WE REACH HEAD-QUARTERS.
Such was the story of the Circassian captain, and it occupied the
greater part of the time during which the San Lucar packet steamed
along the south-west coast of Andalusia, passing Cape Plata, and
entering the Straits of Gibraltar, had rounded the promontory which
is crowned by towers and ramparts of Tarifa, after which a run of
seventeen miles brought us into the harbour of the great rock, where
the babble of Spaniards, Moors, Italians, French, and Gitanas was
ringing in our ears again, as we landed with our horses on the quay.
Taking our new friend with us--for we could not but have a lively
interest in a brother patriot of the valiant Schamyl--the Washington
of the Caucasus, the Wallace of Circassia, we repaired at once to
headquarters, and related the success of our visit to Seville,
reserving future relations until we went to mess in the evening.
We introduced Captain Osman Rioni to Morton, our colonel, who
immediately spoke to him of service in the Turkish Contingent, urging
it upon him the more vehemently, as there were then in the harbour
six transports full of French and British troops en route to
Sebastopol. But Osman thanked the good colonel, and shook his head,
saying,--
"Mohammed was the first Prophet of God, and the holy Murid Schamyl is
the second! Our destiny is written on our foreheads; may it be mine
to die in the ranks of war! Every man hath his part in life allotted
to him; may it be mine to fight for my country, and fight again I
shall! Is not her blood red on the Russian bayonets? I will carry a
lance under no flag but the green Sangiac Sheerif of Circassia.
Would to heaven I saw it now with the twelve stars of the
confederated tribes, for then I should see the Abassian peaks and the
wilds of Daghestan, the warriors in their mail of links, and the
linden trees that shade those cottage doors from which our women
bless us, and we ride to war against the Buss. Yes, yes; I will
return to Circassia on her shore alone to fight with Schamyl against
the foes of God, and to see once more the snowy rocks of Elbrus,
where the ark of Noah first rested before it lay on Ararat."
His story, his peculiar language and bearing, his horse Zupi, and his
love for that gallant animal made him quite a seven days' wonder with
"Ours," and he was the lion of the mess table. Every one who had any
pretension to be a connoisseur in horse-flesh had visited,
criticised, and caressed Zupi, which was a long-bodied, wiry, and, to
our taste, somewhat short-legged nag, with small ears, a noble head,
full chest and flanks, compact and close.
"A hundred times and more he has stood still as a stone wall, and
allowed me to fire my long Albanian gun between his ears, using his
head as a rest," said Osman; "courage, brave Zupi--courage! Ere long
thou shalt snuff the air in woody Daghestan, and drink of the foaming
Koissons."
We raised a handsome subscription for him in one night at our mess
table, and procured him a passage in a French cavalry transport; so
he left us, with lips that quivered as he said "farewell," and a
heart that yearned with gratitude. He said that one day we should
hear of him when Schamyl and his host marched towards the shores of
the Sea of Azov.
Whether Osman reached his own wild and war-like country we have yet
to learn; for since the day on which the "Napoleon III." steamed away
past the New Mole fort, with her deck crowded by Zouaves, and our
Circassian among them waving his red cap in adieu to us, we have
heard no more of him; for the tidings of the Caucasian strife that
reach Europe are meagre, doubtful, and vague, as those that came from
the Holy Land of old.
Slingsby and I were complimented in garrison orders for the manner in
which we had accomplished our little diplomatic trip to Seville, and
were praised for the dangers we had encountered and escaped.
Our adventures, with those of Osman Rioni, infected the mess with a
desire to "spin yarns," and the result was, that from being the most
matter-of-fact fellows in the world, every one of "Ours" had a
romantic story to tell.
"Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, one evening when I had brought my
narrative down to the happy epoch of our embarkation on board the
steamer at San Lucar de Barameda, "how much more pleasant and
entertaining has all this been to us than the usual absurd chit-chat
which reigns supreme at a mess table; the everlasting quiz about the
curl of Ramble's mustachios; the banter about Bob's whiskers, or
Slingsby's bay mare, and how Shafton craned at the hedge in the
steeple-chase; the odds on the Derby; the last new singer; the latest
ballet importation, with the shape of her ancles, and so forth; the
last novel or polka, or belle, or piece of humbug; now is it not so?"
Hereupon all those whose constant topics the colonel had just
enumerated, warmly assented that it was, and that the narrative had
proved immensely interesting.
"Deuced instructive, too!" yawned the most stupid fellow at the table.
"Might spin three volumes out of it, Ramble. 'Men and Manners in
Andalusia!'" said another.
"No banter now, gentlemen!" said the colonel; "pass the bottles,
Shafton. Mr. Vice-President, another allowance of wine; I have a
proposal to make. We have been--that is, the most of us--have been
in all the quarters of the globe, and have seen life in all its
phases and varieties. Therefore, I beg to move that each of us who
has a story to tell should forthwith tell it for the amusement of the
mess, under the penalty of a dozen of wine."
"Bravo," said every one.
"I beg to second the motion," said Jack Slingsby.
"With an amendment," added Shafton, "that the colonel should tell the
first story himself, the said amendment to be inserted in the minutes
of the mess committee."
It was carried unanimously, amid much fun and laughter.
Our colonel, who is a fine, frank, and brave-hearted old fellow, had
no idea that he was so suddenly to find himself in his own trap. He
laughed and reflected a little, as he stroked the wiry, grey mustache
which, in compliance with the late general order, he had just begun
to cultivate after forty years of close shaving; and then he smoothed
his thin white hair, for he was an old soldier, and (but for the
favouritism of the Horse Guards) would have been a general twenty
years ago, being one of the few survivors of that army which gave
battle to France on the shores of Aboukir, where, as he was wont to
say, "he had carried the colours of Geordie Moncrief's lambs--the old
Perthshire Greybreeks." He had also been through the whole
Peninsular war, and served in the Fifth Hussars, with Sir Colquhoun
Grant's brigade under Wellington in Flanders.
"I have seen much in my time, gentlemen," said he, good humouredly,
as he tossed off a glass of claret, "but have no adventures of my own
to relate--at least none that are at all worth your attention. I
can, however, tell you the story of another, whose scrapes were
somewhat remarkable, and were in some respects--as far as Spanish
robbers were concerned--like those of Ramble and Jack Slingsby. They
were told me by a French officer, a gay fellow, but a regular
candle-snuffer at twelve paces, whom I met at Paris when the allies
were there; by this you will perceive that the affairs I refer to
happened many a year ago."
The glasses were filled; the cracking of nuts ceased; the heavy
crystal decanters were slid noiselessly over the long smooth
mess-table, the well-polished surface of which reflected the red
coats around it, and all was hushed as our grave and gentle old
colonel began the following narrative, to which I beg leave to devote
my next three chapters.