IN THE HANDS OF THE COSSACKS.
Christmas Day came and went, the gallant heroes doing their best to be
jovial; but, cold, ragged, and starved, it was a sad day for them.
Early in the New Year the remnants of the brigade were returning from a
reconnaissance they had made towards Tschorgoun, where, it had been
stated, a large Russian force was gathering.
It was a bitterly cold day, with a freezing wind which penetrated the
ragged, tattered uniforms of the men and chilled them to the bone. Jack
was riding with his face well buried in the collar of his cloak and his
right hand in his pocket, when he turned to Will, who was riding by his
side, to make some remark to him. He was immediately struck by the
pallor of his friend’s face and the way in which it was drawn as though
in agony.
‘Will, dear old Will, what’s the matter?’ cried Jack.
For answer Will only groaned.
Jack spurred closer just in time to catch him as he reeled in his
saddle.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ repeated Jack in agitated tones.
A couple of troopers dismounted, and Will was lifted from his saddle and
laid on the ground.
‘Cholera,’ said one of the men sententiously.
‘Cheer up, Will!’ cried Jack. ‘What is it, old man?’
‘Cramps, awful pains,’ moaned Will. ‘Leave me, Jack; I’m done for.’
‘Nonsense! You’ll soon be all right.”
A staff-officer who happened to have some brandy in his flask trotted up
and gave the bottle to Will. The spirit rather revived him, and some of
his companions helped him up in front of Jack, and they managed to get
back to camp. Here Jack got Will to their tent, wrapped him up in both
their blankets, which were fortunately dry; and, getting some charcoal
from a man in the artillery, lit a fire.
All that night Jack sat up by his friend, soothing him, rubbing him, and
wiping the damp perspiration from his brow, while he heaped everything
in the tent on him to keep him warm. It was a fight for poor Will
between death and Jack; but morning broke and found Will still alive,
though insensible.
Barrymore came in and brought a doctor. He looked at Will, shook his
head, and said,’Poor fellow! he might pull through if he had medical
comforts and good nursing; but here, I’m afraid, he’s booked;’ and he
shrugged his shoulders.
‘He sha’n’t die if I can help it,’ said Jack doggedly.--‘Barrymore, you
must get me excused from duty. I’ll nurse Will, and if mortal man can
save him I will.’
The doctor looked admiringly at the young sergeant. ‘My poor fellow,’ he
said,’you’ll only kill yourself.’
‘Then I accept my fate.’
The doctor went off; but in half-an-hour an orderly returned from him,
bringing some soup, medicine, and a few instructions.
All day Jack stuck to his task, and at night Barrymore helped him. In
the morning the kind-hearted doctor again came in.
‘He’s got a splendid constitution,’ he said, ‘and youth is on his side,
or he would have been dead long since. He must be got away from here
anyway. There’s a convoy of sick going down to Balaclava to-day for
Scutari. I’ll send round a litter for him.’
Will was conscious and heard these words, and when they were alone he
said feebly, ‘Jack, old man, the best chum a fellow ever had, don’t send
me to Scutari; we’ve heard of the horrors of that place. Let me die
here. It makes little difference how or when we go, the few of us who
are left.’
‘No, Will; we can save you if you get into hospital. I must go back to
my duty to-morrow, and then there will be no one to look after you.’
There were tears in Will’s eyes as he pressed Jack’s hand.
Later on a hospital orderly came round with a litter, and, wrapped in
the blankets and his own and Jack’s cloak, Will was laid upon it; then
Jack took one end of the litter and the orderly the other, when they
joined the convoy of sick going down to Balaclava. It was a ghastly
procession. Some wagons contained the men wounded in the trenches during
the night, and these groaned terribly as they were roughly jolted along,
while the blood oozed between the planks and dripped into the mud and
snow. Others, stricken with fever and cholera, presented a ghastly
spectacle, with closed eyes, open mouths, and attenuated faces; only a
thin steam of breath showing they were still alive.
Some were strapped on horseback, and just in front of Jack was one poor
fellow who, having died on the road, still sat on his horse, the staring
eyes wide open, the teeth clenched on his protruding tongue, while the
head and body nodded with a terrible grotesqueness that filled with
horror those who saw it. From many of the litters protruded hands and
feet from which raw flesh and skin were literally hanging; these were
cases of frost-bite.
Amidst such terrible sights Jack at last got Will to Balaclava, and was
fortunate in being able at once to get him aboard the vessel that was
sailing that night for Scutari. Poor Will was half-insensible, and Jack
was spared the pain of leave-taking.
‘God bless you, old boy,’ he muttered as he took a last look at his
friend and thought of the day when he had first seen the laughing, rosy,
happy-looking trumpeter in Hounslow Barracks.
Jack got a mount at Balaclava, possibly the same horse on which the man
had died coming down; and, feeling more depressed than he had been since
the fatal 25th of October, he started back. Snow and sleet were driving
in his face, and he could not see where he was going. With head bent he
kept on, leaving his horse to find its way, he probably having made many
a journey to Balaclava before.
It got very dark, and Jack reined in to look about him. He could see but
a few yards, and he did not recognise any of his surroundings. Stunted
snow-covered bushes were round him, and he missed the carcasses of the
beasts which had died on that terrible road.
Heavens! the horse must have strayed! He was lost! He tried to look
about him; but the bits of frozen rain cut into his face and prevented
him from seeing more than a yard or two around him. He spurred his jaded
horse and went forward a little quicker, vainly staring to right and
left. Of a sudden he saw several mounted figures in front of him. They
must be some stragglers riding from Balaclava to the camp, he thought;
and, pushing forward, he hailed them. They turned, and then Jack’s heart
gave a great thump--they were Cossacks!
Immediately wheeling his horse, Jack dug in his spurs, while he wildly
endeavoured to draw his sword, the only weapon he then carried. His
cloak, however, was entangled round the hilt, and he could not get at
it. Shouts behind him showed he had been recognised as an Englishman.
A sharp report rang out. Jack’s horse gave a lurch, then fell heavily,
throwing its rider. Next moment a mounted figure dashed up, something
bright whizzed by Jack’s shoulder, and a lance-blade ripped through his
cloak and the sleeve of his jacket, only just grazing the flesh, but
sticking six inches in the ground and pinning him down. He tried to free
himself from his wounded horse, but the lance held him too securely.
In an instant half-a-dozen flat-faced Cossacks were round him, and one
quieted Jack’s horse by placing the muzzle of his carbine in his ear and
firing. Then they observed how Jack was pinned down by the lance, and
the spectacle seemed to tickle them, for they laughed merrily. The man
whose lance it was, dismounting, withdrew the weapon by using both hands
to it, standing on Jack’s body to do so. He looked at the blade, and
seeing it bright realised that Jack was practically unhurt, on which he
called out to his companions, who, dismounting, threw themselves on
Jack, tore off his cloak, which one of them promptly annexed, took his
sword, and then with the lines that
[Illustration: Jack having as much as he could do to keep up with his
brutal captors.]
encircled his body and his lance-cap tied his hands behind him so
tightly that the skin was in several places broken.
With a dexterity that spoke of long practice, they then searched him,
taking his watch and every scrap of any value which he possessed. The
cross which the Russian count had given him, after the battle of the
Alma, Jack had ever since worn suspended round his neck under his
jacket, thinking if ever he lived to return to England it would be a
souvenir to give his mother. The Cossack who ripped this from Jack’s
neck uttered a guttural exclamation, and showed it to his companions,
whereupon they all began talking at once, one holding up the order in
front of Jack as though asking where he got it from.
‘I suppose that’s what you mean, you ugly brutes,’ said Jack; ‘but I
can’t make you understand any more than you can make me. If I were only
again on poor Dainty’s back with a lance in my hand I’d make you sing
another tune, some of you.’
The Cossacks did not, of course, understand one word of Jack’s speech;
but something seemed to annoy them, and two or three of them, taking the
whips which every Cossack carries at his saddle-bow, fell to and lashed
Jack cruelly about the head and body.
‘You cowardly dogs!’ cried Jack between his clenched teeth, ‘you
cowardly dogs! if ever I get a chance I’ll make you pay for this!’
Tired of using their whips, a Cossack fastened one end of his
picket-rope round Jack’s neck, while he secured the other end to his
saddle, then, having taken the saddle off the dead horse, the others
mounted, and at a smart trot started off, Jack having as much as he
could do to keep up with his brutal captors.