, to see us all, and his

own happy home again.

"At those malignant letters, the dark Lucrece laughed bitterly. At

Beaujeu poor Claude learned the state of affairs between the families,

and, weak as he had become by hard service in Africa, and the wound he

had received at Narah, he could barely withstand the shock. It filled

him with despair; but he loved Cecile too well to relinquish her. They

had many interviews, contrived I know not how, and a secret marriage was

arranged and concluded before even the watchful and jealous Lucrece

could discover them, or interrupt it; so nothing remained now but for

Claude to carry off his bride, to reach the old chateau among the

mountains of Beaujolais, and trust to his father's old parental love and

pride in his recent bravery for forgiveness.

"A powerful Arab horse, with which Canrobert had presented him (and

which had borne a warrior of the Kabyles in many a bloody conflict) was

accoutred with a market saddle and pillion to bear the lovers, who were

to be disguised as a farmer and his wife, lest _monsieur le maire_ and

his workmen might assume arms and fire on them; for the Revolution of

two years before had left much bad feeling between the aristocrats and

the _canaille_ (as the former most unwisely termed the latter), and thus

in the provinces many a lawless act was done that never reached Paris,

or figured in the pages of the _Moniteur_.

"So Claude wore a blue blouse over his uniform, a straw hat, in lieu of

the smart scarlet kepi; and Cecile was disguised as a _paysanne_ of

Beaujolais. All this was achieved with the assistance of Lucrece. Dull

despair had settled on her heart now, and, finding that Cecile was

irrevocably the wife of Claude Chaverondier, she could only endeavour to

be resigned, and to complete the happiness she had failed to mar or

interrupt, and could never hope to enjoy.

"The night on which they were to set forth was dark and tempestuous.

Near Beaujeu there rolls a mountain torrent, a tributary of the Saone.

It was crossed by a narrow wooden bridge, at a place where, between two

high and impending banks, on this night, it was foaming white and

furiously, as snows were melting in the mountains, and every tiny

rivulet was full to overflowing.

"Lucrece had secured the key of the private gate which closed the end of

this bridge, and she was to lock it after the lovers had passed through,

and thus bar pursuit in that direction. With a sad heart she issued

forth to undo the barrier. So wild was the tempestuous wind that she

could barely keep afoot, and she felt her aching heart tremble when she

saw the blackness of the fast-flying clouds, between which the pale

stars shone coldly forth at intervals; and now she came to where the

black and hideous chasm yawned in the rocks, and she could see, far down

below, the snow-white flood boiling hoarsely over its stony bed, deep,

fierce, and swollen, as it rushed to join the Saone, hurling rocks and

trees together to the sea.

"The wild winter flood and the stormy night were both in accordance with

the tempestuous spirit that writhed in her bosom. She heard the hoofs

of Claude's Arab horse, as their clatter was swept past on the wind,

that blew her black, dishevelled hair in disorder about her pallid face;

and as she unlocked the gate, a sob of astonishment and terror escaped

her.

"The wooden bridge had fallen, or been torn by the tempest from its

posts, and the gulf was impassable.

"To warn the lovers was her first good impulse; to be silent was the

second.

"As they rode up to thank and bid her adieu, she saw their mutual

endearments; she saw the strong arm of Claude caressingly round the

waist of Cecile, and her head reposing trustfully on his shoulder, as

she sat on the saddle before him. Then a madness seemed to sting the

heart of Lucrece! She felt herself to the fullest extent the neglected,

the discarded, the unloved one, and revenge and hatred filled her soul

with a dreadful fury.

"'Adieu, dear, dear Lucrece!' cried Cecile; 'adieu! and pray for us.'

"'Ride on; the way is clear,' she replied, in a breathless voice.

"And Claude gave the spur to his Arab. Like an arrow it shot past her.

In another instant a scream rang upward on the stormy wind, as the horse

and its double burden went headlong into the wild abyss of rushing water

far below, and disappeared for ever!

"So perished my dear brother Claude, and with him my friend Cecile.

"Lucrece stood there for a time like one bewildered and aghast, for the

whole episode resembled a sudden and ghastly dream, from which she might

yet awaken. She saw only the river foaming past like a white flood amid

the blackening gloom, and its roar seemed deafening and stunning, and

she placed her hands on her ears to shut out the sound, as she went

slowly home, and for days and nights the roar of the river seemed never

to leave her. From that hour she was quite insane, and, if still alive,

is an inmate of the lunatic asylum at Beaujeu.

"This double catastrophe had such an effect upon my spirits that, after

the death of my father, by the advice of _monsieur le cure_, I quitted

the Chateau de Chaverondier, joined the order to which I now belong, and

was soon after sent hither with the army of the East."

Such, as nearly as I can remember, was the sad story of her early life

told me by Mademoiselle Chaverondier.

It was not until I began to recover that I became fully aware of the

vast debt of gratitude I owed to this good sister of charity, and that I

completely knew how much I owed to her sisterly and motherly care of me

during that perilous and loathsome disease.

But there were no means of repaying her. Gratitude of the heart was all

she would accept, and that I gave her to the full, but now daily, as I

became convalescent, and as my brother officers cantered over from the

vale of Aladyn to visit me, she left me more and more alone, and there

were three whole days during which she never came at all.

I rather think she was scared by Studhome, who had ridden over with a

couple of champagne bottles in his holsters, and whom she found smoking

in my _kiosk_, with his shell-jacket open, and his stock off, and

singing a song, the first verse of which was something in this style--

My father cared little for shot or shell,

He laughed at death and dangers;

He'd have stormed the very gates of hell,

At the head of the Connaught Rangers.

How much I missed her!

When she did return it was to bid me adieu, and to say that she had been

ordered to attach herself to the 45th regiment of the French line, where

severe duties awaited her, and that in all human probability I should

never see her more.

Those farewell words sounded sadly. We shook hands kindly,

affectionately, and parted with tears in our eyes. In my heart I felt

the love of a brother for that self-devoted French girl, and at that

time she could but little foresee the sad offices I was to render her in

the hour of suffering that was to come.

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

Then sacred be their last repose who fall

Bravely and greatly at their duty's call,

Mix with their country's cries the parting breath,

And from the vanguard face her foes in death!

I, too, have known the hour when friendship's tear

Has dewed from British eyes a comrade's bier,

When the rough soldier o'er the lowly cell

Of fallen courage breathed a last farewell,

Paid the last mournful honours to the brave,

And left, with heavy heart, the new-closed grave.

LORD GRENVILLE.

On the 5th of September the allied armies embarked at Varna, and the

14th of the same month saw us landing in the Crimea, on ground near the

Lake of Kamishlu--not that chosen by the gallant Lord Raglan

originally--some miles north of the Bulganak river, at a place where the

cliffs, a hundred feet in height, overhung the beach. But, save a

boat-load of Zouaves, who were run down by a steam-transport, all were

disembarked safely under cover of the cannon of the allied fleets, and

without molestation from the enemy. The change of landing-place was

owing to the treachery of the French, who altered the buoys in the

night.

Lord Raglan could scarcely forget, what many an old peninsular veteran

remembered, that the auspicious day on which we made this landing in the

country of the foe was the anniversary of the death of his former

leader, the great Duke of Wellington.

We were exactly thirty miles westward of Sebastopol. The morning was

fine, and the surface of the Black Sea was smooth as glass. The whole

of the troops of the light division were in their boats, in heavy

marching order, with sixty rounds per man; packed close, each soldier

sat with his firelock between his knees, and the seamen, with their oars

out in the rowlocks, all motionless, and awaiting the signal.

It was given, and instantly a hum, rising to a cheer, passed over all

that vast array of men and boats; a gleam passed over the bright

accoutrements, and the oars fell plashing into the water.

"Give way, lads--lay out upon your oars!" was the order.

And the whole line of boats--a mile in length--shot off from the fleet;

and at half-past eight A.M. the first, which belonged to the

_Britannia_, landed her living freight.

Mid-leg deep in the surf, the sailors lent us valuable assistance in

getting ashore. Fusiliers, Highlanders, guardsmen and rifles, lancers

and hussars, all rapidly formed line upon the beach, where the infantry

piled arms, and the cavalry stood by their horses. Those who may have

witnessed the trouble and care requisite for the landing of one horse

from a vessel, with all the appliances of a spacious quay, can imagine

the difficulties attendant on the disembarkation of one thousand

chargers, armed and accoutred on an open beach.

The French were landing elsewhere, under St. Arnaud and Canrobert; and

ere long, sixty thousand men stood to their arms on that remarkable

peninsula, Crim Tartary--of old, the Isle of Kaffa, and known to recent

fame as the Crimea!

We were entirely without baggage. Our tents, and everything that might

encumber us in advancing to meet the enemy, had been left on board the

fleet; thus, few of us had cause to forget the night of the 14th of

September, when the army halted to sleep in an open bivouac, on bare

ground, for we had learned nothing in the art of conducting a war since

Moore fought and fell at Corunna.

Without cessation the drenching rain fell down. Thus our thin uniforms

and blankets were speedily soaked; but all ranks suffered in common. I

saw the Duke of Cambridge sleeping amid his staff, with his head

protected by a little tilt cart. For myself, I chiefly passed that

miserable night muffled in my cloak, dismounted, in the ranks beside my

horse, with my right arm twisted in the stirrup-leather for support, and

my head reposing on the holster flap. Thus I snatched a standing doze,

with the cold rain pouring down the nape of my neck; and in this fashion

most of the cavalry division passed this night, the effects of which

were speedily shown in the ranks of our young and as yet untried army.

Many of our battalions were already in possession of a hill on the right

of our landing place, and commanding it; and all the evening of the 14th

its sides were brightened by the glitter of their arms shining brightly

in the sun (that was then setting in the golden Euxine), as they formed

along its green slope in contiguous close columns of regiments.

"But," says an eye-witness, "what were those long strings of soldiery

now beginning to come down the hillside, and to wind their way back

towards the beach? and what were the long white burdens horizontally

carried by the men? Already--already on this same day? Yes, sickness

still clung to the army. Of those who only this morning ascended the

hill with seeming alacrity, many now came down thus sadly borne by their

comrades. They were carried on ambulance stretchers, and a blanket was

over them. Those whose faces remained uncovered were still alive.

Those whose faces had been covered by their blankets were dead. Near

the foot of the hill the men began to dig graves."

Each poor fellow was buried in his uniform and blanket. Thus began our

war in the Crimea!

The reason for our tents being left on board was occasioned by the curse

of the red-tapeism and ignorance in London. On the outbreak of the

conflict, we were destitute alike of the _materiel_ and the _personnel_

for a transport corps of any description whatever, beyond a few Maltese

mule carts; and had the Russians availed themselves of the ample time so

kindly given them by our ministry, and swept every species of horse and

waggon from the Crimea, our advance upon Sebastopol had been a movement

of greater difficulty than it proved to be. All our most useful baggage

was thus left at Varna, and there I lost with mine much of the lumber

with which I had provided myself at Maidstone, and at good Sir Nigel's

expense. At last we were on Russian ground. I reminded Studhome of the

conduct of Mr. Berkeley, and urged that now a meeting should be arranged

beyond the outposts. I remember how palpably Jack changed colour at my

angry suggestion. He concealed from me a fact, which afterwards came to

my knowledge, that Berkeley had circulated injurious reports concerning

me through not only the lancers, but the hussar corps of our brigade.

But now Studhome put it to me, as a matter of feeling and discretion,

whether I should insist on this secret duel, for a matter that was long

past, when we would soon be face to face with the enemy, and when one of

us, perhaps both, might not be spared to see another muster day. These

arguments prevailed; I smothered my wrath, and met Mr. De Warr Berkeley

(as he chose to designate himself) on duty with cold civility, but

nothing more. To be cordial was beyond my powers of acting or

endurance. And thus, for the time, our quarrel stood. When those who

were ignorant of the cause of coolness between us remarked it, his

general answer was--

"Aw--haw--don't know the reason, 'pon my soul; but those Scotsmen are

such doocid awd fellahs."

Our contingent consisted of twenty-six thousand foot, one thousand

mounted cavalry, and sixty pieces of cannon, divided into five divisions

of infantry and one of horse; an absurdly small force to attempt an

invasion of Russia, even with the greater strength of the French and

Turkish allies--the former being thirty thousand, and the latter seven

thousand bayonets. Our first division, led by his Royal Highness the

Duke of Cambridge, consisted of the Grenadier, Coldstream, and Scots

Fusilier Guards, with three Highland regiments--the Black Watch, the

Cameron, and 93rd Highlanders, all considering themselves the _corps

d'elite_ of the army. The other divisions, under Sir George Brown, Sir

De Lacy Evans, Sir Richard England, and Sir George Cathcart, were

composed of our splendid infantry of the line--as I have elsewhere

said--the noble and carefully developed army of forty years of peace;

and the Earl of Lucan, who in his youth had served as a volunteer with

the Russians against the Turks in the campaigns under Diebitch, led our

mounted chivalry--the cavalry division--the flower of the British

Isles--yet to be covered with glory in the disastrous Valley of Death!

While the armies were advancing, with my troop I was repeatedly

despatched by the Quarter-master-General, Major-General Richard Airey,

to procure provisions and carriages, for that officer, beyond any other,

had seen from the first the necessity of procuring supplies and means of

transport. On one of these occasions, by his orders, I had the good

fortune to capture twenty-five _kibitkas_, or waggons, in a village near

our line of march. On the same day I think it was that his

aide-de-camp, the gallant Nolan, when exploring for water, came upon a

Russian government convoy of eighty waggons laden with flour, and seized

them all, routing the escort. In all we obtained three hundred and

fifty waggons, with their teams and Tartar drivers.

The chief proprietor of the _kibitkas_ I had taken was the patriarch or

leading man of the village--a Tartar of venerable aspect, wearing a

pelisse or long robe of blue stuff, with a small black lambskin cap, not

unlike an Egyptian tarboosh, from under which his white hair flowed upon

his shoulders.

Accustomed only to the lawless and brutal military tyranny of the

Muscovites and Cossacks, nothing could equal the good man's astonishment

when I informed him, by means of an interpreter, that we merely required

the loan of the carts, and that he would be duly paid. Allah, ho

Ackbar!--think of that--actually paid, for any inconvenience or loss the

villagers might suffer by their detention.

On the morning of the 19th we quitted our miserable bivouac, and

commenced our march in search of the enemy, for we were on perilous

ground, and had the Russians come suddenly upon us, we might have been

compelled to risk a battle with our rear to the cliffs which overhung

the Euxine (where the sea-calves basked on the beach a hundred feet

below), and on a field where defeat would have been certain ruin and

death to all. But, as the French had assumed to themselves the honour

of the right wing, they had thus a greater risk than we British, who had

quietly taken the left flank, as the allies advanced along the coast.

The 11th Hussars and 13th Light Dragoons, under Lord Cardigan, formed an

advanced guard; and in their rear marched a detachment of rifles, in

extended or skirmishing order. We knew that the enemy was somewhere in

front; but in what force, or where or how posted, we were in perfect

ignorance. Occasionally an excited voice in the ranks would exclaim

that a Russian vedette was in sight on the distant hills.

The atmosphere was calm, the sky almost cloudless, and high into its

azure ascended the smoke of the allied fleet, which kept moving under

steam far away on the right flank of the French army, which rested on

the shore. The sun shone hot and brightly; but at times there came

pleasantly a light, fresh breeze from the shining Euxine.

The colours were all uncased and flying; the bands of the cavalry and

infantry, with the merry bugles of the rifles, filled the air with

music; and I could hear the pipes of the Highlanders, under the Duke of

Cambridge, alternately swelling up or dying away upon the ambient air,

as the first division traversed the undulating country in front.

As we proceeded, I could not resist letting my horse's reins drop upon

his neck, and soaring into dreamland, my thoughts went far away to our

distant home beyond the sea. Sometimes I imagined how my name would

look in the list of killed or wounded, and of what Louisa Loftus would

think then. And with this morbid fancy came always another idea--was it

a conviction?--that such an announcement would cause a deeper and more

lasting grief in Calderwood Glen than at Chillingham Park; and I thought

of my good uncle reading the heavy news to his two faithful old

henchmen, Binns, the butler, and Pitblado, the keeper.

Louisa's lock of raven hair which I had received at Calderwood, the

miniature which she had sent to me afterwards at the barracks, were with

me now; and with me, too, was the memory of those delicious words she

had whispered in my ear in the library at Chillingham--

"Till we are both in our graves, dear Newton, you will never, never know

how much I love you, and the agony which Berkeley's cunning cost me."

This was strong language: yet it would seem now that, amid the whirl of

fashionable life at Chillingham Park, balls, routs, dinners, suppers,

and reviews, the race, and the hunting-field dotted with red coats, she

had been compelled, or had allowed herself, to forget me--I, who thought

of her only. And amid that more brilliant vortex, the world of London

life, the Queen's Court, the royal drawing-rooms, the crowded parks, the

gaieties of Rotten Row and the Lady's Mile, the splendours of the opera,

and the wonders of the Derby, it seemed likely enough that a poor devil

of a lancer serving in the East was to be forgotten, and for ever too!

From such a reverie I would be roused by Jocelyn, Sir Harry Scarlett, or

some other of ours, exclaiming--

"Look out! By Jove! there's a Russian vedette!"

Then through my field-glass I might discern, between me and the sky, a

Cossack in a fur cap, riding along the green ridge in the distance, with

his knees up to his girdle, his back bent, his lance-head glinting in

the sunshine, and the snub nose of his Calmuck visage planted almost

between the drooping ears of his shaggy little horse, as he uttered a

shrill whoop and galloped away.

"We seem to be coming closer and closer to those fellows," said the

colonel. "Every moment I expect to see Cardigan with the advanced guard

draw the cover, and receive a dose of grape from flying artillery."

"And those vedettes seem to be thrown forward from a large force,

colonel," said Studhome. "I have already detected five or six different

uniforms."

"Yes, Jack. So I would advise you to write a dutiful letter to your

friends."

"Why, colonel?" said our adjutant, laughing.

"Because we shall certainly be under fire to-morrow."

To-morrow proved to be the day of the Alma--an eventful day for many.

The approach of danger made all who were in health grow high in spirit

and hilarity.

"Rather different work this from the gravelled yards at Canterbury and

Maidstone," said Wilford, joining us at a canter, to share a little

conversation.

"Ay, Fred," said the colonel; "and very different from our daily service

of a year or so ago."

"At Allahabad and Agra--eh?"

"Yes. Lying half the day on an easy _fauteuil_, in a silk shirt and

cotton drawers, fanned by an Indian girl; or cooled by a punkah, and

guarded by mosquito-curtains, making up our books on the Meerut race

meeting; calculating the rising or falling of the thermometer, and

studying the 'Army List?'"

(Another year or two was to see very different work cut out at Cawnpore

and Delhi for our Indian comrades.)

Five nights spent amid the mud of our bivouac had somewhat tarnished the

finery of our lancer uniforms. Already the bullion of our large

epaulettes was crushed and torn, our gorgeous lace defaced and frayed;

but our horses were all in high condition, and our arms and appointments

bright enough to have satisfied even Count Tilly himself.

On this short day's march we lost one lancer of Wilford's troop.

Passing where a Coldstream guardsman lay by the wayside, black in

visage, and dying of weakness, thirst, and heat, he gave him the entire

contents of his wooden canteen, and falling from his saddle soon after,

died himself for lack of that which he had so generously given another,

as there was not a drop of water with the regiment; for, in the Crimea,

by the end of August, all springs, rivulets, and fountains are alike

dried up; verdure disappears, and the thermometer, even in the shade,

rises to 98 or 100 degrees.

Twice on this march I saw a sister of charity kneeling beside the sick

or dying, and rode on to learn whether she might prove to be

Mademoiselle Chaverondier, or, as I preferred to call her, my dear

sister Archange, but on both occasions I was disappointed. All were

high in courage, and full of ardour; but their spirit changed and sunk

as the hot and breathless day wore on, and our poor men's strength

became worn out. The music ceased, as band after band gave in, and the

drummers slung their drums wearily on their backs. Even the Scotch

bagpipes died away, and the massed columns, each some five thousand

strong, trod silently over the undulating steppes, with all their sloped

arms, and the glazed tops of their shakos, glittering in the sun. But

long ere the noon of that first day of toil, many had begun to fall out,

in all the agonies of cholera. At one place my horse had actually to

pick his way among them. All looked black in the face, and choking; the

heavy bearskin caps and thick leather stocks were cast aside, and their

jackets were torn open. Some were writhing in agony, and others,

weakened by toil and thirst, lay still and voiceless. On we marched, on

and on, and the sufferers were left to the Cossack lances, or a more

lingering death, while the wolves from the groves of the Alma, and the

Alpine vulture and kite from the rocks of Kamishlu, hung on our skirts,

and waited for their prey. Our thirst was intense and indescribable,

when a shout of joy announced that the advanced guard, under Lord

Cardigan, had reached that long-wished-for river the Bulganak, where we

were to bivouac for the night. The moment a division came in sight of

the cool stream that rippled between its green banks, and groves of wild

olive and pomegranate trees, the men burst with a shout from the ranks,

and rushed forward to slake their burning and agonizing thirst.[*]

[*] In one brigade a stronger governance was maintained. Sir Colin

Campbell would not allow that even the rage of thirst should loosen the

discipline of his splendid Highland regiments. He halted them a little

before they reached the stream, and so ordered it that, by being saved

from the confusion that would have been wrought by their own wild haste,

they gained in comfort, and knew that they were gainers. When men toil

in organized masses, they owe what well-being they have to wise and firm

commanders."--Kinglake's "Invasion of the Crimea," vol. ii.

The infantry were speedily bivouacked along the bank of the stream; but

we--the cavalry--were fated to have a little passage at arms with the

Russians before the sun set.

*CHAPTER XXXV*

Sword at my left side gleaming!

Why is thy keen glance beaming,

So fondly bent on mine?

Thanks for that smile of thine. Hurrah!

Borne by a trooper daring,

My looks his fire-glance wearing,

I arm a freeman's hand,

That well delights thy brand! Hurrah!

THEODORE KOeRNER.

Physical endurance is not a more necessary quality to the soldier than

mental elasticity. There seemed to be no want of the latter among our

fellows, when we unbitted our horses and sat down to a meal which was

improvised by our servants near a grove of turpentine and caper trees.

It was a lovely evening now, and many a wreath of purple and golden

cloud lay cradled in the amber sunset. The infantry had piled their

arms by regiments, brigades, and divisions, and the thousands of our

host lay panting on the sward, or preparing to cook their rations in

such a fashion as suited the emergency or their fancy. In the distance

were flocks of bustards crossing the now arid plain, which in summer had

been covered by a profusion of aromatic herbs. Our accoutrements were

cast on the grass, our uniforms were unbuttoned, cigar-cases went from,

hand to hand, freely interchanged, and even the last copies of _Punch_

were conned over and laughed at.

Thanks to me, and the use of a _kabitka_ I procured, we had plenty of

provisions. A ham, some cold fowls, Bass's pale ale, sherry, even

champagne, were produced by some of ours; and these, with a few

cucumbers and gourds, medlars, and filberts, which Willie Pitblado had

found in the deserted garden of a Tartar, formed, all things considered,

a sumptuous repast, and what it lacked in style and equipage was amply

made up for in fun and jollity, for "men accommodate themselves

unconsciously to the modes of living that are forced upon them. It is a

law of our being, and it is well that it should be so. A bomb bursting

in the midst of a fashionable London dinner party would do no more

mischief than one of the numbers which used to burst daily within the

walls of Lucknow; but assuredly it would produce a far greater

impression."

"This is really the tug of war!" exclaimed Wilford, who, after various

ineffectual efforts to uncork a champagne bottle, adroitly struck off

its head by the stroke of a knife.

"Yes, by Jove! and think of the mess!" added Jocelyn.

"To feel," said the colonel, "that one has a soul--and what is more, an

appetite, a taste, and decided predilection for turtle soup and

_recherche entrees_--and yet compelled to appreciate this style of

thing!"

"I can appreciate everything and anything," exclaimed the paymaster.

"Even an 'aggis, eh?--haw!" said Berkeley.

"Yes, even a haggis. My stomach is as empty as a kettledrum," replied

the paymaster, as he sliced away at the ham.

"I think there is something going on in front," observed Wilford,

pausing in the act of dissecting a fowl.

"Yes," said Beverley; "Lord Raglan, with some squadrons of the 11th and

13th, has crossed the river to reconnoitre; but let us make the most of

the present, our turn will come all in good time. Pass the wine,

M'Goldrick; a slice of meat, Studhome--thanks."

"Ugh!" remarked the paymaster; "'the bed of honour,' as Jean Paul

Richter says, 'since whole regiments lie on it, and frequently have

received their last unction, should really be filled anew, beaten and

sunned.'"

"What--aw, haw--does that quotation mean?" asked Berkeley, adjusting his

eyeglass, contracting the muscles of his eye, and giving our old Scots

paymaster an inquiring and quizzical stare. "It sounds doocid queer,

and--haw--unpleasant."

"I was thinking of the hard bed I shall sleep on to-night, sir," replied

M'Goldrick, rather sternly.

"By Jove, some of us may sleep sound enough to-night yet," said the

colonel, half starting up. "There is a decided movement in front, and

here comes a French mounted officer."

At that moment a subaltern of Zouaves, mounted on a French dragoon

horse, in a somewhat excited manner, dashed up to where we lay lounging

on the grass, reined his trooper sharply in on the bit, shouting

something of which I could only make out the prefix, "_Messieurs les

officiers_!"

"_Diable!_ you don't speak French?" he added, in English, to Travers of

ours.

"No, sir; I am sorry----"

"_Peste!_" interrupted the Frenchman; "every staff officer should speak

at least two European languages."

"_Dioul na bocklish_! There, I can speak my mother tongue, being an

Irishman; and if that won't do, the devil is in it. But I am not a

staff officer," he added, to the stranger, in whom I now recognized M.

Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves.

"The enemy is in great force in front, and your commander-in-chief, with

the two regiments of your advanced guard, will be surrounded and cut

off."

"Lord Raglan, with the 11th and 13th!" we exclaimed, starting to our

feet; and just at that moment an aide-de-camp, Captain Bolton, of the

1st Dragoon Guards, came galloping up, and exclaimed--

"Boot and saddle, Colonel Beverley; the 11th and 13th, under Lord

Cardigan, are engaged in front. Cavalry supports and horse artillery

are instantly required."

The trumpets sounded, the regiment formed by troops, and joined the

brigade, which formed in squadrons, and advanced rapidly in search of

the enemy.

"Aw--doocid bore, after our pleasant little tiffin," I heard Berkeley

say, with a bantering air; but I could see that he looked very white for

all that, and Beverley only smiled superciliously, as he twisted his

thick moustaches.

"I wonder Berkeley has not his white gloves on," he whispered to me, and

I saw some of our men smiling, for it was a regimental joke, or

notoriety, that he was in the habit of pencilling on his gloves the

words of command he had to issue in succession.

As the junior regiment, we were in the centre of the brigade, the senior

corps being on the right, and the next in seniority on the left; and we

advanced at a rapid trot, in a column of squadrons at wheeling distance,

while the artillery, making a dreadful clatter, with all their tumbrils

limbered up, their spare wheels, forge waggons, rammers, sponges,

buckets, and other apparatus, went thundering at full gallop to the

front.

"In a few minutes, my lads, we may be hand to hand with the enemy,"

shouted Beverley, as he stood up in his stirrups and brandished his

sword; "let us be true to the old motto of the regiment!"

All knew what he meant, and responded by a long and ringing cheer, for

our lancers had been raised as light dragoons in 1759, by Colonel John

Hale, the officer who came to London with the news of Wolfe's fall and

victory at Quebec; and in that year it was ordered by his Majesty George

II. that "on the front of the men's caps, and on the left breast of

their uniforms, there was to be a death's head, with two crossbones over

it, and underneath the motto, '_Or Glory_.'" And this grim but

significant badge we still wear on all our appointments.[*] It would

appear that, early in the afternoon, and before the whole army had

halted, our old and one-armed leader, the good Lord Raglan, who had

ridden far in advance of the first division of infantry, observed a

group of Cossacks hovering on the brow of a green hill, towards the

south, on which he ordered part of Lord Cardigan's command, the 11th

Hussars and 13th Light Dragoons, forward to reconnoitre. On this

occasion Lord Lucan was also present.

[*] Our predecessors in the service were the old Scots 17th Light

Dragoons, raised at Edinburgh in the winter of 1759, during the alarm of

the projected invasion under the Marechal Duc d'Aiguillon, by Sholto,

Lord Aberdour, afterwards sixteenth Earl Morton, who died in Sicily in

1774. This corps, which never consisted of more than two troops, served

in the Seven Years' War, and was disbanded in 1763. One of its

officers, Lieutenant the Honourable Sir T. Maitland, son of the Earl of

Lauderdale, died so lately as 1824, a lieutenant-general, G.C.B.,

governor of Malta and the Ionian Isles.

Where the road from Eupatoria to Sebastopol crosses the Bulganak, the

bank of the river rises for several hundred yards, and then the ground

slopes down into a valley, beyond which rises a succession of grassy

undulations. The hussars and light dragoons rode boldly forward.

Formed in four squadrons, they splashed through the stream, galloped up

the bank, and descended into the hollow, before they became aware that

no less than two thousand Russian cavalry were advancing to meet them,

with a line of skirmishers in front in extended order.

"Forward, skirmishers!" was now the command.

The trumpet sounded, and from the flanks of each squadron, as it halted

to form line, the few selected men for this duty spread at intervals of

twenty yards from each other, at the distance of two hundred yards from

the column; sheathing their swords and unslinging their carbines, as

they took up their dressing from the right. Beyond the crest of the

second eminence, a steady glittering in the sunshine revealed to the

keen eyes of General Airey that it came from the points--the mere

tips--of fixed bayonets, and that there were concealed in the hollow way

many battalions of an infantry force, quietly waiting to open a close

and murderous fire upon our little body of cavalry, when they were lured

sufficiently far forward to secure their total destruction. In fact,

our advanced guard, composed of only two slender regiments, was thus

suddenly opposed to six thousand men of the 17th Russian division,

posted in ambush, with two batteries of artillery, a brigade of regular

cavalry, and nine sotnias of Cossacks, the whole under General

Carlovitch Baur. It was a perilous--a terrible dilemma! Lord Raglan

knew that he must avoid an action on one hand, and secure the retreat of

the 11th and 13th with complete honour on the other. To the

roughly-mounted and loosely-handled Russian horsemen, the beautiful and

ceremonious formation of our gay hussars, with their glittering dolmans,

and our smart light dragoons in blue and buff, with all their swords and

bright appointments flashing in the sunshine, was a cause of hesitation.

They could not suppose but that this slender force had a greater body of

troops at hand, and feared the very snare they were preparing for

others; thus they were quietly and tranquilly confronting each other,

out of musket-range, when we, with the light and second division, the

8th Hussars, and nine-pounder batteries, came up at a gallop, to succour

our comrades, and got into position. After this, the wily and savage

Muscovites found their opportunity gone, and the gallant Baur was rather

nonplussed.

When the regiments of the infantry divisions came up, they deployed into

line, and all their bright steel ramrods glittered in the sunshine, as

they loaded with ball cartridge and "capped." We, the cavalry support,

took up a position in the left rear of the advanced force under Lord

Cardigan, and rapidly loaded our pistols and carbines, awaiting further

orders. In each of my holsters I carried a six-chambered revolver. So

close were we to our advanced guard, that we could hear the officers of

the 11th and the 13th recalling their skirmishers.

"Retire the skirmishers," rang again and again on the clear air;

"shorten stirrups--girth up--reload and reform."

Every heart was beating high, for we were now face to face with an

enemy--many among us for the first time.

"Keep your dressing, squadron leaders," said Colonel Beverley, whose

eyes were lit up by a strange brightness--indeed, it seemed to spread

over all his handsome and sunburned face; "close up, gentlemen. We have

all been used to ride to hounds, and that is more than any of those

Russian fellows have done. By Jove! I should like to see them crossing

a stiff stone-wall country. In a few minutes, lancers, I repeat we may

be hand to hand with the enemy; so, when we come to close quarters,

remember the old fencing-school advice, 'Watch your antagonist's eyes,

not his blade.'"

I was leader of our left squadron, and had my post, of course, half a

horse's length in front of the standard, which was carried by Sergeant

Stapylton. It was a white swallow-tailed pennon, with a skull, and the

words, "Or Glory" embroidered beneath--terribly significant at such a

time, as it rustled out in the breeze. My secret enemy, Mr. Berkeley,

was a troop leader on my left, at some little distance, and at this

exciting moment there was a singular expression in his eyes. I thought

he was about to ride up and extend his hand to me, for I had known of

forgiveness being often asked and accorded when men were face to face

with death; but if it were so, I was pitiless. I remembered Lady Louisa

Loftus, and the cottage by the Reculvers, and resolved that the hard

expression of my glance should chill him. Little did I know the ideas

that were in his mind, and the mischief he was yet to work me, ere we

passed the heights of Alma. On this evening, so cool were some of our

fellows, that I detected several of the rear-rank men tickling the

front-rank horses, to make them kick. Lord Raglan now became

apprehensive that the numerous cavalry of General Baur, in their longing

for a little sword exercise, might be tempted to charge the Earl of

Cardigan's slender force; thus it became necessary to draw it off

without further delay, and to express his desire to that officer,

despatched General Airey, whose movements we watched with irrepressible

excitement.

"Your brigade will immediately retire, my lord, and by alternate

squadrons," said the general, reining in his horse, and saluting.

Lord Cardigan bowed, and gave the necessary orders for throwing back the

squadrons of direction.

"Right squadron and left--threes about--march--trot!"

The remainder of the 11th and 13th remained motionless in their saddles,

with swords drawn, waiting till the flank squadrons halted and fronted,

about a hundred yards in their rear, when their own turn came to retire,

and so the movement of retreating alternately in this fashion went on.

But the moment it began, General Baur's Russian brigade of horse

artillery came galloping out of the hollow, and were wheeled round and

unlimbered in battery on the ridge. The red flash of the first

field-piece made every heart bound and every pulse quicken; and ere we

had time for reflection, another and another boomed, with a cloud of

white smoke, from the green eminence. Then a gap appeared here and

there in the ranks of the 11th and 13th, as a horse, a hussar, or light

dragoon went down, and we saw them rolling in agony on the sward; but

their comrades closed in, holster to holster, and still the retreat by

alternate squadrons went coolly and quietly on. The six-pounder guns

attached to Cardigan's force had no power upon the enemy; but the

nine-pounders which accompanied our brigade slew many of the Russians at

their guns. At every boom that echoed through the still evening air,

the scared birds flew about, screaming and flapping their wings wildly,

till, at last, they actually grovelled among our horses' hoofs.

The 11th and 13th retired beyond us, and then came our turn to go threes

about, and fall back by squadrons, under cover of our artillery, whose

balls told so well that Beverley mentioned he could reckon through his

glass at least thirty-five Russian dragoons, with their horses, lying

stiff enough on the slope, where our nine-pounders had roughly loosed

their "silver cords" for ever. Prior to this, we had moved ten paces to

the left--a lucky thing for me, as a shrub which my horse had been

nibbling was torn into pieces by a five-inch shell a second or so after.

Glory apart, I was not sorry when we got the order to retire, for we

could achieve little honour here. My horse seemed sensible of our

danger, when the balls of the Russian artillery began to plough and tear

up the earth at his feet, or to hum past with a sound that made him

shrink. He kicked, lashed out behind, pawed with his forefeet, bore

with his teeth on the bit, and uttered strange snorts.

"By heaven! there is one of ours down!" exclaimed Jocelyn, my sub, in an

excited manner, as he turned in his saddle; and we saw a lancer in blue

lying on his back in our rear, his horse galloping away, and three

Russian skirmishers busy about him, while four dragoons were cantering

on to join them.

"'Tis poor Rakeleigh," said Studhome, galloping up; "a shot has just

smashed his right thigh."

"Colonel, may I try to save him--to recover his body?" I asked,

hurriedly.

"Certainly; but, Norcliff, be wary."

"Who will come with me?" cried I, wheeling round my horse.

"I, sir," replied Sergeant Dashwood.

"And I!" added Pitblado.

"And I! and I!" said others, unslinging their lances.

"Thanks, my brave lads!" cried Beverley. "Go at those devils like

bricks, and show them what true British pluck is!"

Attended by the first six who spoke, I galloped back to where the poor

fellow lay, heedless of the Russian cannon shot, and the three

skirmishers, in long grey coats and flat blue caps, who, after firing

their rifles without effect at us, scampered off to meet their troopers.

We found poor Rakeleigh quite dead, almost stripped already, and

hideously mutilated about the body. He had always been particular in

his person, and studiously fashionable in his dress. How often had we

quizzed those bandolined moustaches, now covered with froth and blood

gouts! His handsome face was terribly distorted, and his uniform was

almost gone--torn from him by those brutal Russian plunderers! Watch,

purse, and rings were also gone. We could but cut off a lock of his

rich brown hair to send to his poor mother in Athlone. He probably had

not been dead when overtaken by the Russians, as a bayonet wound was

perceptible in his breast. I had barely time to remark this, when a

shot from a Minie rifle whistled past me; and just as I sprang into my

saddle there was a shout and a crash--we were engaged in a _melee_ with

the seven Russians. Sergeant Dashwood pinned an infantry man to the

turf with his lance, and shot a trooper with the pistol which he grasped

in his bridle-hand. A gigantic Russian dragoon, with a red snub nose, a

thick black beard, and coarse green uniform, all over red braid, cut

through the shaft of Pitblado's lance, inflicting on his shoulder a

wound which many a volunteer officer would give a good round sum for the

honour of possessing; but, quick as lightning, Willie's sword was out,

and, after a few passes, he clove him through the glazed helmet down to

the nose. It was one of those tremendous strokes we read of sometimes,

but seldom see; such a stroke as that which Bruce gave Bohun, when he

"broke his good battle-axe" in front of the Scottish line. It rather

appalled our new acquaintances, who spurred away, dragging their two

infantry men with them. We then rode back to the regiment at a

hand-gallop; for we were compelled to leave the body of poor Rakeleigh.

What became of it I know not; but every vestige of it had disappeared

when we marched past that way on the morrow.

And so, as the twilight came down on land and ocean--on the plains of

the Chersonesus Taurica, and the waters of the Black Sea--ended this

"first approach to a passage at arms between Russia and the Western

Powers;" and Lord Raglan rejoiced in the steadiness and coolness

displayed by his slender force of cavalry in the now forgotten skirmish

of Bulganak, which the greater glories of the following day so

completely eclipsed.

"Poor Rakeleigh," said Beverley, as we gradually gathered at the place

where we had squatted before the alarm was given, and threw off our

accoutrements, while the grooms were unbitting our horses; "poor

lad--lying yonder to-night, mutilated and unburied--his first

engagement, too! Thank Heaven, his mother and sister don't see him as

we have done! But greater work is to come."

"Aw--the dooce, colonel!" said Berkeley, who, after the past danger, was

smoking his cigar vigorously, in a great flow, or rather revulsion, of

spirit; "what do you mean--haw--to infer?"

"That to-morrow we shall see the Russians, where their strength is all

concentrated in position on the heights of Alma!"

His words were rather prophetic; but all knew that matters must come to

the musket ere long. We passed the wine bottle from hand to hand, and

wrapped our cloaks and blankets about us preparatory to passing the

night as best we could. We were certainly less chatty and hilarious

than before, and had quite relinquished our jovial friend, _Mr. Punch_.

Doubtless each one was reflecting that poor Jack Rakeleigh's fate might

have been his own. If mine, would Louisa have shed a tear for me? The

doubt was a pang! We saw no more of General Baur, who fell back towards

the river Alma in the night; but long after we thought the affair over,

a shell, the last missile fired, came souse from a long gun into our

bivouac, and caused a new alarm.

Pitblado, after his wound was dressed, was about to feed his horse, and

placed the corn in a tin platter on the ground. While grooming the

charger, he saw a large raven come to feed at the corn. Twice he threw

a stone at it in vain--the greedy bird continued its repast obstinately.

On the third occasion, armed with another stone, he ran towards it, on

which the raven flew into a tree, where he croaked as angrily as if he

had Elijah to feed as well as himself. At that moment a shell--a

five-inch one---came whistling from the other side of the stream, and

exploded on the very place Pitblado had left, disembowelling and killing

his horse; so, in this instance, a raven was not the precursor of evil

fortune, or, as Willie said, sadly, while contemplating his dying

charger, "one hoodiecrow didna bode an ill wind."

At a future period I was fated to see more of the gallant Schleswiger

who commanded the Russian reconnaissance at Bulganak; but there is an

anecdote connected with his origin, and how he became a soldier, so

creditable to human nature, and that which is dying fast among us,

genuine love of home, that I may be pardoned relating it here, just as

Beverley told it in our bivouac--especially as it is only to be found in

the old _Utrecht Gazette_, or the scarcer memoirs of a Scottish soldier

of fortune, Count Bruce, neither of which may be within the reader's

reach. Prior to the conclusion of the dispute between Denmark and the

ducal house of Gottorp, when the Muscovite troops were in Schleswig and

Holstein, their cavalry were commanded by a general named Baur--a

soldier of fortune, who had attained his rank by merit and bravery

alone, his family and country being secrets to all save himself. His

troops occupied Husum, a small seaport at the mouth of the Hever, while

he, with his staff, lived in the old palace of the Duke Karl Peter of

Gottorp, who became Emperor of Russia, and lorded it over the people

with somewhat of a high hand. The little bailiwick was then a charming

place. The green meadows were fertile and rich, and spotted by golden

buttercups; the uplands were well tilled, and covered with wavy corn, or

deep rich clover; the farmhouses, of red brick and bright, yellow

thatch, were wondrously clean and pretty, their quaint porches covered

with flowing trailers, and borders gay with gorgeous hollyhocks.

The windmills whirled gaily in the breeze, and the laden boats, their

brown sails shining in the sun, floated lazily down the clear waters of

the river towards the calm and dark blue sea that stretched in the

distance far away--that sea where, as the Schleswigers aver, Waldemar

and Paine Jager, the Wild Huntsman, and Gron Jette, were never tired of

hunting and killing the mermaids, who sat on the slimy rocks, combing

their hair, and singing in the moonshine. All was peaceful, and all so

calm and rural, that the good men of Schleswig, their plump wives and

pretty daughters, trembled at the woes that might be wrought among them

by their bearded visitors from the Neva and the Wolga; and more than

ever were they alarmed on hearing that the general of the Muscovites had

sent for poor old Michel Baur, the miller by the wooden bridge, and also

for his wife, who went with many misgivings to the palace of the duke,

over which the standard with the cruel double eagle of the Czars was

flying.

"Make yourselves easy, my good people," said the Russian general,

kindly, as they entered the great hall, with eyes abashed and shrinking

hearts; "I mean only to do you a service, so this day you shall dine

with me."

Dine--dine with him--the general of the Muscovites? Did they hear

aright, or did their ears deceive them? Then he set the goodman Michel

and his goodwife Gretchen at table among the splendidly attired and

brilliantly accoutred officers of his staff--those counts and colonels

of Uhlans, hussars and cuirassiers, who gnawed their moustaches, and

raised their fierce eyebrows superciliously, with wonder and inquiry, at

proceedings so novel; while some of the younger laughed covertly at the

terror and bewilderment of the worthy couple, who, however, ate heartily

of dainties to which they were all unused, after their first alarm

subsided. The Muscovite general, who sat between them, at the head of

the table, with a kind smile on his handsome face--for handsome it was,

though his hair was now thin and grey--asked Michel many questions about

his family and household affairs--how the mill prospered and flour sold

in the market.

Then Michel, who scarcely ventured to raise his eyes from the order,

with the cross batons and crown of St. Andrew of Russia, which sparkled

on the general's breast, told him that he was the eldest son of his

father, who had been a miller at the same mill years and years ago, even

when Frederick V. of Denmark, married to the Princess Louisa of Great

Britain, was a boy.

"The eldest son, say you, Michel?"

"Yes, herr general," replied the miller, smoothing down his white hair

nervously.

"Then you had, at least, a brother?"

"Yes, herr general; poor Karl. He disappeared."

"How?"

"Some said he became a soldier, others that he was spirited away by the

fairies," said Gretchen.

"Many a prayer my good wife and I have said for Karl, though it is so

long since he was lost; and in his memory we have named our only son

Karl, too."

On hearing this, the Russian general became greatly moved, and, seeing

that the astonishment of his officers at the interest he took in these

humble rustics could no longer be repressed, he rose, and taking Michel

and his wife by the hand--"Gentlemen," said he, "you know me but as a

soldier of fortune, and have often been curious to learn who I am, whose

breast the Emperor has covered with stars and orders, and whence I came.

This village is my native place. In yonder crumbling mill by the wooden

bridge I was born. This is my brother Michel, and Gretchen, his wife!

I am Karl Baur, son of old Karl, the miller of Husum. Here was I

_bairn_ ere I relinquished my miller's dusty coat to become a soldier.

Oh, brother Michel, who then could have _spaed_[*] the present?" he

added, in their old native dialect, as he embraced the wondering pair.

[*] Foretold.

"I was supposed to have been stolen on St. John's night by the

golden-haired Stillevolk of the marshes, or the cranky old red-capped

Trolds, who dwelt among the green holms; but it was not so. I became a

hussar under Duke Karl Peter of Gottorp, and have risen to be what thou

seest--general of cavalry under our father the Emperor! So drink a deep

becker of our Danish beer, brother Michel; drink to the old times of our

boyhood, and fear not. I know our patrimony is but one of the poor

_Bauerhafen_, which are divided according to the number of ploughs; but

to-morrow thy _hufe_ shall be a _Freihufen_, Michel, free of all

burdens, even to the duke's bailiff or the King of Denmark."

Next day the general dined at the old mill, where he sat upon the same

hard stool he had used in boyhood, supping his Schleswig _groute_ with a

horn spoon from a wooden platter. In memory of the olden time, he placed

a marble cross above his parent's grave. Three days after the trumpets

were heard, and the army marched from Schleswig to return no more; but

the general--the same General Bauer who served under Suwarrow in the

famous campaigns of Italy--made a plentiful provision for his poor

relatives, and sent the miller's only son, his namesake, Karl, to Court

for his education, Karl rose to a high place in the household of the

Czar, and it was his son, Karlovitch Bauer, who prepared so specious a

trap for our advanced guard on the Bulganak--a trap happily rendered

useless by the skill and foresight of our leader, the good and brave

Lord Raglan.

*CHAPTER XXXVI.*

Let me go! The day is breaking,

Morning bursts upon mine eye,

Death this mortal frame is shaking;

But the soul can never die!

Let me go! The day-star beaming,

Gilds the radiant realms above;

Full its glory on me streaming

Lights me to the land of love!

LAYS OF THE PIOUS MINSTRELS.

Wrapped in my cloak and blanket, I had fallen into an uneasy slumber,

close by a fragment of ruined wall, the boundary, perhaps, of a deserted

Tartar garden, when I was roused by Sergeant Stapylton of my troop.

"I beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you," said he, in an apologetic way;

"but as I was returning from the river side with water for some of the

wounded horses, I passed a Frenchwoman, as I take her to be, dying to

all appearance, and thought, as she can't be left where she is, that if

you would come and speak to her----"

"Of course," said I, springing up; "where is she?"

"Near a grove of olive trees--just a pistol-shot or so beyond our

advanced sentries. You can pass me to the front, sir, as your guide."

Leaving the sleeping group of my brother officers, I accompanied

Stapylton, with stiffened joints and chattering teeth. The morning was

yet dark, but a red streak of light above the hilly ground that rose

between our left flank and the Perekop road, showed where the dawn was

about to break. All was still around me. Save the occasional neigh of

a horse, scarcely a sound broke the silence of that place, where so many

thousands of our soldiers were sleeping, or dozing as men may do, after

reflecting that the night which was passing away might be their last in

the land of the living, and that the coming day must find them face to

face with danger, and--death! On the chill breeze of the September

morning, I could hear the rush of the Bulganak over its stony bed,

between which and our bivouac could be traced the line of our cavalry

vedettes, seated, cloaked, in their saddles, with carbine on thigh, and

the advanced sentinels, muffled in their great coats, standing

motionless, with "ordered arms," and their faces turned to the

southward, where all knew the enemy lay. Passing through the Light

Brigade, where each man slept beside his horse, I stumbled over a

sleeper, in whom I recognized a medical officer, and asked him to

accompany us, which he did readily; and, guided by Stapylton, we

proceeded towards the grove of olive trees.

As we quitted the bivouac, the medical officer said--"You perceive that

vapour which is rising so steadily from the ground?"

"Yes," said I, with an irrepressible shudder; "I saw enough of it at

Varna."

"You are right," he continued, in a low and impressive voice; "that

pale, blue, fetid vapour is the cholera mist--always a bad sign. We

shall have many cases on our lists ere sunset to-morrow, and Heaven

knows they are full enough already. Nearly all the women and children

of my regiment were buried on the roadside yesterday. A sick

Frenchwoman, I think you said, sergeant?" he observed, recurring to the

business in hand.

"Yes, sir," replied Stapylton, saluting.

"Strange! What should bring her here? The French are at present far

away on our right, and in the rear. I presume you have heard of what

took place this evening, Captain Norcliff?"

"Where?"

"At head-quarters."

"The little post-house on the Bulganak, where Lord Raglan passes the

night?"

"Exactly. Marshal St. Arnaud, attended by Colonel Trochier, of the

imperial army, rode up there to concert the plan of an attack to-morrow.

So, whatever it is, our part in the play of to-morrow is already

assigned us; and now, sergeant, your Frenchwoman."

"Is here, sir, to speak for herself, if she can, poor thing."

Close by the grove of olive trees, with a coarse blanket spread over

her, lay the woman of whom Stapylton had spoken.

"Cholera!" said the surgeon, as he turned down the blanket, and knelt

beside her; "cholera, and in the last stages, too. No pulse can be felt,

the extremities cold and rigid, the face ghastly, the strength

exhausted. I can be of no use here," he added to me, in a low voice.

"A little time and all will be over."

From my hunting flask he poured a little brandy between the lips of the

sufferer, who proved to be a _soeur de charite_, by her white coif and

black serge dress; and, on drawing nearer, imagine what were my

sensations on recognising, through the twilight of the coming day, the

pale and convulsed features of Sister Archange--of Mademoiselle de

Chaverondier! An exclamation of sorrow and astonishment burst from me.

All the memory of her kindness when I lay sick in the house of the

Armenian merchant at Varna; all her singleness of heart; all her purity

and self-devotion; all the memory of her story, and of her own happy

home amid the mountains of Beaujolais, and how and why she had devoted

herself to Heaven and acts of charity; all her simple belief in magic

and miracles, with her child-like love and piety; her regard for her

brother Claude, the gallant officer of Canrobert's regiment, his wife,

Cecile Montalle, and the cruel Lucrece, whose revenge wrought all their

sorrow--all the memory of these things, I say, rushed upon me like a

flood, as I stood, bewildered, by the side of the dying girl--dying like

an outcast in that wild and savage place--and they deeply moved me. To

leave her to die thus, untended and uncared for, was impossible. Yet

what was to be done? How was I to succour her? Already the trumpets of

the cavalry, and the ringing bugles of the infantry, were sounding the

"rouse" and the "assembly," and the army was getting rapidly under

arms--all the more rapidly that there were no tents to strike and no

baggage to pack. Each man fell into the ranks on the ground where he

had slept; the cavalry were mounting, the artillery were tracing their

horses and limbering up, and long ere the Bay of Kalamita glittered in

the rising sun, the whole British army was on the move towards the Alma.

My friend the surgeon, finding that he could do no more--that he had,

perhaps, patients enough elsewhere--suggested, ere he departed, that she

might be put into one of the _kabitkas_ of the ambulance corps; but, as

he assured me that she could not live above an hour, I despatched

Stapylton to explain the matter to Colonel Beverley; and in a few

minutes he returned with Pitblado, Lanty O'Regan, my groom, and four

other lancers and our horses, and with permission for me "to look after

my sick friend; but, at all risks, not to be ten minutes' march behind

the rear guard, as General Bosquet's division was already advancing

rapidly on our right flank, and the French sister might be more properly

handed over to her own people."

We lifted her into the olive thicket, out of the way of the passing

troops; for already our advanced guard, under Lord Cardigan--"Prince

Albert's Own," with their blue jackets and scarlet pelisses covered with

glittering lace, and the 13th Light Dragoons--were once more splashing

through the Bulganak, laughing and joking merrily, as if it were a fox

that was to break cover in the Lincolnshire fens, and not the hordes of

the southern and western Russias that were before them. By means of

three barrel-hoops and a horse-sheet, we improvised something like that

which the French term a day-tent, to hide her and her sufferings. Then

the idea occurred to me as to what I could do if she survived beyond the

time allotted to us by the colonel. Could I leave her in that wild

place to die alone, and to lie unburied, save by the wolves and birds of

prey? Alas! a very brief time now resolved all my doubts and fears. A

little way apart from us, a silent and sympathetic group, my seven

lancers stood, each by his horse's head, leaning on his lance, and

awaiting me. If they conversed, it was in half whispers, for they

sincerely pitied the girl, those French sisters of charity being the

admiration of the whole army. I was bathing her lips with some diluted

brandy, when she fully, and for the first time, recognised me. Then a

little smile of joy passed over her ghastly face, and she began to

speak, painfully, huskily, and at long intervals.

"It is my turn now; but I am dying, you see, _mon frere_," said she,

"dying. Many of my sisters have died in the camp--but--but few thus."

"Few, indeed," said I, in a low, sad voice.

"In ardent prayers for the repose of my soul you find no solace. I say

not this upbraidingly, yet the mortuary chants of the 'Dies Irae' and

the 'De Profundis' will never be said for me, because I die--die thus!"

she said, in a low and piercing voice, as she closed her eyes.

Perplexity was now added to my sorrow, for I knew not what the poor girl

wished or meant; but I implored her to tell me how she came to be left

thus alone and in illness. In the night when, asleep and weary, she had

fallen unseen from a French ambulance cart, some scouting Cossacks had

found and carried her off in mocking triumph; but, on finding that the

deadly pestilence had seized her, they barbarously flung her into the

Bulganak. She had crept ashore, and was making her way to our bivouac,

when the progress of her illness became so rapid and destroying that she

was reduced to the condition in which Stapylton found her. Such was the

short story she told me, in long and painful intervals, her voice being

at times so low that I had to place my ear close to her lips.

"And now," she added, with a divine smile, which brought back much of

the wonderful beauty of her face, "I am so glad--so happy that I shall

die!"

"Why, _ma soeur_?"

"Lest I should live longer; because, in doing so, I could scarcely fail

in some way to offend heaven," replied the poor girl. "I confessed me

two days ago--I die in peace, and forgive those Cossaques--_mon

ami_--_mon frere_, I should say--you will close my eyes--you will see me

buried--promise me that you will!"

I could only answer her by my tears; and strange it seemed that all

around the thicket where this solemn scene was acting, and when the

spirit of this good being was hovering between eternity and time, the

thousands of our army, horse, foot, and artillery, with ammunition and

stores, were pouring past in the bright morning sunshine, towards the

passage of the Bulganak.

All around was instinct with the glitter and bustle of martial life; but

within that olive grove was death, sublime humility, and suffering.

"Are you in pain now?" I asked, as this thought occurred to me.

"Oh, no--pain is long since passed away. If I could but live till three

in the afternoon, I could then die more than ever happily."

"Why at three?"

"For at that time our Blessed Lord yielded up his soul on Calvary!" said

she, with a voice of enthusiasm, while a strange brightness seemed to

pass over all her face.

As she turned restlessly her eyes fell upon Sergeant Stapylton and the

lancers, and beckoning them forward, she bestowed her blessing on each;

and they listened with bowed heads, and took off their caps. I was

deeply moved, and drew a pace or two aside.

"Heaven has always been so good to me," she muttered, in broken English,

as the sergeant placed his cloak as a pillow under her head; "because,

as you must know, _messieurs les soldats_, my mother dedicated me to

heaven, and I am a child of the Holy Virgin."

Poor Stapylton, a worthy but stolid John Bull, looked rather bewildered

by this information; but my Irish groom understood her.

"Thrue for you, miss," said Lanty, wiping his eyes with the worsted

tassels of his yellow sash. "Oh, it's fast she's goin' to glory, the

poor cratur. Oh, never a ha'porth she thinks of herself; but it is us

she's prayin' for, boys."

"Other souls than mine shall pass away to-day, for ere nightfall a great

battle is to be fought--I know that."

At that moment, through an opening in the olive trees, we saw a regiment

of infantry marching past in close column of subdivisions, with the band

in front, colours flying, and bayonets gleaming in the sun. It was our

88th, of gallant memory, with Colonel Shirley riding at the head of the

column, and the drums and fifes made the blue welkin ring to the air of

"The Young May Moon." She looked wistfully at the defiling ranks; there

was so much of life there, so much of death here! Then, clasping her

white hands, which were so thin and tremulous, and, closing her eyes,

she began to repeat a little prayer in Latin, for those who were to fall

on both sides--the Russians as well as the English.