A PRISONER OF WAR.
Out of the whole army, Chesters was the last man whom Horace Ramornie
would have chosen for a partner in misfortune, or in anything; and he
marched along by his side, preserving a grave and contemptuous
silence. Twice or thrice Chesters, who seemed in no way crestfallen,
attempted to open a kind of "chaffing" conversation, by offering bets
about their destination, the probable term of their captivity, and so
forth. But Horace made not the slightest response. And now, as day
dawned and the storm abated, about eight miles distant he could see
Sebastopol, with all its tremendous batteries, its green domed
churches, and lofty houses, the walls of which were white as the snow
that covered all the landscape.
He could see the steamers about Balaclava, and the camps of the
Allies; and of these he seemed to take a farewell glance, as he and
his escort descended into the valley through which the Black River
runs.
An irrepressible emotion of sadness crept over him. When should he
see his comrades or be free again? What account of his fate would be
conveyed to Willowdean? Letters had informed him of the grief and
consternation there, consequent to the report of Cyril's being
"missing" after the Alma; but how would _his_ disappearance be
accounted for? and what an amount of sorrow it would cause to Gwenny!
Ideas of escape occurred to him; but he had been deprived of his
sword and revolver, and the six Ruskies who formed the escort, were
fellows not likely to stand on trifles with those who were in their
hands. They had rifled his pockets, deprived him of watch and rings,
and stripped the lace from the collar and cuffs of the faded uniform
he wore below his pea-jacket; and Chesters was treated in the same
scurvy fashion.
They were all men whose raw-boned figures indicated clumsy strength.
Their features were hard, angular, and ugly. Their long great-coats
were of mud-colour, with flat metal buttons and scarlet
shoulder-straps, and their canvas havresacks contained their coarse
tobacco and materials for manufacturing sour-krout, while their
canteens smelt strongly of raki--the three prime luxuries of their
stupid and perilous lives.
One of them, who seemed rather a good-natured man, offered Horace a
mouthful from his canteen, and then a piece of black bread, but it
looked too like a portion of peat from a bog, and he declined both.
But to be a prisoner almost at the commencement of a war was a
galling and oppressive thought to the young man! How long might he
remain so, and what might his treatment be? The greatest empires in
the world were involved in this mortal contest, and his captivity
might last for years--for the natural term of his life perhaps; for
at that time strange and dark rumours were afloat in the Allied camps
of the French having found in some Tartar castles prisoners who had
been gleaned up on the retreat from Moscow, and kept chained as
slaves since then. Whether such was the case or not, it is
impossible to say now; but the idea of such a doom being his, froze
the blood in the veins of Ramornie; and he thought with agony of
Gwendoleyne Wedderburn becoming--perhaps when he and his fate were
alike forgotten--the bride of another.
A body of Russian cavalry from Kamara was now upon the march
rearward, under General Prince Galitzin, as Horace ascertained from a
passing officer who spoke French, and behind this force he and his
companion in misfortune were marched under a new escort of dirty and
unwashed Cossacks, who to make sure of them and save themselves
trouble, mounted the captives on two spare Tartar ponies, and tied
their hands to the shaggy manes thereof.
These Cossacks were all beetle-browed, ill-favoured looking fellows,
with high cheek-bones, piggish-like eyes, and wore fur caps, in
colour and quality closely resembling their own beards. Their
uniforms were coarse and quaint, but their arms were bright and good,
and each rode with his knees up to his saddlebow, and so surrounded
by forage, bags of Ghiska wheat, and other plunder taken from the
poor Tartar peasantry, that little more than the head and crupper of
their little horses could be seen.
They were doubtless brave and resolute men, for the copper medals
stitched on their coarse green uniforms showed that they were Don
Cossacks, and had faced alike the rifles of Schamyl's Circassian
cavaliers, and the keen sabres of the Khirghee outlaws.
This Cossack force continued riding eastward, and ere long they were
at the base of the Tchatr-Dagh, or "mountain of the tents"--a flat
hill not unlike the famous Table Mountain, but all of red marble,
towering above groves of large trees that were leafless then, and
clumps of dark green cypresses, where many a huge eagle, and whole
clouds of other wild birds, hovered in mid-air. Here they shot and
roasted a few bustards, which were plucked, cooked, and eaten,
without being permitted to cool--there was no time for that--and
Horace and the obnoxious Chesters came in for a share of the birds;
though sooth to say the drumsticks were tough enough to have been
used on a drum. With these they had some _yourgourt_, or sour milk
and Tartar cakes, taken sans cérémonie by the Cossacks from the house
of a neighbouring farmer.
The snow had disappeared now in the changeable climate of the Crimea,
having melted so fast that scarcely a trace of it remained even on
the bare scalp of the Tchatr-Dagh, or the grotesque-looking Dimirdji
Mountain, which towered on the opposite side where the halt had been
made, and which was soon to be the scene of a very dark incident.
"Alexis, Ivan," said a smart looking aide-de-camp, in the rich
uniform of the Princess Maria Paulovna's Hussars--for that lady was
sister to the Empress, and was proprietrix of a regiment of
cavalry--"bring those two prisoners before the General, Prince
Galitzin."
Then the two weary wretches who escorted Horace and Chesters, and who
had just lit their short pipes to enjoy a brief whiff, started
simultaneously from that dirty piece of felt on which they were
squatted, and which economically serves the Cossack warrior in the
triple capacity of bed, tent, and cloak.
We should have mentioned in its place, that it was Chesters who
commanded the force of Turks that so disgracefully abandoned the 93rd
Highlanders at Balaclava, but not through any fault of his own, as he
killed several of the fugitives with his sabre in vain attempts to
stay the rest. Left behind sick at Malta by the transport, he and
his affair on board that ship had been forgotten amid the bustle of
embarking for the Crimea, and the subsequent passage of the Alma; so
that he had been permitted to join his corps of that peculiar force,
the Turkish Contingent, where his story was unknown, or if known,
would not be understood, and now he thought that all his gambling
scrapes and sharp play had been forgotten, so he was little prepared
for what was before him.
And now we have to apologize to the reader for an introduction to a
very unpleasant personage indeed; but such introductions are
misfortunes which the historian and novelist cannot avoid.
Apart from where more than a thousand Russian heavy cavalry had
hobbled their horses, and were cooking, smoking, eating sour krout
and drinking bitter quass or fiery raki, some lounging at length on
the still damp grass, with their belts and leather helmets off, for
the air was steamy and moist, as the sun had so rapidly melted and
exhaled the snow of the preceding night in mist, Prince Galitzin and
a few noisy Russian officers were partaking of a hurried repast near
the wall of a Tartar vineyard--an erection which, from its massive
thickness, age, and height, must have been a remnant of one of the
many fortresses erected in the Crimea during the fifth century
against the Goths and Huns.
Near it rose several of those green tumuli which are so common over
all the Peninsula, and mark the graves of those who had fallen in the
ages of classical antiquity--old even as the days of Mithridates.
The Prince occupied a stool beside a kind of table, both of which had
been brought from the house of the Tartar farmer, and his brother
officers stood or lay on the grass around him, laughing and smoking.
Under a loose grey greatcoat, which was open, he wore a rich uniform
of grass-coloured green, richly laced with gold. His epaulettes were
massive, and several medals and orders of the empire were sparkling
on his breast. He seemed rather an undersized man, with a handsome
face, having dark and sparkling eyes, set indeed unpleasantly near
each other; his nose was hooked, with a somewhat delicate nostril,
indicating Tartar blood, and his jet black moustachios were well and
fiercely curled up.
He did not rise as the two prisoners approached him, each with proper
politeness yielding a salute, in reply to which he simply lifted his
cocked hat a few inches; but ere he replaced it, his face and his
shorn black hair recalled at once to the memory of Horace a former
acquaintance--the person who had figured as Captain of Zouaves among
the British at Varna and elsewhere; and the fallen officer who so
infamously pistolled poor Cyril Wedderburn after performing an act of
mercy at the battle of the Alma, where he dragged him from under his
dying horse.
In short, the notorious Russian Spy, and Ivan Tegoborski, General
Prince Galitzin, were one and the same man!
As there are upwards of three hundred Princes of that distinguished
name in Russia, we shall have no fear of "being called out" for
mentioning one of them here; but he in question was the poorest among
them, having now only his military pay.
The first emotion of Horace was astonishment, and then genuine
contempt, that any officer should so far have degraded himself and
his epaulettes; next he thought of the kind, gentle, and manly Cyril
Wedderburn, and his heart grew hot with indignation. He
involuntarily turned to Chesters, but in the face of that person read
considerable alarm and disquietude; for _he_ too had recognised a
former acquaintance, who, like De la Fosse, had a gambling grudge to
remember.
"So, Messieurs!" said the Russian, coolly and with a strange smile,
"we three recognise each other, it seems?"
"I am sorry to say that we do," replied Horace Ramornie, haughtily,
in French, which he did not speak nearly so well as the Prince; but,
as a traveller remarks, "the Russians have this advantage over other
nations--namely, that they are endowed with the gift of tongues,
having an extraordinary facility for acquiring and speaking with a
pure accent any foreign language;" yet one who can speak Russian or
Chinese may easily achieve anything vocable. "Monsieur le Prince,
how about the coffee, the broiled chickens, and cream tarts you were
wont to get from your dear mother, in Gascony? Was it honourable to
act as you did at Varna, and elsewhere?" asked the young officer,
boldly.
There was a triumphant and malicious but cruel glitter in the eyes of
Galitzin, as he replied, coolly--
"All plans are fair in war and love, my friend. Thanks to me,
Alexander Mentschicoff knew to a nicety every bayonet and sabre you
had yonder in Bulgaria; yes, and every cannon too. So now we shall
drop _that_ subject. You are sorry to recognise me? By the bones of
all the Moschti of Russia, and by every shrine in Holy Mother Moscow,
one here shall be still more sorry at this meeting!" and his eyes
flashed like a sword-blade as they turned to Chesters. He then
added, to Horace, "What is your name?"
"Horace Ramornie, Captain in her Britannic Majesty's Royal Fusileers."
Galitzin made a note of the name--"Oraz Ramhornoff, Capitan"--in a
fashion that would have puzzled Horace's friends had they seen it on
his calling cards.
"Your companion's name I know but too well, as Captain Chesters."
"He is Major Chesters, here at least."
"That will matter little by-and-by," was the ominous response. "What
was the object of the sudden night march from Balaclava towards
Tchorgoun."
"To attack you."
"Bah! I thought so; you didn't succeed though."
"The snow----"
"Ah, Nicholas, our glorious Emperor, was right. Holy Russia has two
generals who never fail her--January and February! What was the
strength of your force? There were Turkish dogs among it, I
know--the Asiatics!"
"For that very reason I cannot tell. Moreover, I must decline to say
more."
"I might compel you," retorted the other.
"Am I to have my parole of honour?"
"That we shall consider elsewhere. Meantime a glass of wine with
you."
"Thanks, Monsieur le Prince," and Horace, however repugnant the
pretended cordiality, felt himself constrained to clink his glass
against that of the Prince and drink with him. After which, the
latter said--
"And now, Monsieur Chesters, for _you_."
"Shall my parole be granted?"
"No!" was the abrupt response.
"What am I to understand by that reply and your peculiar smile,
Prince Galitzin?" asked Chesters, uneasily, for his captor was known
to be at heart a savage, "but a savage of health and vigour, smoothed
and shapened in accordance with the prejudices of civilized life."
"Oui; you smiled when I lost roubles to you by the thousand. I then
learned to beware of the smile of such polished villains; but it is
my turn to be merry now."
"Why, Monsieur le Prince?"
"Because you are the loser."
"In what way, beyond being a prisoner of war, I have yet to learn,"
replied Chesters, with ill-assumed hauteur.
"The odd trick is against you, Monsieur."
"I am indifferent about the stakes."
"That we shall see, très bon! Come here, you fellows!" he cried to
some soldiers who were loitering near, observantly. "Throw off your
accoutrements, and dig me a hole here some six feet long!"
"A hole?" exclaimed Chesters, inquiringly.
"_A grave!_" replied the hollow-hearted Russian, smiling with his
false smile and black, glittering eyes.
"Have you no sense of honour?" asked Chesters, growing very, very
pale.
"Some of its kind. Quick! deeper and deeper yet! Throw out the
earth, you accursed Asiatics!" he added, kicking one of the soldiers
with his jackboot, and bestowing upon him the most opprobrious
epithet in Russia, the name of the race which closed his order. "Ah,
Monsieur Chesters, you thought that some fine day, sooner or later,
you would repent of your misdeeds; and now you have not time, ah! ah!"
"Then, have you no compassion?" urged Horace.
"Bah! I parted company with that long ago," laughed the other.
"Do you actually mean to assassinate him?"
"No!"
"What then?" asked Chesters.
"To punish you."
"Give me pistols, and I shall fight you at twelve paces--ten, if you
prefer it!" said Chesters, who gazed at him with a haggard eye.
"I don't fight with cheats or tricksters, and men who use loaded
dice, and know the backs of cards quite as well as their fronts, if
not better. Tie his hands behind his back, and tie his feet too!"
By this time the sharply ringing brass trumpets had sounded; the
cavalry had all mounted, and formed in quarter-distance column of
troops, prior to the resumption of their march; and it was evident
that whatever was about to be done would soon be over now.
Chesters was all that was vile and bad, yet he was the son of a
gentleman--the scion of a family long honoured in his native Merse.
The Crimean air had bronzed his cheek; time, and still more,
dissipation, had whitened his hair. He had done deadly wrongs to the
kinsman of Horace, yet the latter looked on the impending scene with
horror, and prayed Galitzin, but in vain, to be merciful.
Horace remembered that there was a local story of the prophecy of a
half-crazed female gipsy of Yetholm (at whom Chesters, in his
mischievous boyhood, had thrown stones), to the effect that he "would
never die of a sudden death, nor yet die in his bed;" and now it
flashed upon the mind of Horace; but to judge by the piteous
expression of his face, Chesters put no faith in the prediction, if
at that moment he remembered it at all.
A couple of dragoons had unslung their carbines and were in the act
of loading, ramming their cartridges home, and returning their steel
rods, with a _sang froid_ that was more French than Muscovite, when
Chesters, who was powerful and athletic, proud and fiery, struggled
fiercely with those who sought so ignominiously to bind him. Big
bead-like drops of perspiration oozed over the unfortunate man's
forehead, his face was deadly pale, his lips a ghastly blue, and his
usually light-coloured eyes glared with all the anticipation and the
terror of a sudden, merciless, and violent death, which he knew to be
inevitable, yet he could not resist the natural desire to shun it as
long as possible, for at that moment life seemed dear--oh, so dear!
Yet in his blind despair, he sought aid neither from Heaven nor earth.
Horace called hoarsely, piteously, and then threateningly to Prince
Galitzin, who only waved his hand in contemptuous silence, and then
the two Cossacks once more seized him, one administering a prod from
his lance to quicken his movements, and they again mounted him on the
Tartar pony, re-tying his hands to the mane thereof. They then
forced him away, but, on looking back, he saw a strangely horrible
scene.
In his mad terror of death, or in his utter despair, Chesters, with
his clenched teeth, had seized fast the coat sleeve--perhaps the
arm--of one of those who were binding him. Another dragoon on seeing
this clubbed a carbine and dealt him a blow on the head, a blow
which, though it inflicted no wound but only a flesh bruise,
completely stunned him, and he fell senseless.
"In with him as he is and cover him up," said Galitzin,
remorselessly. "Keep your ammunition for others! Quick--obey me, or
it shall be the worse for yourselves!"
The two dragoons who had paused with loaded carbine in hand, now
relinquished them, for they knew that Galitzin was not a man to brook
delay, or have his temper trifled with; and taking a couple of Tartar
shovels, they proceeded to assist in filling up the grave upon the
yet living and breathing man, whom the cold earth so speedily revived
that a sense of his situation dawned upon him!
A half-stifled cry of despair, that made the blood of Horace congeal,
came out of that hole; another and another followed, each, however,
more faint than the last, as the load of earth grew heavy upon him.
Then came a sound like a convulsive groan or snort; anon it was
completely filled, and they batted the heaped-up mound with the flat
of the shovel. Four feet below that heap writhed the yet living man,
bound hand and foot; and while the _Pulkovnick_, or Colonel of the
Russian Dragoons, gave his hoarse words of command to "break into
sections" and "march," while the kettledrums rolled and the trumpets
pealed forth a lively and martial air, Horace, as he looked back,
thought he could see the mound of earth heaving, as the strong man
struggled in his death agony amid the depth of his living grave!
So thus, in some fashion, the prophecy of the revengeful Yetholm
gipsy came true after all; and the onyx ring of Louis De la Fosse,
with its heraldic gauntlet on a sword's point, and the motto _Droit
en avant_, became the prize of an ignorant Cossack, who tore it with
his teeth from the finger of the half-senseless man.
This was all base revenge on the part of Galitzin, as he was a man
stained with a thousand crimes and immoralities.
So there Ralph Chesters found his grave by the ruin of an old wall of
the Gothic days, and amid a lonely clump of caper-trees and
juniper-bushes in Crim Tartary!