who lives with it, so that he is at last able to look upon it with no
stronger feeling than that of helplessness. Resigned to the inevitable,
he is no longer impressed by the woes of the individual. He looks upon
the illness, wounds, and death of the soldier as a part of the lot of
all combatants, and comes to consider him an insignificant unit of the
great mass of men. At last only novelties in horrors will excite his
feelings.
I was riding back from the Stanimaka battle-field sufficiently elated at
the prospect of a speedy termination of the war--now made certain by the
breaking up of Suleiman's army--to forget where I was, and to imagine
myself back in my comfortable apartments in Paris. I only awoke from my
dream at the station where the highway from Stanimaka crosses the
railway line about a mile south of Philippopolis. The great wooden
barracks had been used as a hospital for wounded Turks, and as I drew
up my horse at the door the last of the lot of four hundred, who had
been starving there nearly a week, were being placed upon carts to be
transported to the town. The road to Philippopolis was crowded with
wounded and refugees. Peasant families struggled along with all their
household goods piled upon a single cart. Ammunition wagons and droves
of cattle, rushing along against the tide of human beings, toward the
distant bivouacs, made the confusion hopeless. Night was fast coming on,
and in company with a Cossack, who was, like myself, seeking the
headquarters of General Gourko, I made my way through the tangle of men,
beasts, and wagons toward the town. It was one of those chill, wet days
of winter when there is little comfort away from a blazing fire, and
when good shelter for the night is an absolute necessity. The drizzle
had drenched my garments, and the snow-mud had soaked my boots. Sharp
gusts of piercing wind drove the cold mist along, and as the temperature
fell in the late afternoon the slush of the roads began to stiffen, and
the fog froze where it gathered. Every motion of the limbs seemed to
expose some unprotected part of the body to the cold and wet. No amount
of exercise that was possible with stiffened limbs and in wet garments
would warm the blood. Leading my horse, I splashed along, holding my
arms away from my body, and only moving my benumbed fingers to wipe the
chill drip from my face. It was weather to take the courage out of the
strongest man, and the sight of the soaked and shivering wounded, packed
in the jolting carts or limping through the mud, gave me, hardened as I
was, a painful contraction of the heart. The best I could do was to lift
upon my worn-out horse one brave young fellow who was hobbling along
with a bandaged leg. Followed by the Cossack, whose horse bore a similar
burden, I hurried along, hoping to get under cover before dark. At the
entrance to the town numerous camp-fires burned in the bivouacs of the
refugees, who were huddled together in the shelter of their wagons,
trying to warm themselves in the smoke of the wet fuel. I could see the
wounded, as they were jolted past in the heavy carts, look longingly at
the kettles of boiling maize which made the evening meal of the
houseless natives.
Inside the town the wounded and the refugees were still more miserable
than those we had passed on the way. Loaded carts blocked the streets.
Every house was occupied, and the narrow sidewalks were crowded with
Russian soldiers, who looked wretched enough in their dripping
overcoats, as they stamped their rag-swathed feet. At the corner, in
front of the great Khan, motley groups of Greeks, Bulgarians, and
Russians were gathered, listlessly watching the line of hobbling wounded
as they turned the corner to find their way among the carts, up the hill
to the hospital, near the Konak. By the time I reached the Khan the
Cossack who accompanied me had fallen behind in the confusion, and
without waiting for him I pushed along, wading in the gutter, dragging
my horse by the bridle. Half way up the hill I saw a crowd of natives
watching with curiosity two Russian guardsmen and a Turkish prisoner.
The latter was evidently exhausted, for he was crouching in the freezing
mud of the street. Presently the soldiers shook him roughly and raised
him forcibly to his feet, and half supporting him between them they
moved slowly along, the Turk balancing on his stiffened legs and
swinging from side to side.
A most wretched object he was to look at. He had neither boots nor fez.
His feet were bare, and his trowsers were torn off near the knee, and
hung in tatters around his mud-splashed legs. An end of the red sash
fastened to his waist trailed far behind in the mud. A blue cloth jacket
hung loosely from his shoulders, and his hands and wrists dangled from
the ragged sleeves. His head rolled around at each movement of the body,
and at short intervals the muscles of the neck would rigidly contract.
All at once he drew himself up with a shudder and sank down in the mud
again.
The guardsmen were themselves near the end of their strength, and their
patience was wellnigh finished as well. Rough mountain marching had torn
the soles from their boots, and great unsightly wraps of rawhide and
rags were bound on their feet. The thin worn overcoats, burned in many
places, flapped dismally against their ankles; and their caps, beaten
out of shape by many storms, clung drenched to their heads. They were in
no condition to help any one to walk, for they could scarcely get on
alone. They stood a moment shivering, looked at each other, shook their
heads as if discouraged, and proceeded to rouse the Turk by hauling him
upon his feet again. The three moved on a few yards, and the prisoner
fell again, and the same operation was repeated. All this time I was
crowding nearer and nearer, and as I got within a half dozen paces the
Turk fell once more, and this time lay at full length in the mud. The
guardsmen tried to rouse him by shaking, but in vain. Finally, one of
them, losing all patience, pricked him with his bayonet on the lower
part of the ribs exposed by the raising of the jacket as he fell. I was
now near enough to act, and with a sudden clutch I pulled the guardsman
away, whirled him around, and stood in his place. As I was stooping over
the Turk he raised himself slowly, doubtless aroused by the pain of the
puncture, and turned on me a most beseeching look, which changed at once
into something like joy and surprise. Immediately a deathlike pallor
spread over his face, and he sank back again with a groan.
By this time quite a crowd of Bulgarians had gathered around us, and
seemed to enjoy the sight of a suffering enemy. It was evident that they
did not intend to volunteer any assistance, so I helped the wounded
Russian down from my saddle, and invited the natives rather sternly to
put the Turk in his place. With true Bulgarian spirit they refused to
assist a Turk, and it required the argument of the rawhide (_nagajka_)
to bring them to their senses. Three of them, cornered and flogged,
lifted the unconscious man and carried him toward the horse, the
soldiers, meanwhile believing me to be an officer, standing in the
attitude of attention. As the Bulgarians bore the Turk to the horse, a
few drops of blood fell to the ground. I noticed then that he had his
shirt tied around his left shoulder, under his jacket. Supported in the
saddle by two natives on each side, his head falling forward on his
breast, the wounded prisoner was carried with all possible tenderness to
the Stafford House hospital, near the Konak. As we moved slowly up the
hill I looked back, and saw the two guardsmen sitting on the muddy
sidewalk, with their guns leaning against their shoulders--too much
exhausted to go either way.
I found room for my charge in one of the upper rooms of the hospital,
where he was washed and put into a warm bed. His wound proved to be a
severe one. A Berdan bullet had passed through the thick part of the
left pectoral, out again, and into the head of the humerus. The surgeon
said that the arm would have to be operated on, to remove the upper
quarter of the bone.
The next morning I went to the hospital to see what had become of the
wounded man, for the incident of the previous evening made a deep
impression on my mind. As I walked through the corridor I saw a group
around a temporary bed in the corner. Some one was evidently about to
undergo an operation, for an assistant held at intervals a great cone of
linen over a haggard face on the pillow, and a strong smell of
chloroform filled the air. As I approached the surgeon turned around,
and recognizing me, with a nod and a smile said, "We are at work on your
friend." While he was speaking he bared the left shoulder of the wounded
man, and I saw the holes made by the bullet as it passed from the
pectoral into the upper part of the deltoid. Without waiting longer, the
surgeon made a straight cut downward from near the acromion through the
thick fibre of the deltoid to the bone. He tried to sever the tendons to
slip the head of the humerus from the socket, but failed. He wasted no
time in further trial, but made a second incision from the bullet-hole
diagonally to the middle of the first cut, and turned the pointed flap
thus made up over the shoulder. It was now easy to unjoint the bones,
and but a moment's work to saw off the shattered piece, tie the severed
arteries, and bring the flap again into its place.
There was no time to pause, for the surgeon began to fear the effects of
the chloroform on the patient. We hastened to revive him by every
possible means at hand, throwing cold water on him and warming his hands
and feet. Although under the influence of chloroform to the degree that
he was insensible to pain, he had not been permitted to lose his entire
consciousness, and he appeared to be sensible of what we were doing.
Nevertheless, he awoke slowly, very slowly, the surgeon meanwhile
putting the stitches in the incision. At last he raised his eyelids and
made a movement with his lips. With a deliberate movement he surveyed
the circle of faces gathered closely around the bed. There was something
in his eyes which had an irresistible attraction for me, and I bent
forward to await his gaze. As his eyes met mine they changed as if a
sudden light had struck them, and the stony stare gave way to a look of
intelligence and recognition. Then, through the beard of a season's
growth and behind the haggard mask before me, I saw at once the
circus-rider of Turin and Paris. I remember being scarcely excited or
surprised at the meeting, for a great sense of irresponsibility came
over me, and I involuntarily accepted the coincidence as a matter of
course. He tried in vain to speak, but held up his right hand, and
feebly made with his fingers the sign of the letter which had played
such a part in the story of his life. Even at that instant the light
left his eyes, and something like a veil seemed drawn over them. With
the instinctive energy which possesses every one when there is a chance
of saving human life, we redoubled our efforts to restore the patient to
consciousness. But while we strove to feed the flame with some of our
own vitality, it flickered and went out, leaving the hue of ashes where
the rosy tinge of life had been. His heart was paralyzed.
As I turned away, my eye caught the surgeon's incision, which was now
plainly visible on the left shoulder. The cut was in the form of the
letter Y.
[2] _Century Magazine, March_, 1883.
THE END OF NEW YORK.[3]
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
INTRODUCTORY.
THE WAR CLOUD.
Towards dusk on the afternoon of Monday, December 5th, 1881, the French
steamer "Canada," from Havre, arrived at her pier in New York City.
Among the passengers was a tall, dark, rather fine-looking man, of about
middle-age. After the usual examination of his baggage by the Custom
House officials had been made, this person, accompanied by a lady, took
a hack at the entrance of the pier, and was driven to the Fifth Avenue
Hotel. The initials on the luggage strapped on the rear of the vehicle
were M.B.
In conversing with the driver the gentleman--for his appearance and
bearing fully indicated his right to the title--spoke English, though
somewhat imperfectly; with the lady he talked in sonorous Castilian.
Apparently, no one bestowed any particular notice upon the pair. They
were two foreigners out of the great throng of foreigners which lands
daily in the metropolis; they were Spaniards and reasonably well-to-do,
seeing that they came over in the saloon, and not in the steerage.
The names registered at the hotel were Manuel Blanco and wife.
Late during the following evening the lady personally came to the office
seemingly in great distress. An interpreter being procured, it was
learned that Señor Blanco, in response to a visiting-card sent to his
room, had left the apartment shortly after breakfast that morning, and
had not since returned.
The lady explained that he had no business affairs in New York, and that
they were merely resting in the city for a few days to recover from the
effects of the ocean voyage, before going to Charleston, S.C., their
destination.
The clerk in the office simply knew that a stranger had called and sent
a card to Señor Blanco, and that the two, after meeting, had left the
hotel together.
The anxiety of Señora Blanco was evidently excessive. She rejected such
commonplace reasons as that her husband might have lost his way, or that
some unlooked-for business matters had claimed his attention.
"No, no!" she repeated, almost hysterically; "no beezness. Ah, Dios! El
está muerte."
A physician was sent for, and the lady, who was fast reaching a stage of
nervous prostration, placed in his care. The hotel detective proceeded
at once to Police Headquarters, whence telegrams were despatched to the
various precincts, giving a description of the missing man, and making
inquiries concerning him. The replies were all in the negative: no such
person had come under the notice of the police.
From what has thus far been narrated, it might be inferred that Blanco's
absence was due to one of those strange disappearances which happen in
great cities. The inference, however, would be wrong. Blanco had not
disappeared.
True, his agonized wife and the police of New York City had no trace of
his whereabouts; but Mr. Michael Chalmette, an officer detailed by the
U.S. Marshal in New Orleans to arrest Leon Sangrado, at the request of
the Republic of Chili, on the charge of repeatedly committing murder and
highway robbery in that country, was entirely sure that the missing
person was sitting beside him, handcuffed to his left wrist, and that
both were speeding toward New Orleans as fast as a railway-car could
take them.
When the French steamer "Canada" arrived, Mr. Michael Chalmette, wearing
the uniform and badge of a Custom House officer, stationed himself by
the gang-plank and narrowly scrutinized each passenger that came
ashore. While Blanco's trunks were being examined, he stood near that
gentleman, and furtively compared his features with those on a
photograph. It was Chalmette who sent the card to Blanco's room, in the
hotel, next day, and who induced Blanco to accompany him in a carriage,
as he said, to the Custom House, to arrange some irregularity in the
passing of Blanco's luggage. The driver of that carriage, however, was
told to go to the Pennsylvania Railroad Dépôt, in Jersey City.
Blanco evinced some surprise on being taken across the ferry, but was
easily satisfied by his companion's explanation that the branch of the
Custom House to be visited was on the Jersey side.
When the station was reached Chalmette led the way to the waiting-room,
and quietly observed, before the unsuspecting Blanco could finish a
sentence beginning:
"Ees it posseeble zat zees is ze Custom--"
"You are my prisoner. You had better come without making trouble."
Blanco looked at him aghast--not half comprehending the words.
"A prisoner--I--for what?"
Chalmette returned no answer, but produced his warrant.
"But I no understand--I--"
Just then the warning bell rung. Chalmette seized his prisoner by the
arm and pushed him through the gateway.
On the platform Blanco made some slight resistance. The policeman,
whose attention was attracted thereby, after a few words with Chalmette,
assisted the latter in forcing him upon the train, which was already
slowly moving out of the dépôt.
* * * * *
It is necessary to break the thread of the story here to note an odd
coincidence. While there is a French steamer "Canada" belonging to the
Compagnie Générale Trans Atlantique, and plying between New York and
Havre, there is also an English steamer "Canada" belonging to the
National Line, which travels between New York and London. It so happened
that on the same afternoon that the French vessel came in, as before
narrated, the English steamer of like name also arrived.
Among the passengers who landed from the English "Canada" there was also
a couple, man and woman, apparently Spaniards, and there was an
undeniable resemblance between the man and Blanco. The former, however,
had features cast in a much rougher mould, and his general bearing
indicated that he was not a gentleman, as plainly as Blanco's did the
reverse.
The luggage of the pair consisted of a single valise, which was carried
by the woman, the man striding on ahead, leisurely puffing a cigarette.
They hired no carriage, but walked from the pier, across and up West
Street, and took a street-car going to the east side of the city.
As soon as they left the conveyance the man spread out his arms and
expanded his chest with a long breath. The woman half smiled, and said
something to him in Spanish. Then they mingled with the crowd around
Tompkins Square and disappeared.
* * * * *
Two days after Blanco's arrest the physician, now in constant attendance
upon his wife, filed the death certificate of a stillborn child.
Puerperal fever set in, and the life of the unhappy woman for more than
two weeks trembled in the balance. During the first week a telegram from
New Orleans, which Blanco's captor had permitted him to send, came,
addressed to her.
The physician opened it; but as she was almost constantly unconscious,
it was impossible to inform her of its contents for some days. Then she
was simply told that her husband had been heard from, and was safe. The
doctor peremptorily forbade any information being given her of Blanco's
true situation; and as she could not understand the language, and so
glean intelligence from the newspapers, which contained reports of the
inquiry conducted by the Commissioner, and the complete identification
of the prisoner as Leon Sangrado, she, of course, remained in ignorance
of what had happened.
Some five weeks elapsed before she was judged sufficiently strong to
bear the shock which such news would inevitably produce. Then she was
told as gently as possible, all mention of the nature of the charges
against Blanco being avoided.
She listened in silent surprise.
"But he has never been in Chili in his life," she insisted.
The old doctor, himself a Spaniard, looked at her pityingly, but said
nothing.
"He has been Consul before nowhere but at Trieste; how could he have
been in South America?" she continued.
"Consul? Is your husband, then, in the Consular service of Spain?"
queried the doctor, somewhat surprised.
"He is here as Consul to Charleston--in--ah, what is the
name?--Carolina."
"Can you prove that?" demanded the physician, somewhat excitedly.
"I can--that is, I think there are official papers in the trunks. Is it
necessary?"
"Very necessary."
"Here are the keys, then."
The doctor in her presence opened the luggage, and in a curiously
arranged secret compartment in one of the trunks found the documents.
After a few moments spent in looking them over, he said:
"Do you feel strong to-day?"
"Not very."
"I think you could travel, however. I will see that your baggage is
properly packed, if you will be prepared to accompany me to-morrow
morning."
"But whither?"
"To Washington; to the Spanish Minister. This is a serious business."
Under the supervision of the doctor the journey was safely accomplished.
After proper repose Señora Blanco and the physician proceeded to the
Spanish Legation, and within a very short time Señor Antonio Mantilla,
Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary of His Catholic
Majesty, was in possession of Blanco's papers, and of the facts, so far
as known to his visitors, attending that gentleman's arrest.
Señor Mantilla looked grave and said little. He thanked the physician,
however, warmly for the part he had taken in the matter, and calling a
secretary placed Señora Blanco in his charge, with instructions that she
should receive the greatest care and attention.
He then desired the attendance of his Secretary of Legation, and the two
officials remained in earnest consultation for more than two hours.
During this period several telegrams were sent to the Spanish Consul at
New Orleans, and a long cipher-message to the Minister of Foreign
Affairs in Madrid.
A few days later a lengthy report was received from the Consul at New
Orleans, accompanied by three letters from Blanco to his wife, not one
of which had been forwarded from the jail in which he was confined.
Another consultation was held at the Spanish Legation, during which
this report and an answering message from Madrid were frequently
referred to.
The report set forth the facts of the identification of Blanco as
Sangrado by the Chilian representatives, with sufficient certainty to
convince the U.S. Commissioner. Until a late period in the inquiry
Blanco had had no counsel. He had, however, asseverated from the
beginning that he was the Consul of Spain at Charleston--a fact not
believed, because there was already a Consul resident at that place.
Communication with that official simply showed that he expected to be
transferred to another post, but had not been informed of the name of
his successor. The Commissioner, seeing that Blanco was doing nothing to
obtain testimony in his own favor, quietly arranged that counsel should
be provided for him; and the lawyers, as a matter of course, at once
sent to New York for Blanco's papers.
Señora Blanco, being then in a dangerous condition, was helpless. Search
was made through the trunks, without finding any trace of the documents
hidden in the secret compartment.
The Legation of Spain in Washington had information that Manuel Blanco
had been sent to assume the Consulship at Charleston, but no one could
personally identify the prisoner to be the Manuel Blanco appointed.
The Chilian witnesses had sworn that the prisoner was Leon Sangrado in
the most unequivocal manner--and Chalmette deposed that he saw him land
from the "Canada," in which vessel he had been instructed to look for
the fugitive.
The facts, as thus gathered by the Spanish diplomatists from the Consul
at New Orleans, from Señora Blanco, and from her physician, were
complete. The outcome of their deliberations upon them was twofold.
_First_.--The departure of Señora Blanco, under care of an attaché of
the Spanish Legation, to join her husband at New Orleans.
_Second_.--The following diplomatic communication from the Minister of
Spain to the Secretary of State of the United States of America.
Legation of Spain at Washington,
January 16th, 1882.
The undersigned, Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary
of His Catholic Majesty, has the honor to address the Honorable
Secretary of State, with a view to obtaining from the Federal
Government reparation for the arrest of Señor Don Manuel Blanco,
His Catholic Majesty's Consul at Charleston, S.C., at the demand of
the Republic of Chili, on a charge of crime preferred by the
Government of that country. The undersigned is instructed to
protest, in the most distinct terms, against this grave breach of
international obligations, to insist upon the immediate release of
the said Blanco, and to require from the Federal Government an
apology suited to the circumstances. The undersigned avails
himself, etc.,
ANTONIO MANTILLA.
DEPARTMENT OF STATE,
WASHINGTON, January 20th, 1882.