THE HEIGHTS OF DJUNIS.
It was the morning of the 20th of October, and the bells of St.
Nestor's Monastery were just tolling for matins, when the deep hoarse
boom of the Turkish Krupp guns announced their attack upon Djunis,
the key of the Servian position, some almost impregnable heights
overlooking Deligrad and the valley of the Morava.
It was a wild and gusty morning. The chill breeze was sweeping
fiercely through the groves and woodlands, casting their dark and
fitful shadows in the morning sunshine on the ground beneath. There
the dead leaves were whirled in clouds to and fro, and the green
blades of the dewy and yet untrodden grass shone like steel or silver
in the sheen of the level sun.
Long ere this, the Servian and Russian troops--three thousand of the
latter had joined only two months before--were under arms, and all
moving into the various positions assigned to them; and the sombre
columns, in the brown uniforms of Milano, or the dusky grey capotes
of the Emperor, were marching in masses up the steeps and along the
slopes, with their bayonets and accoutrements flashing incessantly in
the sun, deploying, deepening, and extending, anon reducing their
front as some natural obstruction came in the way, to deploy in front
formation again, the tri-colours waving in the wind, while
occasionally the clear blast of a bugle was borne past on it.
Cecil's regiment, formed by squadrons of which he commanded the
leading one, had all the cloaks rolled and strapped to the pommel of
the saddles. Baggage, valises, and all that might impede the men in
action, were left in camp, and the edge and point of the sword alone
were looked to for the work of the day, which was chiefly to support
a battery of guns and go wherever they were wanted.
'My God, I thank Thee!' thought Cecil, with high and pure enthusiasm
in his heart, as he leaped on his horse that morning; 'to-day,
whatever may happen--whatever fate may befall me--I am again a
Cameronian, a Queen's officer, one of the true old Cameronians who in
every fight, from the days of Dunkeld to the fall of Magdala, have
carried their colours with honour, and given place to none!'
And so he felt that it was as much in the character of a British
officer, as one in the service of Milano Obrenovitch, he drew his
sword in what was eventually to prove the last battle of the Servian
war.
The cavalry brigade to which he belonged moved off by fours from the
right of squadrons.
'_Shagaum-marche!_ trot--_à levo!_--nà préte!' (left wheel--forward!)
followed, and the column began to descend the Krusevac road, moving
to the left across a valley.
Here he passed the infantry corps of Pelham and Stanley, halted
temporarily.
'A cigar, Falconer,' said the former, holding out his case.
'Thanks--acceptable indeed in this chill atmosphere.'
'If I get knocked on the head to-day--' began Pelham, who was rather
a reckless fellow.
'A cheerful beginning!' said Stanley, sharply; 'I wish you would shut
up, old man. But well, suppose you were so?'
'My tragic fate would be mourned sincerely, at least by many a
sorrowful West-end trader, in whose books my later annals have been
noted. But, ta, ta, Falconer--there goes our bugle. Advance!'
Shot dead by a Snider bullet in his heart, poor Pelham, within an
hour after this, lay cold and stiff on the slope of the Djunis, while
his regiment took up its position in front of the fast-advancing
Turkish lines.
With the three days' fighting that now ensued we shall not trouble
the reader, further than with that portion which cannot be
omitted--the part that Cecil saw, and that he bore in it, with what
befell him there.
Though Tchernaieff, on this day, placed the management of the troops
chiefly in the hands of General Dochtouroff, he seemed to be
ubiquitous, and was seen everywhere in rapid succession all over the
Servian position, assisting in the placing of brigades here and
there, on the most advantageous ground, and, as an officer who was
present has recorded, 'he placed the troops exactly where they were
most needed, for the Turks made their attack upon the very positions
he had fixed upon.'
'Good-morning, Herr Capitan,' said he, as he passed Cecil's squadron,
which had halted near some glassy steeps most difficult of ascent, in
rear of the Servian position; 'but it seems to me that the enemy has
got very correct information about all the points of our ground.'
'They have evidently been furnished with a plan, excellency,'
remarked a Russian aide-de-camp, whose breast was covered with
Crimean and Khivan medals.
'A plan!' exclaimed Cecil; 'how can they have got it?'
'How, but through the agency of that scoundrel Guebhard, the
renegade!' replied Tchernaieff, with a dark frown, and a Tartar-like
gleam in his eyes; 'but the seven gates of hell are always open, and
if he is here under fire, he may reach one of them to-night!'
'If not?'
'And if he ever falls into my hands, it will be an eye for an eye--a
tooth for a tooth--his wretched life against the many lives lost
to-day!'
He galloped on; the battle had begun in earnest now; fire and smoke
enveloped the whole position that towered skyward; the booming of the
heavy Krupp guns and the roar of rifle-musketry loaded the air, and
amid it all the Grim Sergeant was calling fast his ghastly roll,
while Cecil sat inactive, impatient in his saddle, and longing to see
some work cut out for the cavalry.
Wounded Servians and Russians came pouring past from the heights,
smeared with blood and dust--the bronzed and battle-hardened veterans
of old wars and the lad newly enrolled but a week before; some were
binding up their wounds as they limped past, and some fell on the
way, and lay there prone, dead or in a swoon, unheeded and
untended--a painful spectacle to look upon in cold blood.
So closely was the attack of the position pressed, and so mixed up
did the batteries of artillery and the brigades seem, that amid the
sulphureous cloud that enveloped them it was difficult to know,
sometimes, which were Servian and which were Turkish.
All day long around the steeps of the Djunis the cannon boomed and
the rattle of musketry continued, and great was the slaughter
everywhere. Whatever might have been the shortcomings of the
Servians in previous battles, all fought well and nobly then, and the
din of battle all the livelong day rang between the peaks of the
wooded mountains, with a thousand hollow reverberations, drowning
every sound elicited by human enthusiasm, valour, suffering, or the
heavy hand of coming death.
The smoke seemed to mingle with the clouds, especially towards
sunset, where westward, beyond the mountain-tops, a red and
tempestuous sun was setting, filling all the vast expanse with
intense ruddy light, that threw up intervening objects in opaque and
distinct outline.
On many a face that had been bright with youth and health in the
morning the sunset fell now, and left it cold, white, and lifeless;
the dusk drew on, and still the terrible work of slaughter went
forward without ceasing.
As it deepened into utter gloom, the red, streaky, and incessant
flashes from hundreds of cannon burst forth incessantly; the infantry
sought each other's where-abouts by their mutual firing, pouring it
in almost at random, while on one side ever and anon burst forth the
deep, hoarse 'Hurrah!' of the Muscovite and Slav, on the other the
incessant and shrill high shout of 'Allah, Allah, hu!' till, as if by
mutual consent, the contest ceased, and both armies lay down, weary
and worn, to endure hunger, thirst, and cold, on the ground where
they had fought, and surrounded by all the agony and horrors of their
mutual carnage.
Many lay down on that night on the slopes of the Djunis who never
rose again.
Cecil passed it rolled in his cloak beside his charger, with a stone
for a pillow; but sleep was a stranger to his eyes, and amid the
incessant cries and moans of the wounded, who streamed past rearward
by twos, threes, or even scores at a time, he strove to think of
Mary's letter and all it suggested, to render him oblivious, for a
time, of all his terrible surroundings.
A sergeant of his troop shared with him the contents of a flask of
raki, fiery stuff, but very acceptable under the circumstances, for
Cecil was as great a favourite with his Servian troopers as he had
been with the Cameronians; and the act of the sergeant--whilom a poor
copper-miner in the mountains--recalled to his memory the faith and
generosity of his old Cameronian servant, Tommy Atkins, on the last
night he was under the same roof with the dear old regiment.
Cecil knew not how the fight had gone on the summit of the position,
but when morning dawned, among those who were still straggling,
crawling, and limping down from it came a man in a scarlet tunic.
Scarlet! The sight of the familiar colour made Cecil's heart leap.
The wearer, who was severely wounded, proved to be a new aide-de-camp
of Tchernaieff's, a lieutenant of the 1st Hussars of the Russian
Imperial Guard, whose uniform is like the British.
He informed Cecil that a portion of the position, named the Crevet
Plateau, which Dochtouroff had retaken from the Turks, had afterwards
fallen again into the hands of the enemy; but he had sworn to retake
it or die there, and after a terrible conflict, in which men perished
by companies around him, he had failed to do so, though his troops
had got into that state of rage or frenzy which the French term
_acharnement_.
With dawn the work of death began again, and Cecil's troop, with some
other cavalry, began, by a circuitous route, to ascend the position.
Ere long shot began to fall and shells to burst among them,
scattering wounds, suffering, and death; but so much were the whole
heights involved in smoke that he could see little of what was going
on, and knew less of the great game that was being played, though the
hill on which he was ordered to halt commanded a view of the valleys
on both sides.
A regiment of Russian infantry, far away on the right, held with
resolute bravery a post assigned it by Dochtouroff, and the Turkish
masses with their scarlet fezzes and green standards, and their
incessant shout of 'Allah!' seemed to hurl their fury against it
again and again in vain. On the left the smoke from three villages,
set on fire by them, rolled along the valley and veiled everything.
In one part of the field a Russian regiment, which had expended the
last of its cartridges, deliberately 'stood at ease' under the
Turkish fire, perishing where it was posted, rather than lose honour
by falling back!
Thick lay the dead and thicker the wounded on every hand, and the
medley of sounds that went up from the Crevet Plateau and the
eminences around it was appalling; and the evening of the second day
was drawing on.
Suddenly General Dochtouroff, pale and excited, but with flashing
eyes, dashed up to where Cecil was at the head of his squadron, and
sharply reining in his horse on the curb, said:
'A brigade of guns is getting into position to attack the flank of
yonder Turkish column on the left. At the hazard of your life you
will support the guns!'
Dochtouroff then galloped away, and, as it proved eventually, Cecil
never saw him again.
'Here come the artillery!' cried a voice, as the guns came thundering
to the front--all Russian, painted green, guns and carriages alike.
Along the slope of the Djunis heights the brigade came in column at
full speed, withdrawn from some other position to act with effect at
the point indicated. Crushing many a dead body, and splashing
through pools of blood, they went in wild career, the drivers using
whip and spur with a will; the fence of a flax-field was swept away
like a gossamer web, as the guns rushed to the front--six horses to
each gun and limber, three riders to each gun.
Over vineyard walls, fallen trees, through laurel bushes, every horse
straining at the gallop, every driver lashing his team and goring
with the spurs, while yelling, 'Dobro! dobro! hurrah! hurrah!' they
made a wonderfully impressive sight.
Sometimes the guns bounded up eighteen inches or more, as the
iron-bound wheels went over some rock or obstruction, but no man lost
his seat, and no horse failed in its pace--eight guns, eight
tumbrils, eighty horses, and a hundred men, all rushing on for life
and death to obey Dochtouroff, and get into position, the cavalry
galloping in their rear, and from a column of march right in front,
as they wheeled up into line, they formed to the left.
The guns were slewed round with their muzzles to the enemy's line,
the limbers were cast off, drawn rearward, and in hoarse Russian the
word was given to fire. 'Boom, boom, boom!' rang along the front,
shrouding all in smoke, and making terrible havoc in the ranks of the
Turkish brigade; but still went up the cry of 'Allah, Allah, hu!' the
concluding word of the Muezzin's call to prayer.
The guns were not charged with shot, but short-fuse shell, and the
roar of each explosion veiled for a moment all the other sounds of
battle. The explosions were awful, and fast fell the fezzes to
earth, the corpses so mangled as to be scarcely recognised as human;
yet the brave Turks, incited by their officers, full of military and
religious ardour, seeing, perhaps, the glories of Paradise opening
before them and the dark-eyed girls waving their scarfs of green,
closed nobly in, and were making a forward movement as if to charge
the guns, still shouting, 'Allah, Allah, hu!' And now came the time
for Cecil to go to work, to get clear of the brigade of cannon, and
form in front to charge, while the latter were reloaded; and even
after all he had undergone there now boiled up in his heart the
'rapture of the strife,' as Attila is said to have termed the fierce
excitement of battle.
'By half troops to the right turn--left wheel--forward--trot!' were
his orders.
'By half troops left wheel--form squadron!' he cried, raising himself
in his stirrups and brandishing his sword;
'forward--_gallop_--CHARGE!'
By this time, the Turkish infantry were confusedly endeavouring to
form square over the piles of dead and dying who had fallen before
the cannon.
Ere the final word had left his lips, Cecil had seen that his
squadron had advanced at a brisk trot to within fifty yards of the
enemy's front--that there were no closing and crowding of his files
to impede the free action of man and horse, and that the former kept
the latter well in hand, pressing forward by leg and spur when
necessary; and in splendid order, ere the square was formed, with the
force of a locomotive, the troopers were sword in hand among them,
hewing them down on right and left, the hurrahs of the Servians
mingling with the yells of the Turks.
'Fours about!' sounded the shrill trumpet, and away wheeling off to
the right and left, while the Turks were still struggling to form
square, he left the guns uncovered, and once more the plunging
fire--grape and canister this time--went with serpent-like hiss
through the swaying mass--tearing off legs, arms, and heads, laying
the dead and the dying in swathes above each other.
As he again formed his squadron, breathless now, in rear of the guns,
Cecil could see through the whirling and eddying smoke that it was no
longer a line, but a mob of men who were in front--a mob whose
shrieks, screams, and shouts rent the evening air, while the muskets
and bayonets seemed to sway helplessly to and fro.
Another round of these terrible guns from right to left, given with
such force and rapidity that the hot guns almost leaped from the
ground with the concussion, and the Turks in that quarter gave way en
masse, just as the fiery sun went down beyond the dark mountain
ranges.
Again Cecil led on his troopers, who had been straining like
greyhounds in the leash--on over the ground an acre and more of which
was covered by men mutilated in every way--corpses struck by four,
five, six bullets--yea, in some instances by a whole charge of
canister--and where every blade of grass was dyed red--on to the
charge once more, and, as there was no time to take prisoners, a
terrible havoc was made--a havoc at which his heart, even in the
thrill of what he thought was victory, began to sicken; but he had
received his orders to support the guns, and nobly had he done so.
At that point the strife was nearly over, when a cry of agony escaped
the lips of Cecil, as a bullet--the last shot of some wounded
man--pierced his chest like a red-hot sword-blade, and he fell
forward on the neck of his horse, clutching wildly at the reins the
while; at the same moment another Turk who lay wounded--an officer
apparently--by one slash of his sharp Damascus sabre, all but
disembowelled the animal, which uttered a snorting cry, and wheeling
round, quitted the field at a mad and infuriated gallop, with his
helpless rider clinging to the pommel of the saddle. No one could
stop or intercept its headlong career, and in less than a minute the
luckless commander vanished from the eyes of his squadron!
Was Palenka's prediction about to come true after all?
Cecil had thought the field was won, yet it was not entirely so. Had
the winning thereof depended on the fiery valour of one man,
Dochtouroff had been victor. At the head of two hundred Russians he
charged with the bayonet right into the centre of the Turkish main
attack, with such fury that ere the rifles crossed the enemy wheeled
about and fled, and he saved the principal position--that of Djunis;
'but Krupp guns, Snider rifles, and better trained troops, in far
superior numbers, had done their work, and Servia was beaten!'
During the three days' fighting, the latter lost not less than nine
thousand soldiers, in killed, wounded, and missing; and of three
thousand Russians who were in the field, only seven hundred remained
untouched at sunset on the third day.
The losses of the Turks were never precisely known, but they must
have been terrible, as they were the attacking force, and had
assailed well-chosen positions that were deemed impregnable.
In Russia and abroad, bluff old Tchernaieff was blamed for
recklessness in his tactics, and doubtless he made mistakes which
ended in failures. 'And then,' says Captain Salusbury, in his work
on those wars, 'it must not be forgotten that he always expected
reinforcements which never came. And again it is to be noted that he
had to operate with eighty thousand of not the very best troops in a
country that required, to command success, two hundred thousand
well-trained and thoroughly disciplined soldiers. There is no doubt
that the men I saw under fire were a far inferior lot to those who
fought in the early part of the war.'
When the battle--the last of the strife--was fairly over, a requiem
for the dead was solemnly held, according to the Russian ritual, in a
tent upon the field, where numbers of ladies, the wives--and in too
many sorrowful instances the widows--of Russian officers were gliding
about like angels of mercy, ministering to the wants of the wounded.
While leaving Dochtouroff to hold the position, Tchernaieff withdrew
to the camp at Deligrad.
Meanwhile where was Cecil Falconer, or Montgomerie as he had been
learning to call himself now?