DREAMS REALIZED.
In Yaila the days and even the nights were passed by Horace Ramornie
in a species of mental torture. The longing for freedom took the
form of dreams when darkness fell, and visions haunted him like those
of one who suffered from fever. He beheld Gwenny at times
encompassed by absurd and fantastic perils, from which he sought in
vain to save her. Once she appeared clinging to a fragment of loose
rock above a raging sea--the cliffs of the Ernescleugh, or Fast
Castle, perhaps--and ere he could aid her--for his limbs felt as if
powerless, weak, or fettered--the frail thing to which she seemed to
cling gave way and Gwenny disappeared beneath the waves, eliciting a
cry from Horace, which brought the Russian guard in wonder to his
room.
On other occasions, he wandered in pursuit of her through endless and
mysterious galleries, arched passages, and long, long chambers,
where, though he could hear her voice, he lost all trace of her in
the end, and sought in vain with terror and bewilderment of heart.
But then he had other and more pleasant dreams. He was free! He was
again with his company of the Fusileers, in the trenches, among
wooden gabions and fascines of straw or sand bags, and the booming of
the cannon in Sebastopol came to his ear. He saw the white walls and
the green spires of the city rising in the sunshine above the curling
smoke of the gun batteries. Then would come the music of the band on
the march; again he saw the heights above the Alma glittering with
Russian bayonets, and he heard the pleasant voice of Cyril
Wedderburn; there was a sound of pistol shots, and then came the pale
face and glittering cold eyes of Prince Galitzin; or it might be that
he had memories of the mess-room of the corps--the billiard table at
Chatham or Canterbury, and he was at pool or pyramid with Bingham or
Probyn; and often it was of Willowdean and the days when he came
there an orphan from his dead mother's side, and then he saw the
stately house with its white peristyle and all its windows glittering
in the sun, old Gervase Asloane in his ample waistcoat and black suit
hovering about; his aunt, Lady Wedderburn, bowling through the ample
lawn in her smart pony phaeton, or Sir John in tweed suit and leather
gaiters going with his gun to the preserves, or rambling about,
weeder in hand, and Horace could hear his pleasant voice and see
again his bright and benign smile; but only to waken and find
himself--a prisoner still in Yaila!
It was after visions such as these, that by the mere force of
contrast, his captivity felt intolerable, and equally so, when, after
being lost in thought--indulging in some bright daydream, perhaps--he
would be roused by the hoarse Russian drums, beaten for parade or
some tour of duty, and, starting, would bethink him how, or why he
was here in Yaila!
Though the idea of violating his parole of honour, attempting to
escape or to quit his prison without being properly exchanged, never
occurred to Horace, the manner of Galitzin offensively showed that he
was suspicious of something of the kind being attempted. Horace was
conscious of being watched; that eyes were upon him; and that
whenever he went abroad for a solitary ramble, somehow, as if by a
singular coincidence, the two Cossacks, Alexis and Ivan--he never
knew, nor cared to know their surnames--were always hovering near.
But to have spoken of this would have been unwise, and have excited
suspicion.
To a Russian of Tartar descent, subtlety and craft were familiar,
even as caprice and tyranny, from the days of his wooden cradle, when
he had been taught to thump or kick the image of his patron, Saint
Ivan Veliki, and even to thrust it in the fire if he suffered pain
from overeating himself with pastillia or other sweetmeats; if he
lost his top or marbles, or got cuffed for his insolent petulance by
any of his companions. He suspected that few things in this world
were ever done for the motives really assigned to them, and he
believed that under all that went on, something _else_ was going on
unseen. So there was a terrible distrust of everyone and everything
pervading his whole existence.
He was Muscovite to the heart's core!
One morning Horace was sensible of an unusual commotion in Yaila,
after Galitzin's aide-de-camp, the Lieutenant of the Princess Maria
Paulovna's Hussars, who had been sent to the seashore on some special
duty, returned with important tidings for the Prince.
The preceding night had been one of dreadful tempest. The rain had
fallen in torrents; and, amid the wild bellowing of the wind, the
thunder had been heard, as it rattled in appalling peals over the red
marble cliffs of the Tchatr Dagh, and the four copper-covered domes
of Yaila.
The drums were beaten, and a certain portion of the garrison got
under arms after breakfast. Horace felt a thrill of hope in his
heart! Was there about to be an attack--a chance of escape after
all, and after those weary, weary months of spring and summer he had
endured there?
Day was just breaking, and, in anticipation of some event, which, if
it did not set him free, would at least vary the stupid monotony of
his existence, Horace came forth, just as Prince Galitzin, after
buckling on his sword, was mounting his horse.
The usual strange and malicious glitter came into his eyes, as he
seemed to read the hope of Horace in his eager and excited face; and
the latter's emotion seemed to strengthen when he saw the troops
bring forth two eighteen-pound guns, and, with their muskets slung,
tally on to the drag-ropes, as the field-pieces were without horses.
"By Jove, it did rain and blow last night, Monseigneur le Prince,"
said Horace, loth to ask any questions, while wishing to invite
information. "I have not passed so many sleepless hours since I was
in the trenches before Sebastopol, and heard the Lancaster guns
pounding away on the right attack."
"And you are longing to be there, again--eh?"
"I cannot deny that I am, indeed."
"You must be patient, Monsieur le Capitaine."
Horace sighed bitterly, and then ventured to say--
"But what is the matter? Have you had an _alerte_, or are you going
to be attacked?"
"Nay. 'Tis we who are about to attack!"
"What, or who?"
"I know not whether I should reply, but it is no matter. Well, an
English ship--a yacht, apparently--is reported to be ashore on the
rocks, a few miles northward from Alushta; and we are just going to
knock her to pieces with those two eighteen-pounders, if the waves do
not anticipate us; for Kaminski, my aide-de-camp, reports that there
is a heavy sea on, and that she can't last long now."
"A wreck--an unarmed yacht. To fire on a wreck--is this fair?"
"_Morbleu_! Did I not once before say that all things are fair in
war and love? and we are at war just now, I believe. Come on,
Tegoborski, we have no time to lose!"
"I dreamed of rats last night, and I thought something would be sure
to happen after that, and the wind being so high," grumbled the
superstitious old Pulkovnick, as he mounted his horse, while Madame,
his wife--in a very becoming _deshabille_, appeared at an open
window, where she kissed her large white hand repeatedly to the
Prince, who waved his smiling adieux in return.
The hoarse and guttural commands were given, and, at a double-quick,
the Infantry--about four hundred in number--left Yaila, dragging the
guns and limbers, and having with them several kabitkas, or covered
Tartar carts, for plunder, or whatever came ashore.
Some hours elapsed, and Horace felt his heart swelling with
indignation. He pictured, in fancy, the shattered ship, the helpless
drowning seamen, and the Russian guns firing round-shot--perhaps
grape and cannister--upon them from the heights; just as they did
during the dreadful hurricane in the preceding November, when so many
of our ships perished along the iron-bound coast of the Black Sea.
Much bitterness was now being imparted to the war on both sides; but
chiefly owing to the barbarity of the Russians. Doubtless, there
were a few instances of humanity that are worth remembering. Many
Russian prisoners who were paroled at Lewes, expressed in print, on
their return home, their gratitude for the kindness and hospitality
they had experienced at English hands; and several of our officers
who were prisoners of war in Russia, related the kind treatment they
received while there. So, perhaps, Ivan Prince Galitzin was a
somewhat exceptional personage.
About noon his cruel expedition returned, and Horace, who had
secluded himself in his room, full of disgust and anger, heard the
noisy applause with which the soldiers in Yaila received those who
came back, though their exploit was far removed from being a noble or
gallant one. The kabitkas were filled with pieces of shattered
wreck, sheets of copper, sail-cloth, rigging, several cases of wine,
London porter, and casks of beef, which had come ashore; and now
hearing by chance that prisoners had been taken, Horace, again came
forth to see them, and seek for some intelligence of the outer world,
from which he was so completely debarred by the measures and extreme
reserve of Galitzin. To be sure he might always have gained some
news of the war from Madame Tegoborski, who was not indisposed to
view him with favour, as a handsome young man; but he had a wholesome
dread of exciting the jealousy of the Prince in that quarter.
"How many prisoners have you got, Monsieur le Colonel?" he asked of
Tegoborski, who was proceeding leisurely, limping, for he was lame,
towards his quarters, anticipating a cup of hot tea after his
morning's work.
"One," was the brief reply; "at least only one of any consequence."
"And the rest?"
"Are in the sea."
"Drowned?"
"Or shot, as the case may have been."
In the yard of the fortress, Horace perceived one whom he took to be
an Englishman, handcuffed; he had on only a tattered white shirt and
pair of blue cloth trousers; he was tall and athletic in figure, fair
complexion, bald and bare-headed, for in lieu of a cap he had a
bloodstained handkerchief round his head, showing that he had been
wounded: and he was seated moodily, and as if lost in thought, on the
trail of one of the fatal eighteen-pounder field-pieces.
He looked up listlessly as Horace approached, and said,
"A prisoner, like myself, I see."
"Not precisely, as I have not the misfortune to be fettered; but I
have been here for four months--ever since Sir Colin Campbell's night
march to Tchorgoun. And you?"
"My ship went ashore in the middle watch last night, on a reef that
is not laid down in any of our charts."
"Where?"
"Within a quarter of a mile of the cliffs that rise near Alushta, a
Tartar village on the coast. We had undergone a rough night and were
blown far out of course beyond the headland of Alupka, where Prince
Woronzoff's castle stands; our rudderbands had given way, and we
couldn't help ourselves. Finding that the craft wouldn't last long,
I lowered the boat and got the ladies ashore, and at the hazard of my
own life returned on board; but I was scarcely on the deck, when,
bang, bang, bang from the cliffs came a fire of round shot from these
rascally guns; so they and the sea, which was a heavy one, soon made
an end of the schooner and of my men, for every poor fellow perished,
those who threw themselves into the sea to escape the cannonade being
killed by the lances of the Cossack beggars, as they struggled half
fainting ashore."
"Most rascally--most base!" exclaimed Horace.
"Luckily I had my naval uniform below, and put it on. As I swam
ashore the sight of my epaulettes saved me from being butchered like
the rest; but they were torn from my shoulders, and I was handcuffed
as you see. I am a lieutenant in Her Britannic Majesty's service!
As a signal of distress I had the union-jack reversed at the
gaff-peak; but I was glad when the spar was knocked away and it fell
into the sea. It went to my heart to see the old bunting under fire
and never a shot in return. I thought of Nelson, and the signal that
flew along the line at Trafalgar; of old Charlie Napier's in the
Baltic, 'Sharpen your cutlasses, lads!' I thought too of many an old
shipmate who is lying in the Bight of Benin with a cold shot at his
heels, and strong in my breast grew the genuine old English contempt
of all these foreign beggars! But now that I look at you again, I
think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before. Are you not
Captain Ramornie of the Royal Fusileers--the nephew of Sir John
Wedderburn of Willowdean?"
"The same; and you?"
"Lieutenant Robert Newnham, R.N."
"And your ship?" asked Horace, faintly.
"Was the Master of Ernescleugh's yacht. I have seen you aboard of
her at Cowes more than once."
"And the ladies you spoke of?"
"Were Lady Wedderburn and Lady Ernescleugh; they would come out here
after their sons in the Crimea. Lord Cardigan's yacht had come, and
the Countess of Errol had accompanied her husband who is in the Rifle
Brigade, so the two mammas were determined to come too, and bring no
end of comforts and condiments for their 'dear boys' in the trenches;
but by jingo! they'll rather repent of the expedition now, though
they were sent with their maids under escort in a kabitka towards
Balaclava; for the worst of the story is yet to come."
"What could well be worse than that which you have told me?"
exclaimed Horace.
"Another prisoner was brought on with me here, and my heart bleeds
for the poor young lady in the hands of those d--d Russians. She is
too young for sorrow, and was so kind and affable to all the poor
fellows before the mast, they idolized her!"
"Of whom are you talking?" asked Horace, whose heart began to tremble
with apprehension and conjecture.
"Who should I mean but Miss Gwendoleyne Wedderburn?"
"She here?"
"Aye, here in this fortress of Yaila--a prisoner like ourselves--but
not half so safe in some respects."
"My God!" exclaimed Horace, and he shivered from head to foot; "how
came it to pass, Newnham, that she was not also sent to Balaclava?"
"In this fashion, for I was standing by, and to my sorrow and disgust
heard every word.
"'I am rich, Monseigneur le Prince,' said Lady Wedderburn, in the
greatest agitation, to the Russian commander, whom I understood to be
a Prince Galitzin--but that's a name like Smith in England, they are
thick as Mother Gary's chickens in Russia; 'and so is my friend; we
can afford to pay a ransom, if it will be taken.'
"'And your niece, or daughter, which is the young lady?' he asked.
"'My niece--Mademoiselle Gwendoleyne Wedderburn.'
"'Wedderburn, Wedderburn,' repeated the Russian, 'she is wealthy too;
an Indian heiress, I understood.'
"'Yes, Monseigneur; but how knew you that?'
"'A Monsieur Chesters told me all about it at Balaclava; and of her
being the intended of your son; who was wounded or killed at the
Alma, I believe.'
"'Only wounded, thank Heaven! but do you know Monsieur le Capitaine
Chesters?'
"'I _did_ know him; but, Madame, he is dead and buried now,' replied
the other, with a grin.
"'And now about a ransom?' said Lady Wedderburn, full of anxiety.
"'Well, Madame, no ransom can be taken for the young Hospoza; we are
Russian troops, not Circassians, Bedouin robbers, or brigands.'
"'But her liberty?' urged Lady Wedderburn, to whom Miss Gwenny clung
in terror and despair.
"'Her liberty shall be well cared for. I shall keep her for myself;
heiresses are scarce in the Crimea,' was the bantering reply.
"'Surely you will permit me to accompany her?' urged poor Lady
Wedderburn, piteously.
"'What the deuce should we do with old women in Yaila? It would only
be people to feed unprofitably, and in this nothing-for-nothing
world, my dear Madame----'
"'Oh, dearest aunt, are we to be separated?' exclaimed Miss Gwenny,
in dreadful agitation.
"'Instantly, by St. Ivan Veliki!'
"The wretches tore them asunder, though the aunt and niece clung to
each other with the death-like clutch of the drowning, and their
cries wrung my heart. The two elder ladies were sent in a Tartar
waggon towards Balaclava, in charge of the aide-de-camp Kaminski and
four Cossacks, one of whom carried a white handkerchief as a flag of
truce on the point of his lance, while we were brought on here. But
Heaven help the poor girl, Captain Ramornie. Galitzin sees that she
is young and beautiful, and he knows that she is wealthy, for I heard
him remark, laughingly, to Kaminski, his aide, 'This war can't last
for ever; another winter will see those allies frozen or fought out;
then I shall go to England with my wife, turn her rupees into
roubles, and spend them in Holy Russia.' Holy Russia be d--d, say I!"
Horace listened to all this with the air of one quite stunned by a
calamity; and he was again about to address Newnham, when the voice
of Galitzin was heard.
"No talking--no communications between you two. Separate them," he
added to the _parvoschick_ of the main guard; "and as the sailor has
declined to give his parole, keep him a close prisoner."
So poor Newnham was led away.
"I was only hearing some details of the--well, I suppose we must call
it the shipwreck," said Horace, making a prodigious effort to appear
calm and to conceal the agony of his spirit; for the idea of Gwenny
being a prisoner in Yaila seemed too fantastic, too unexpected, and
too horrible for conviction.
"Ah! we let him put the women ashore; for whatever you may think, we
are not quite devoid of gallantry, we Russians; and then we knocked
the schooner to pieces," said Galitzin, laughing; "but the chief
prize we brought on here."
"I do not understand you," faltered Horace.
"Then understand this. I have caught the rich cousin--the
brunette--the little Anglo-Indian millionaire, whose intended I
pistolled at the Alma----"
"Cyril Wedderburn?"
"Well, yes, if that was his name; I suppose we may speak of him in
the past tense now."
"From whom had you all this private information?"
"From Monsieur Chesters, _le scelerat_!"
"When?"
"When I met him in the camp of the Turkish Contingent."
"Explain, Mouseigneur le Prince?"
"A few days before your silly night march to Tchorgoun, and when I
was figuring, as the play-bills say, 'positively for the last time,'
as a Captain of Zouaves," replied the unabashed Russian.
"Will not the offer of a bribe set her free?"
"Not twenty bribes!"
"Why, Monseigneur le Prince?"
"You shall hear in good time."
"And where is she now?" asked Horace, with an affectation of
carelessness that certainly cost him an effort.
"In the apartments and under the matronage of Madame Tegoborski. She
was dreadfully offended when I attempted to give her a little salute
_à la Russe_. St. Ivan Veliki--bah! a time shall come when she will
think little of my wiry moustache--though it is like a
hog's-bristle--being rasped on her damask cheek!"
"By Jove! this is a pleasant situation," thought Horace, as he wiped
his brow, and longed to plant his foot upon the neck of Major-General
Prince Galitzin, who added with pleasing condescension--
"I shall introduce you to her at old Tegoborski's to-night; but
perhaps you don't care about it."
"Thanks, Monseigneur le Prince, I shall come with pleasure," said
Horace; and he retired to his room with a heart that was full, nigh
to bursting, with sorrow, terror of the present, and apprehension of
the future.
That night Newnham was dispatched on foot, escorted by two Cossack
Lancers, towards Yekaterinoslav, and a deadly fear came over Horace
that unless he dissembled, and he and Gwenny played "their cards"
remarkably well, some such distant transmission might await himself,
if Galitzin discovered the deep and tender interest they had in each
other.
And how to conceal it? for the first meeting might, most perilously,
reveal all!
"Gwenny here--my Gwenny here in Yaila?" he repeated to himself again
and again.
He felt himself trembling from head to foot; a pallor came over him
repeatedly, as the blood rushed back upon his heart. Though loving
her with all the devotion of which his life and heart were capable,
he had no desire, even while longing passionately to see her, to have
her with him there, and his voice shook while, clasping his hands, he
said fervently--
"God protect her--my darling Gwenny. Oh! I fear she will need all
His protection here in Yaila!"