It was a solemn gathering when two hours later, the physician entered
Bertram’s room in company with Squire Peregrine, Colonel Lindsay, and
Gertrude. The change in the Squire was marvellous; his sternness had
left him; he followed his daughter and his old friend; he hung upon
every word which fell from the lips of the man of science; and during
the time when the doctors were alone with their patient and Nathan,
he paced his room in a state nearly bordering on mental distraction.
Meeting the doctors as they at length emerged from the sick-room, he
grasped them by the arm. ‘Will he live? will he live?’ he reiterated
wildly. ‘Tell me the truth. My son, my son!’
In vain they urged him to be calm; his reasoning powers seemed to have
deserted him.
‘He must not die; he shall not die!’ he repeated; until Colonel
Lindsay, laying his hand upon his shoulder, whispered: ‘There is hope.
Do not despair. My old friend, remember how much yet remains to be
done for him. The active cause of mischief is at last removed.’ He
produced a small piece of the blade of a knife, at the sight of which
the Squire shuddered. ‘Humanly speaking, you owe his life twice over to
Nathan Boltz. As to the perpetrator of the outrage, he will be dealt
with according to his deserts; at present, we have no clue to his
whereabouts.’
This speech of the Colonel’s was intended to answer two purposes--to
give the Squire time to recover himself, and to arrest any remarks
which might fall from the medical men, who were to remain all night
at the Hall. It had the desired effect; they saw that private family
affairs were connected with this murderous attack and remained silent,
only insisting that Nathan (whom Bertram had faintly recognised) should
remain with him. The Squire sent for him, and in the presence of all
his family, grasped him by the hand and begged him to stay. How he
overcame all his scruples, how he placed himself in the position of
a debtor, was made plain to all who heard him; and Gertrude felt her
heart throb almost to pain as she sat by listening to the words of her
father, the proudest of the Peregrine race.
Therefore it was that Nathan took his place in the sick-room,
surrounded by every luxury which appertains to wealth. It was a
strange position; but he entered upon it with his usual large-hearted
earnestness, believing he was fulfilling his promise to the mother of
the sick man.
In the meantime, Patricia was undergoing a torment of fear and
suspense. A week had elapsed, Oliver had not returned, and no inquiry
had as yet been made concerning him. She dared not question any one,
and though many an eye was bent upon her in a half-pitying manner,
she would not for worlds betray her wretchedness. She asked not to be
confirmed in her miserable doubts and horrible fears, for she felt
certain her lover was somehow concerned in her brother’s illness. Yet
why this change in her father? She could not understand; and pondering
day by day, became pale and ill, restless and depressed.
Christmas-day came and went much in the same way as other days. There
were no decorations in the church, and no sound of the sweet loud bells
of Linden Tower, for Bertram lay hovering between life and death, and
all bell-ringing was suspended on his account. Another week passed on;
wearily dragged the hours; when at the close of a dark day of rain and
wind, a messenger arrived with a note for Patricia, which caused her
heart to throb and her pulse to rebound with agonising pain. The writer
of the dirty ill-spelt letter begged her to go at once to a farm-house
ten miles distant, where Oliver Peregrine lay dying. Now Patricia knew
she must put away her mask for ever. With eager haste she ran with the
summons to her father, and the utter wretchedness in her face made him
full of pity for her.
‘Jenkyns shall bring the carriage for you, my darling, immediately.
I know the spot; close to the stone quarries--a dangerous place. Be
brave, Patricia. But you must not go alone; Colonel Lindsay will
accompany you.’
She made no reply; her white lips moved, but no sound came forth.
After a vain attempt to speak, she left the room, and shortly after
was handed by Colonel Lindsay into the carriage. Their drive was
accomplished in silence. Patricia’s agonising suspense was too great
for speech; and her gallant companion felt too much to attempt
commonplaces.
When they arrived at the farm, Patricia descended from the carriage,
and entered the house alone. In an inner room a woman was busy making
a clearance of such articles as she could stuff away in corners and
behind chairs, while a faint moaning told that the unhappy man occupied
the apartment.
‘I found the gentleman lying at the bottom of a quarry,’ said the man
who lived on the farm. ‘It’s a fortnight back, sir, that going round
the place as late as ten o’clock, I heard as it were close to me some
one groaning as if in dreadful pain. It was some time before I could
find out where the noise came from. At last my wife and me together
got down to the bottom of the quarry, and managed between us to drag
him to the top. He was wonderful bad, but refused to tell his name or
let a doctor be fetched, and only let my boy run with the note because
he felt he was dying. We have done what we could, sir; but you see we
don’t know many folks about here, or we might have helped him more.’
Patricia listened intently as the man gave these particulars, and made
her way alone to the side of her cousin. He lay upon a bed placed
hastily on the floor, his face worn to a shadow with intense suffering
of mind and body. As Patricia gazed upon the helpless sufferer, all her
love for the man burst forth; she knelt down, covered her face with her
hands, and wept piteously.
The woman who stood by, with true woman’s instinct, guessed the nature
of her sorrow, and said gently: ‘You see, miss, the gentleman would
not say who he were, or we should ha’ sent before. I have done what I
could; but I fear he’s very, very bad.’ She wanted to break the truth
as gently as she could, for her experienced eye had noted every change.
‘I am dying,’ said Oliver in a low voice. ‘’Tis nearly over, Patricia;
but the pain has almost left me; and if I have strength, I must tell
you a very painful story, for I need your forgiveness, as you will
find. Do not grieve for me, Patricia.’ He paused. ‘Are you alone?’
Patricia shook her head.
‘Who is with you?’
‘Colonel Lindsay.’
‘Tell him to come here.’
At this crisis, wheels were heard outside, and Colonel Lindsay returned
with Patricia, bringing with them Mr Downes, the surgeon.
‘Mr Downes is here,’ said the Colonel, ‘through a message which I sent
him previous to leaving home; he will probably think it advisable to
remain with us for a time.’
Then Patricia knew that the surgeon was there not only in his medical
capacity, but as a witness to whatever might fall from the lips of her
lover; and yet her dread of any unpleasant revelation was intensified
by her great love for the man whose humiliation and shame she would
fain have spared. Mr Downes having carefully examined the patient,
administered a restorative, and Oliver related with pain and difficulty
the following story.
‘You know that Bertram and I were in college at the same time, where
my naturally extravagant habits led us both into debt. When we left
college, my uncle, believing me all that I ought to be, begged me
to remain at the Hall as companion to his son; at the same time he
proposed that I should qualify myself for the Church, and behaved to
me with the kindness of a father. I managed to fix the burden of our
debts upon Bertram, whose easy disposition and generous nature led
him to trust me thoroughly. During a London season we again became
steeped in difficulties beyond our power to remove. Returning to the
Hall, I fancied myself fascinated by the beauty of Ruth Boltz. How I
overcame her scruples, and finally induced her to fly to London with
me, I have no strength to tell; nor how I beguiled her to remain there,
leading her to hope for marriage. I had come to town for more purposes
than one. While at the Hall, our creditors had become clamorous; and
Bertram, in despair of obtaining any help from his father, and not
daring to tell of his entanglements, took counsel with me as to what
was to be done. By degrees I opened up my plan, filled in a cheque, and
forced Bertram by threats of exposure to forge his father’s name. This
done, I took care that he himself should present it at the banker’s. My
uncle who was unusually precise and correct in all business matters, at
once discovered the fraud. It was easy to cast the blame on Bertram,
whom I had persuaded to remain in London; and the fact of his absence
sealed his guilt. Ruth’s flight was at once connected with his; and
enraged beyond expression, his father forbade him the house, tore up
his letters unopened, and refused ever to acknowledge him again. In
vain Bertram appealed to me to speak for him; I only traduced him the
more while appearing to shield him; and persuaded him to go abroad
while he had the means of doing so. Seven months later, poor Ruth came
home and applied to me in her distress. Again I promised her marriage,
and from time to time made her an allowance. She promised to keep my
secret; yet her presence in the village was a continual annoyance to
me, for I feared that some time, in her despair, she might reveal the
truth. But I could not prevail upon her to leave the neighbourhood, and
I waited year after year before I could mature my plans to secure the
position which I had always coveted. At last she died, worn out with
trouble, and would no doubt have spoken out at last. But sending for my
aunt, the latter arrived too late. Poor suffering Ruth was dead.’...
Here the sufferer paused in mental agony, and after partaking of
stimulant, resumed his dread confession. ‘Then I was elated with my
false freedom. My uncle had long since erased Bertram’s name from his
will, and named me as his heir. I soon proposed to my cousin Patricia,
and we were on the point of marrying, when my aunt’s death postponed
it. In the midst of all my prosperity, I had a vague terror of Nathan
Boltz, believing that he knew my secret, and I hated him for his
supposed knowledge of it. Once more my marriage was about to take
place, and again Hilda’s death interposed, and saved Patricia from a
life of shame. Bertram returned; and deceived by his sister, Nathan
believed that in him he saw her betrayer. Then the grand principle of
his life was worked out--forgiveness. The return of Colonel Lindsay
helped on my ruin. I made a desperate effort to retain the prize which
I felt slipping from my grasp. After that dreadful scene in the church,
I fled in frantic haste across the country, eager to escape from
myself. But the hand of God was upon me; I could not elude that; and
believing that I had been a murderer, I looked upon myself as paying
the penalty of my sin, for I knew from the first that I must die. I
have no more to add, only to express my grief and my repentance, and to
pray that God may pardon my fearful sin.’
He stopped, greatly exhausted; and Mr Downes again did what he could
for his relief. All through the night, Patricia sat holding his hand in
hers, assuring him of their forgiveness, and ministering to his wants;
and Oliver Peregrine blessed her with the solemnity of a dying man. At
daybreak it was all over. Patricia’s watching had been a short one; but
she knew that henceforth she would walk through life alone.
* * * * *
Oliver Peregrine was buried in Linden churchyard; and Nathan, at the
Squire’s urgent request, witnessed the last rites, and stood uncovered
while the earth was filled into the grave of the man who had so wronged
him. Never again, however, would he prepare the narrow resting-place in
which dust mingles with its kindred dust, or stand in the belfry tower
as master of the bells. Nathan had parted from the old life, which
would know him no more. After Bertram’s recovery, he travelled with him
for two years, and learned to know him as a brother. On their return,
the village people could scarcely recognise the quondam bell-ringer in
the accomplished gentleman and travelled man of the world. The soil had
been ready to receive the seed; but while the intellect was enlarged
the heart of the man remained the same. Thus it came about that on a
certain happy day, Nathan, who was the affianced husband of Gertrude,
stood once more in the belfry tower; and with her by his side, and the
ringers clustered round, while Bertram and Colonel Lindsay looked on
from the doorway, he begged that he might try his hand again. A proud
consent was given, and prouder than ever were the ringers, of him who
had been their chief. After a slight pause, Nathan’s hand, now white
and shapely, grasped the rope once more. ‘Now lads!’ he cried--‘now!’
and the bells chimed out a right merry peal.
UNDER FIRE.
Most men who have been under fire will frankly confess that the
sensation is anything but a pleasant one. But inspired by a sense of
duty and a lively enthusiasm, the anxious feeling soon passes off. The
skirmishers load and fire, the gunners work their guns without much
thought of their own danger. Indeed it is well if this indifference
does not go too far, for then reckless excitement and careless haste
take the place of soldierly deliberation and prudence.
At Waterloo the fighting between two armies armed with old weapons
of short range was all at what we now call close-quarters. The most
effective range for artillery was about five hundred yards, and
musketry-fire was exchanged at less than half that distance. Rifled
weapons of long range have changed all this, and the introduction
of breech-loading small-arms has worked a perfect revolution on the
battle-field. In 1866 the Prussian needle-gun shewed in the fighting in
Bohemia the terrible effects that can be produced by rapid rifle-fire.
Every army in Europe was soon provided with breech-loading rifles; and
in the war of 1870, for the first time two great armies thus formidably
armed met in battle. In the first conflicts of the war the Prussians
attacked in close order, as they had done in 1866; but in the great
battle of Gravelotte, fought on August 18, 1870, they learned a lesson
which made them completely change their tactics; and every European
army (but one) has followed their example. The lesson was dearly
bought. On that day the French army, one hundred and twenty thousand
strong, lay along the hills to the west of Metz, where it was attacked
by two hundred thousand Germans. The village of St Privat, on holding
which the security of the whole French position depended, was held by
Marshal Canrobert’s corps. The village is surrounded by long gentle
slopes; and in fighting it is always found that it is more difficult
to storm such a place than one that stands upon a steep hill. The very
steepness of the ascent in some degree protects the attacking party as
they ascend, by making the fire of the defenders more vertical; whereas
on a gentle slope each bullet has a longer course and more chances of
doing harm. As a preparation for the attack on St Privat, and in order
in some degree to destroy the steadiness of the defenders, the place
was bombarded for some time with one hundred and twenty guns; then
when it was hoped that the artillery-fire had cleared the way, three
brigades of the Guards, the picked men of the German army, were ordered
to carry the village.
Massed in close order, with a front of two thousand paces, and covered
by clouds of skirmishers, the Guards began their advance up the slopes.
In ten minutes the attack was over, and had utterly failed. Brief as
it was, it was a terrible time. The German official Report does not
deal in exaggerated language, and it speaks of the ‘storm of bullets
that came beating down from St Privat’ and forced the Guardsmen to
crowd together in every hollow and behind every wave of the ground. The
French used their chassepots to deadly purpose; in those ten minutes
six thousand of the Prussian Guard had fallen. But the rapid fire of
the French had all but emptied their cartridge-boxes, and the defective
arrangements made by the staff had not provided properly for supplying
the deficiency. This is always a danger to which men armed with the
breech-loader are liable, and it is an awkward one, for in modern war
the man who is without cartridges is virtually disarmed. The cartridges
of the dead and wounded were collected and distributed; but this was a
poor resource. The enemy had formed new columns of attack, composed of
Saxon and Prussian troops, and these, though not without heavy loss,
carried the village, and decided the battle which shut Marshal Bazaine
and his great army up in Metz. The day after Gravelotte was fought and
won, the German headquarters staff published an order that an attack in
heavy masses like that which had won Sadowa but had failed at St Privat
should never be attempted again.
The deadliness of breech-loading fire has produced another effect upon
tactics in battle. The spade has taken a place second only to the
rifle, and no General occupies a position in battle even for a couple
of hours without rapidly strengthening it with light intrenchments.
These consist generally of a shallow trench, the earth from which
is thrown up towards the enemy, so as to form a little parapet in
front of it. This is the shelter-trench which we hear of so often in
war correspondence. Effective shelter-trenches can be constructed in
from eighteen minutes to half an hour, according to the nature of the
ground and the skill of the men engaged in the work; and they have this
advantage, that they can be continually improved, the trench being
deepened, the parapet raised, and a ditch formed outside it, if the
position is occupied long enough; so that what was at first a mere
shelter-trench, gradually becomes a formidable line of earthworks.
A trench is a very efficient protection against artillery-fire, for
unless the shells drop actually into it, or upon the parapet, the
fragments are not likely to hurt the men crouching or lying down in
it; and such accurate hits are rare, most of the projectiles falling a
little behind or a little short of the line aimed at.
It is a fact that the actual number of men put _hors de combat_ by
artillery-fire is very few in any case. It really is meant to produce
an effect on the _morale_ of the troops attacked; that is to say,
to make them nervous, excited, liable to panic, and apt to give way
before a sudden onset. Hundreds of shells exploding on the ground and
in the air, and scattering showers of fragments on all sides, dropping
neatly over walls and barricades, crashing through walls and roofs, and
searching woods and thickets, are apt to gradually break down the nerve
of all but the steadiest men.
As a matter of actually killing and maiming a large number of the
enemy, it is coming to be believed that the old artillery of Napoleon’s
days used at close quarters, that is at about four hundred yards,
against heavy masses, was more deadly than the modern rifled gun.
Artillery is now effective up to two thousand five hundred yards, and
sometimes even beyond that range. Rifle-fire generally begins at four
hundred yards, though picked marksmen may be engaged at longer ranges.
The ordinary fighting range of the rifle is thus now equal to that of
the field-gun of thirty years ago, and the accuracy of the fire is
increased in even a greater ratio. With the old musket the chances
of a bullet finding a human billet were extremely uncertain. At one
hundred yards there was a deviation of two feet to right or left, which
at two hundred yards had increased to more than six feet. The average
deviation of the Martini-Henry is about seven inches at three hundred
yards, a little less than a foot at five hundred, and about twenty
inches at eight hundred; or less than the error of the old musket
at one hundred yards. Without aiming, a rapidity of fire equal to
twenty-five shots per minute has been obtained with the Martini-Henry
with which our army is now furnished. How different from the weapons
used in the Peninsula and at Waterloo.
Yet it is singular that the proportion which the loss in battle
bears to the number of men engaged is on the whole decreasing,
notwithstanding (or perhaps in consequence of) improved armaments. At
Marengo in 1800 the loss in killed and wounded amounted to one-sixth of
the effective force engaged; at Austerlitz (1805) it was one-seventh;
at Preuss-Eylau (1807), as much as one-third; at Wagram (1809), rather
more than one-ninth; at Borodino (1812), one-fourth; and at Waterloo
(1815), rather more than one-sixth. Coming now to more recent battles,
we find that at Solferino (1859) the loss was only one-fourteenth; at
Sadowa (1866), one-eleventh; at Gravelotte (1870), one-ninth; at Sedan,
only one-seventeenth. It would seem that the diminution of the loss is
the result of the open order, the use of cover, and the briefness of
the struggle at the decisive points, where, on account of the severity
of the fighting, it cannot last very long. Men will stand longer under
a fire that knocks over only one man in a minute, than they will under
one that kills a score in the same time. The heavy fighting at Plevna
before its fall, was an exception to this diminution of loss, for in
one of their attacks the Russians lost as much as one-fifth, but this
was the result of their fighting in heavy columns, in defiance of the
experience of 1870. Statistics from both the Russian and the German
armies shew that at all times the officers in proportion to their
numbers lose more than the men. Naturally they are liable to attract
attention and to be picked off by the enemy’s marksmen.
With the immense armies of our day the total loss of men is enormous.
At Sadowa the Prussians lost 10,000 men out of 215,000 engaged; the
Austrians and Saxons 30,000 out of 220,000. At Gravelotte the French,
120,000 strong, lost 14,000; the Germans 20,000 out of 200,000. At
Sedan the losses of the Germans were 10,000; of the French, 14,000. The
heaviness of the German loss at the battle of Gravelotte was as we have
already said, largely due to the failure of the Guards at St Privat.
From these statistics of loss in battle it may be imagined what a
painful task and what severe labour are thrown upon the army which
remains in possession of a battle-field at the end of the fight. The
length of the lines in a general engagement like Sadowa is enormous,
ranging from ten to fifteen miles; and the depth of the tract over
which the fighting rolls perhaps from two or three to five or six
miles; so that the ‘battle-field’ is a tract of country from thirty to
eighty square miles in extent, and this immense tract is strewn with
thirty or forty thousand killed and wounded. Here they lie scattered,
so that it is a long walk from one fallen man to another; but over
there on that hill-side, or in that village where the fight was close
and hot, they are thrown together in little heaps, and there is no need
of searching for them. Wherever there is water, wounded men are sure to
be found, who have dragged themselves down to it. Perhaps they are dead
at the brink. There is little blood to be seen; the rivers of blood
shed on the battle-field exist only in poetry. Of the actual blood
in a pool here and there on the field, most has come from cavalry or
artillery horses killed by shell-fire.
The victors in the fight have thrown on their hands not only their own
wounded, but those of the enemy. The hurried telegram which announces
their success gives also in round numbers a rough estimate of the loss
on both sides; generally it is an unintentional exaggeration, for it
is hard to judge correctly. In two or three days the real numbers are
known; for the dead have been collected, counted, and buried, with
great mounds of earth that will mark the battle-field for centuries,
and shew too where the fight was hottest. The wounded, much more
numerous than the dead, have been collected in the field-hospitals, and
as many as possible are being sent off by train to the great hospitals
of distant cities, in order to relieve the strain upon the resources of
the medical staff and the volunteer aid societies working in the field.
Hard work it is to deal with the immense mass of suffering men. Think
what it is to have to arrange suddenly for even two cases of severe
illness in an ordinary household, and then try to imagine what labour,
care, and forethought are required to provide for many thousands of
wounded men in the open country.
The care for the wounded begins while the fight is actually in
progress. No help is so efficient as that which comes at once. A man is
hit. If the wound is slight, he perhaps does not know anything about
it till the fight is over, when he perceives that there is something
wrong with his leg or his side; or if he does perceive it, he is able
to bandage it at once with a handkerchief, or the bandage that now is
carried by almost every soldier. The surgeon of the battalion gives him
his assistance if he is at hand; but most men have to do without him
if the work is hot, for he cannot multiply himself or be everywhere,
though he does his best to accomplish something like it. In most
armies, if the men are attacking, he can only attend to the slightly
hurt, who are able to keep up with the rest. It is only when the
battalion is halted or on the defensive that he can attend to the more
seriously injured who fall, for they must not be left behind. The first
help is always the most important; given at once to a slightly wounded
man, it saves him from having to go into hospital and keeps him in the
ranks; given to a fallen man, it probably saves his life. The great
danger is exhaustion from loss of blood or from the nervous shock that
follows a bullet-wound, which makes a man seem as if he were dying,
though with a little help it soon passes off. To stop the bleeding with
a tourniquet or a bandage, to give a drink of water or a little brandy,
is the aid needed at the outset. This is done actually under fire.
The next help is provided by the field ambulances, or as they are very
appropriately called in our service, ‘dressing-stations;’ these are
established in shelter-places upon the actual battle-field in rear
of the fighting line. Sometimes an inn, a farmhouse, or some barn is
available for this purpose; if not, there are hospital tents or the
shade of trees. Here is to be found a staff of surgeons and dressers,
with appliances for the more necessary operations, and a store of
stimulants and sustaining food. To bring the wounded men out of the
firing, there are attached to each regiment a few trained bearers with
stretchers. These bearers being provided, no man is allowed to leave
the ranks to help the wounded; otherwise, every man that fell would be
the means of withdrawing two others from the fight, and whole companies
might melt rapidly away. The bearers remove as many as they can to the
dressing-stations; they take those nearest to hand, and the wounded man
who attracts their attention is lucky. Many more less fortunate than
he have to wait till the battle is over, for comparatively few can be
carried off during the actual fighting. Some, though too disabled to
remain in the fight, can themselves make their way to the stations.
They ask their way of any bearers they meet; or if they meet none,
they look out anxiously for the white flag with the red cross that
flies over the little harbour of refuge of which they are in search.
The wounded men who are thus brought or come into the stations have
their wounds dressed by the surgeons, with the help of chloroform if
necessary; a record of the nature of the wound and of the treatment so
far, is rapidly written on a card; and if the man will bear removal,
his stretcher is placed in an ambulance-wagon, and an easy journey of
three or four miles places him in the field-hospital, established in
tents or buildings well out of even long-range artillery-fire.
These field-hospitals, rapidly organised with _matériel_ that is
conveyed with every well-organised army, can accommodate several
hundreds of men; and while the battle proceeds, fresh field-hospitals
are being got ready wherever buildings or tents are available, for
the night will bring in a host of patients. At first there are few
men in them; most of the wounded that have been treated are still at
the field ambulances. In the evening they arrive more rapidly; next
day they come in crowds, and the hospitals are encumbered with them.
And now the railway system of the country comes to the help of the
overburdened medical staff. Hospital trains--that is to say trains
fitted with hanging-beds or stretchers, and provided with nurses and
surgeons--carry back to the hospitals of great cities in the rear, all
those of the wounded who can safely bear the journey. Gradually death,
recovery, or removal clears the field-hospitals; one by one they are
closed, their _matériel_ and appliances are packed in the wagons of
the hospital service, and with their staff of surgeons, dressers, and
nurses, they follow the armies in the field. Meanwhile the hospital
trains have distributed the wounded into the permanent hospitals at
home or into special ones provided for the war. If the army is an
English one, ships comfortably fitted up as hospitals have received the
wounded at the nearest coast to the battle-field, and they are lying
in comfortable hammocks, between airy decks, perhaps at anchor in some
roadstead, or better still, going rapidly under sail and steam towards
home.
We can dwell with satisfaction on this work of mercy, in which so
many willing hands engage to repair, as far as can be done, the wreck
and ruin of war. It is a work of mercy which ought to bind nations
together, for men of many lands meet to labour under the red cross of
mercy wherever war devastates Europe. For many, alas! the help comes
too late; the bullet has done its work swiftly and surely; life is
gone; or the wound is mortal and the sufferer dies, and will lie under
the long green battle-mound. An officer will look at the tablet under
his uniform that gives the name and corps of the fallen man, and make
an entry in his list of dead; and the news is sent to his friends far
away at home. These are the messages that give more pain even than the
bullet or bayonet, and terrible it is to think that when men meet in
battle the rapid fire of the rifle is doing its work not only in the
field, but far away in distant cities and villages, where the sound of
the fighting cannot be heard; and where there are women and children
and old men to whom that fight will bring sorrow and pain and even
death, as surely as if the rapid rifle-fire itself had swept them down.
This is perhaps the darkest side of the picture, the portion of the
loss caused by war, which our statistics cannot touch.
A NARROW ESCAPE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEXANDRE DUMAS’ ‘LE MAÎTRE D’ARMES.’
The death of the famous dog Sutherland--thus named after the
Englishman who had made a gift of it to the Empress Catharine II. of
Russia--nearly caused a tragic mistake, in so far as it nearly cost the
donor, a celebrated banker, his life. The occurrence took place at St
Petersburg.
One morning, at daybreak, Mr Sutherland, the gentleman who had
presented the dog to the Empress, and who was consequently a favourite
with that august personage--was suddenly awoke by his man-servant.
‘Sir,’ said the footman, ‘your house is surrounded with guards, and the
master of the police demands to speak to you.’
‘What does he wish with me?’ exclaimed the banker, as he leaped from
his bed, somewhat startled by this announcement.
‘I know not, sir,’ answered the footman; ‘but it appears that it is a
matter of the highest importance, and which, from what he says, can
only be communicated to you personally.’
‘Shew him in,’ said Mr Sutherland, as he hastily donned his
dressing-gown.
The footman departed, and returned some minutes afterwards with His
Excellency Mr Reliew, upon whose face the banker read at the first
glance some formidable intelligence. The worthy banker, however,
maintained his calmness, and welcoming the master of the police with
his usual urbanity, presented him with a seat. His Excellency, however,
remained standing, and in a tone the most dolorous which it was
possible to assume, said:
‘Mr Sutherland, believe me when I assure you that I am truly grieved
to have been chosen by Her Majesty, my very gracious sovereign, to
accomplish an order, the severity of which afflicts me, but which has
without doubt been provoked by some great crime.’
‘By some great crime, Your Excellency!’ exclaimed the banker. ‘And who
then has committed this crime?’
‘You, doubtless, sir, since it is upon you that the punishment is to
fall.’
‘Sir, I swear to you that I know not of any reproach with which to
charge myself as a subject of our sovereign; for I am a naturalised
Russian, as you must know.’
‘And it is precisely, sir, because you are a naturalised Russian
that your position is terrible. If you had remained a subject of His
Britannic Majesty, you would have been able to call in the aid of the
English consul, and escape thus perhaps the rigour of the order which I
am, to my very great regret, charged to execute.’
‘Tell me then, Your Excellency, what is this order?’
‘Oh, sir, never will I have the strength to make it known to you.’
‘Have I lost the good graces of Her Majesty?’
‘Oh, if it were only that!’
‘Is it a question to make me depart for England?’
‘Oh! no; even that must not be.’
‘Mon Dieu! you terrify me. Is it an order to send me to Siberia?’
‘Siberia, sir, is a fine country, and which people have calumniated.
Besides, people return from it.’
‘Am I condemned to prison?’
‘The prison is nothing. Prisoners come out of prison.’
‘Sir, sir!’ cried the banker, more and more affrighted, ‘am I destined
to the knout?’
‘The knout is a punishment very grievous; but the knout does not kill.’
‘Miserable fate!’ said Sutherland, terrified. ‘I see indeed that it is
a matter of death.’
‘And what a death!’ exclaimed the master of the police, whilst he
solemnly raised his eyes with an expression of the most profound pity.
‘How! what a death! Is it not enough to kill me without trial, to
assassinate me without cause? Catharine orders, yet’----
‘Alas! yes, she orders’----
‘Well, speak, sir! What does she order? I am a man; I have courage.
Speak!’
‘Alas! my dear sir, she orders---- If it had not been by herself that
the command had been given, I declare to you, my dear Mr Sutherland,
that I would not have believed it.’
‘But you make me die a thousand times. Let me see, sir, what has she
ordered you to do?’
‘She has ordered me to have you STUFFED!’
The poor banker uttered a cry of distress; then looking the master of
the police in the face, said: ‘But, Your Excellency, it is monstrous
what you say to me; you must have lost your reason.’
‘No, sir; I have not lost my reason; but I will certainly lose it
during the operation.’
‘But how have you--you who have said you are my friend a hundred
times--you, in short, to whom I have had the honour to render certain
services--how have you, I say, received such an order without
endeavouring to represent the barbarity of it to Her Majesty?’
‘Alas! sir, I have done what I could, and certainly what no one would
have dared to do in my place. I besought Her Majesty to renounce her
design, or at least to charge another than myself with the execution
of it; and that with tears in my eyes. But Her Majesty said to me with
that voice which you know well, and which does not admit of a reply:
“Go, sir, and do not forget that it is your duty to acquit yourself
without a murmur of the commissions with which I charge you.”’
‘And then?’
‘Then,’ said the master of the police, ‘I lost no time in repairing
to a very clever naturalist who stuffs animals for the Academy of
Sciences; for in short, since there was not any alternative, I deemed
it only proper, and out of respect for your feelings, that you should
be stuffed in the best manner possible.’
‘And the wretch has consented?’
‘He referred me to his colleague, who stuffs apes, having studied the
analogy between the human species and the monkey tribe.’
‘Well?’
‘Well, sir, he awaits you.’
‘How! he awaits me! But is the order so peremptory?’
‘Not an instant must be lost, my dear sir; the order of Her Majesty
does not admit of delay.’
‘Without granting me time to put my affairs in order? But it is
impossible!’
‘Alas! it is but too true, sir.’
‘But you will allow me first to write a letter to the Empress?’
‘I know not if I ought; my instructions were very emphatic.’
‘Listen! It is a last favour, a favour which is not refused to the
greatest culprit. I entreat it of you.’
‘But it is my situation which I risk.’
‘And it is my life which is at stake.’
‘Well, write; I permit it. However, I inform you that I do not leave
you a single instant.’
‘Thanks, thanks. Pray, request one of your officers to come, that he
may convey my letter.’
The master of the police called a lieutenant of the Royal Guards,
delivered to him the letter of poor Sutherland, and ordered him to
bring back the answer to it immediately. Ten minutes afterwards, the
lieutenant returned with the order to bring the banker to the imperial
palace. It was all that the sufferer desired.
A carriage stood at the gate. Mr Sutherland entered it, and the
lieutenant seated himself near him. Five minutes afterwards they were
at the palace, where Catharine waited. They introduced the condemned
man to her presence, and found Her Majesty in convulsions of laughter.
It was for Sutherland now to believe her mad. He threw himself at her
feet, and seizing her hand in his, exclaimed: ‘Mercy, madame! In the
name of heaven, have mercy on me; or at the least tell me for what
crime I have deserved a punishment so horrible.’
‘But my dear Monsieur Sutherland,’ replied Catharine with all the
gravity she could command, ‘this matter does not concern you at all!’
‘How, Your Majesty, is it not a matter concerning me? Then whom _does_
it concern?’
‘Why, the dog of course which you gave me, and which died yesterday
of indigestion. Then in my grief at this loss and in my very natural
desire to preserve at least his skin, I ordered that fool Reliew to
come to me, and said to him: “Monsieur Reliew, I have to request that
you will have Sutherland immediately stuffed.” As he hesitated, I
thought that he was ashamed of such a commission; whereupon I became
angry and dismissed him on his errand.’
‘Well, madame,’ answered the banker, ‘you can boast that you have in
the master of the police a faithful servant; but at another time,
pray, I entreat of you, to explain better to him the orders which he
receives.’
The four-footed Sutherland was duly promoted to a glass case _vice_ the
banker--relieved.
AN INTERNATIONAL POLAR EXPEDITION.
In a former paper on Polar Colonisation we mentioned that an American
enthusiast had suggested that, with a view to the achievement of
greater results, the enterprise of exploring the Arctic regions should
be made an international one. A somewhat similar idea appears to have
occurred about the same time to Count Wilczek, and Lieutenant Charles
Weyprecht, of Arctic fame. After many months of careful consideration,
these gentlemen lately issued at Vienna the programme of the work
which they propose should be undertaken by an International Polar
Expedition. The elaborate scheme therein propounded was originally
prepared with a view to its details being fully discussed by the
International Meteorological Congress which was to have met at Rome
in the month of September of last year, but which, owing to political
events, it has been found necessary to postpone till the present
year. The peculiarity of their project is that they aim at purely
_scientific_ exploration in the Arctic and Antarctic regions, and that
they leave geographical discovery out of their programme, intending
that it should be undertaken by a separate expedition. To accomplish
the highly important end they have in view, they suggest that each of
the states participating in the work should equip an expedition and
despatch it to one of the stations enumerated by them. Each of the
powers interested will be left to decide how long it will continue the
work and what questions should be studied beyond those laid down in
the international programme. The investigations to be undertaken in
common will only include the phenomena of meteorology and terrestrial
magnetism, _auroræ boreales_, and the laws which govern the movements
of ice. As of course uniformity and the utmost possible accuracy in
the observations to be taken are absolutely necessary for purposes
of comparison, the propounders of the scheme enter into very minute
details, especially as regards the magnetic observations. The following
are the places which are considered the most favourable for the
purposes above indicated: (In the northern hemisphere), the north coast
of Spitzbergen, the north coast of Novaya Zemlya, the vicinity of the
North Cape of Finmark, the north coast of Siberia at the mouths of the
Lena, New Siberia, Point Barrow at the north-east of Behring Strait
(occupied by Maguire 1852-54), the Danish settlement on the west coast
of Greenland, and the east coast of Greenland in about latitude 75°;
(in the southern hemisphere) the neighbourhood of Cape Horn, Kerguelen
or Macdonald Islands, and one of the groups south of the Auckland
Islands. Each state interested, it may be mentioned in conclusion, must
establish a station for a year at least, and conform strictly to the
terms of the programme.
THE FIRST PRIMROSE.
A Primrose awoke from its long winter sleep,
And stretched out its head through its green leaves to peep;
But the air was so cold, and the wind was so keen,
And not a bright flower but itself to be seen.
‘Alas!’ sighed the Primrose, ‘how useless am I,
As here all alone and half hidden I lie;
But I’ll strive to be cheerful, contented to be,
Just a simple wild flower growing under a tree.’
Soon a maiden passed by, looking weary and sad,
In the bright early spring-time, when all should be glad,
But she spied the sweet Primrose so bright and so gay,
And the sight of it charmed all her sadness away;
And the Primrose gave thanks to the dear Lord above,
Who had sent it on such a sweet mission of love.
CATHARINE DAVIDSON.
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