AT WORK.
I have often wondered why blasphemy is excusable when it is spoken
from a throne. It seems to me that many crimes have been
deliberately set forth upon paper under the exculpating heading of,
'In the name of God--Amen. We,' etc., etc. This thought cannot well
escape suggestion while perusing a declaration of war. It is a
subterfuge--a mean attempt to assign the responsibility to One who is
mightier than princes or potentates. God does not declare war--it is
man.
On the twenty-fourth day of April, eighteen hundred and
seventy-seven, the Czar of all the Russias gave forth to his people
that, bowing his head to the evident desire of the Almighty, he
reluctantly declared war against the Ottoman Empire. There was much
rhetoric about Christian nations suffering beneath the lash of
Mohammedan hatred; stories were told of shocking cruelties practised
upon an oppressed people, coldly worded statements were made of
misgovernment, misappropriation, theft. And the remedy to all these
was, if it may please you, war! From the formal declaration, with
its pharisaical self-laudation, its rolling periods and mock
reluctance, fourteen letters might have been selected, and set in
order so as to spell a single word in which lay the explanation of it
all. That word was--'Constantinople.'
Before the official opening of hostilities, Russia was prepared, and
Turkey (despite a long warning) but half ready, as usual. The
Russian troops entered Roumania and Turkish Armenia at once, the
inhabitants of both countries, with Oriental readiness, receiving
them as deliverers. The day following the declaration of war saw the
occupation of the town of Galatz.
Theodore Trist had, as he told Brenda he intended, taken up his
quarters in this small town upon the Danube, and actually passed
through its streets in the midst of the Northern troops unsuspected.
When the conquerors had shaken down into their new quarters, and
military discipline was beginning to make itself felt throughout the
city, he discreetly vanished, and, crossing the Danube in a small
boat, made his way South. At this time England began to receive the
benefit of a brilliantly conceived and steadily executed plan of
transmitting news. Trist and his two lieutenants appeared to haunt
the entirety of the Ottoman Empire. One of them appeared to find
himself invariably within reach of any spot where events of interest
might be occurring. And from this time until the end of the great
war this ceaseless flow of carefully-sifted information continued to
set eastward to Paris and London. The first official notice taken
was an imperial decree, forbidding the admittance into Russia of the
French and English journals to which Trist was attached as
war-correspondent. This heavy punishment in no way affected the
equanimity of these mistaken organs, of which the circulation in the
Northern empire had never attained a height worth consideration or
even mention. A sackful of copies under private addresses had been
the utmost limit, and out of these the majority were usually lost in
transmission with that patient, bland persistency by means of which
the Russian Government usually succeeds in quelling any private and
individual attempt to learn what the world is saying. It is
remarkable how little is known in England of the method of procedure
in a country so near at hand as Russia. I verily believe that Hong
Kong is better known than Moscow, Valparaiso than Tver. It is, for
instance, a matter of surprise to many intelligent English men and
women to learn that our newspapers are, with one or two exceptions,
forbidden entrance into the Czar's dominions. And in the case of
those exceptions there is no circulation--each copy comes under a
private cover, with the probability of being opened several times on
the way. Moreover, objectionable paragraphs, or, in the case of
illustrated journals, sketches in any way connected with the seamy
side of Slavonic life, are ruthlessly obliterated with a black pad.
The transmission of news is virtually in the hands of the Government,
with the natural result that all untoward events are hushed up, while
pleasant things are glorified to the infinite profit of those in
office. Respecting the progress of humanity, the events of the outer
world, and the march of civilization, the whole of the vast continent
of Russia is kept in the dark. Even with _our_ marvellous
facilities, the transmission of news over such vast tracts of land,
across such stupendous plains, would be a matter of some difficulty;
it is, therefore, easy to arrest the progress of thought, and force
back men's brains into the apathetic, voiceless endurance of brutes.
Under these circumstances it will be readily understood that the
views of the great English critic were looked upon with fear and
dislike; additionally so, perhaps, because no one could accuse him of
partiality or political bias. He studied war as an art, whereas the
Russian staff had in most cases taken it up as a profession.
During the months that followed many brave men came to the front; but
few reputations were made, whereas a number were lost. Gourko and
Skobeleff proved that their personal courage, their calm assumption
of a terrible responsibility, was something almost super-human; but
as strategists they came within measurable distance of failure. The
one has the stain of three thousand lives lost in one bold march upon
his military reputation--namely, the crossing of the Balkans; while
the other, the wild, half-mad Skobeleff, will have it remembered
against him that two thousand of his 'children' fell in the storming
of one redoubt, and three thousand more perished in attempting to
hold it.
But in fairness to these reckless soldiers, it must be kept in mind
that the Russians played, in a literal as well as metaphorical sense,
an uphill game. They had to storm heights, 'rush' redoubts, and
advance on trenches against the Berdan rifle in the hands of the
Turk. Just as each man knows his own business best, so have we all
our special way of fighting. The Russians are not brilliant at the
attack, because they are too reckless of life, and in the excitement
of the moment expose themselves with criminal prodigality; whereas
there is no finer defender of a fortified position than the Turk.
Again, Skobeleff and Gourko were hampered by being in too constant
and frequent communication with the royal amateur soldiers in their
comfortable quarters on the Danube.
At first the Russians seemed to carry all before them, and the
chronic unreadiness of the enemy was a matter for laughter. Having
successfully crossed the Danube towards the end of June, driving the
Turks before them step by step to Matchin, the campaign was looked
upon as a mere parade. But Theodore Trist, retreating slowly from
the Danube before the advance of the Northern army, held a different
opinion.
'At present,' he wrote in the second week in July, 'everything seems
to be against us. But the time is coming when some good men will
force their way to the fore; and the power of individual influence
over an ill-disciplined but well-armed horde like this is
incalculable. Sulieman Pasha is said to be coming with his hardened
troops, and from him great things may be expected. He is a good
soldier, with an energy which is rendered more striking by its rarity
in this country. When last I saw him he was spare in figure, much
browned by exposure, singularly active, and as hard as nails. In
appearance he is unlike a Turk, being fair, with ruddy hair and quick
eyes. His men are more like a band of hill-robbers than a trained
army, for they possess no distinct uniform; but they are full of
fight. His staff is ludicrously informal, possessing no fine titles,
and being entirely destitute of gold braid. The Turks are a strange
mixture of impassibility and stubbornness. At times their fatalism
gives way to an overwhelming strength of purpose, almost defying
fate, and it is quite within the bounds of possibility that a
trifling error on the part of the Russians may turn the tide suddenly
upon them, and a disastrous retreat to the Danube will follow.'
By the time that the letter from which the above is extracted arrived
in England, the far-seeing correspondent's prophecy had in part
fallen true. The tide of fortune had set in in favour of the Moslem,
and although a retreat was not as yet whispered of, it was held
certain by experts that more men were absolutely required by the
Russians in order to continue the campaign.
At this time the name of a hitherto unknown town in the north of
Bulgaria was constantly on men's tongues. Until now no one had ever
heard of Plevna, which, nevertheless, was destined to be the chief
topic of conversation throughout all the civilized world for many
months to come. The genius of one man raised this small city from
its obscurity to a proud place in the annals of warfare, and the
defence of Plevna will ever stand forth as a proof of the influence
of one strong individuality over a whole army; and, one might almost
say, upon the march of events.
Of course it is easy to state that much depended upon chance, but it
is not only in warfare that we all have to wait upon chance. Those
who step in quickly when fortune leaves the gate ajar are the winners
in the war we are engaged in here below. Had Krüdener occupied
Plevna when he received the order to do so, Osman Pasha might have
died without leaving his mark upon the sands of time. But the
Russian delayed, and the Turk stepped in. Osman saw at once the
great strategetic value of Plevna, and Krüdener, the man of many
mistakes, was outwitted.
'I see,' wrote Trist at this time in a private letter to his editor,
which was not published until later, 'a subtle change in the
atmosphere of events. It seems to me that the tide is turning. I
will now attach myself definitely to the fortunes of Plevna. The
time has come for me to give up my ubiquitous endeavours; to watch
one spot only. My colleagues are splendid fellows, full of dash and
energy; on them you must now depend for the other movements of the
campaign. Osman is here, and Skobeleff is in this part of the
country as far as I can learn--there is a feverish restlessness among
the Russians, which suggests his presence. With these two men face
to face Plevna will become historical, if it is not so already, for
it will mark, firstly, the greatest military bungle of the age
(Krüdener's neglect); secondly ... who knows? Osman is a wonderful
fellow--that is all I can tell you now. I remain here, and if we are
surrounded I will stick to Plevna _until the end_.'
The recipient of this letter, sitting in his quiet little room in
Fleet Street, looked at the last words again. They were underlined
with a firm dash, and immediately below followed the simple
signature. About the entire letter there was a straightforward sense
of purpose--a feeling, as it were, that this man knew what he was
doing, and was ready to face the consequence of every action. The
editor shook his vast head from side to side with a quiet and
tolerant smile.
'The fever is upon him,' he said. 'It is a thousand pities that he
is not a soldier.'
Then he leant forward and took an envelope from the stationery case
upon the table in front of him. Into this he slipped the folded
letter, addressing it subsequently to Mrs. Wylie, at Wyl's Hall,
Wyvenwich.
On the last day of July, Prince Schahofsky and Baron Krüdener
attacked Plevna. A combination had been intended, but Krüdener was
again in fault. He was not ready at the hour appointed, and
Schahofsky was led into the fatal error of attacking a superior force
of Turks in a fortified position. The result of this was the loss of
almost the whole of his fine army corps. The Russian soldiers
charged gallantly but foolishly upon a literal wall of fire, for
there is no man steadier in a trench than the fatalist. In some
years, when the quick-firing rifle is perfected, there will be no
such thing as carrying a breastwork at the point of the bayonet, for
no man will live to stand up within forty yards of the position held.
Even at Plevna, against an imperfect rifle in the hands of a
half-trained, badly fed, poorly-accoutred soldier, the slaughter was
terrible, and the result small. Only Skobeleff succeeded in really
and literally carrying an intrenchment by the bayonet; and had he not
been half mad with excitement and wholly carried away by the wild
lust of battle, he would never have attempted it, for the men
literally crawled over heaps of their slain comrades. The terrible
work of the quick-firing rifle was only too apparent.
After the first assault upon Plevna the Russians settled down to a
long siege, and heavy artillery was brought to bear upon the
ill-fated town from every point of vantage on the surrounding hills.
Step by step the northern foe crept up towards the town, until the
sombre-clad figures within the redoubts were almost recognisable from
the Russian lines.
Finally, it was one day announced that the last communication had
been cut off and Plevna was surrounded. Like some sullen prisoner in
the hands of a ruthless enemy, the fortress stood grimly silent, and
all the world wondered pitifully what terrible tragedy might be
working out its latest chapters within that small circle of
blood-stained steel.
Vague reports reached England that there could not now be any food in
Plevna. The garrison must be starving. Women and children
were--thank God!--but few; for Osman had sent them away. Day by day
the fall of this unforeseen, unsuspected stronghold was predicted,
but day after day the dingy Crescent hung in the morning breeze, and
every point was guarded.
The editor of the great English newspaper sat in his little room in
Fleet Street and watched events from afar. No word reached him, for
Plevna was silent, but he displayed no anxiety.
'Wait!' he said to all inquirers. 'Wait a bit. Trist is in there,
and when the time comes he will astonish us all. One can always rely
implicitly on Trist!'