OMAR PASHA
It is high noon, and not a sound, save the occasional snort of an
impatient steed, is to be heard throughout the lines. Picketed in rows,
the gallant little chargers of the Turkish cavalry are dozing away the
hours between morning and evening feed. The troopers themselves are
smoking and sleeping in their tents; here and there may be seen a devout
Mussulman prostrate on his prayer-carpet, his face turned towards Mecca,
and his thoughts wholly abstracted from all worldly considerations.
Ill-fed and worse paid, they are nevertheless a brawny, powerful race,
their broad rounded shoulders, bull necks, and bowed legs denoting
strength rather than activity; whilst their high features and marked
swarthy countenances betray at once their origin, sprung from
generations of warriors who once threatened to overwhelm the whole
Western world in a tide that has now been long since at the ebb. Patient
are they of hardship, and devoted to the Sultan and their duty, made for
soldiers and nothing else, with their fierce, dogged resolution, and
their childish obedience and simplicity. Hand-in-hand, two of them are
strolling leisurely through the lines to release a restive little horse
who has got inexplicably entangled in his own and his neighbour's
picket-ropes, and is fighting his way out of his difficulty with teeth
and hoofs. They do not hurry themselves, but converse peacefully as
they pass along.
"Is is true, Mustapha, that _Giaours_ are still coming to join our Bey?
The Padisha[#] is indeed gracious to these sons of perdition."
[#] The Sultan.
"It is true, Janum;[#] may Allah confound them!" replies Mustapha,
spitting in parenthesis between his teeth: "but they have brave hearts,
these Giaours, and cunning heads, moreover, for their own devices. What
good Moslem would have thought of sending his commands by wire, faster
than they could be borne by the horses of the Prophet?"
[#] "Oh my soul!" a colloquial term equivalent to the French "Mon cher."
"Magic!" argues the other trooper; "black, unholy magic! There is but
one Allah!"
"What filth are you eating?" answers Mustapha, who is of a practical
turn of mind. "Have not I myself seen the wire and the post, and do I
not know that the Padisha sends his commands to the Ferik-Pasha by the
letters he writes with his own hand?"
"But you have never seen the letter," urges his comrade, "though you
have ridden a hundred times under the lines."
"Oh, mulehead, and son of a jackass!" retorts Mustapha, "do you not know
that the letter flies so fast along the wire, that the eye of man cannot
perceive it? They are dogs and accursed, these Giaours; but, by my
head, they are very foxes in wit."
"I will defile their graves," observes his comrade; and forthwith they
proceeded to release the entangled charger, who has by this time nearly
eaten his ill-starred neighbour; and I overhear this philosophical
disquisition, as I proceed for orders to the Green Tent of Iskender Bey,
commandant of the small force of cavalry attached to Omar Pasha's army
in Bulgaria.
As I enter the tent, I perceive two men seated in grave discussion,
whilst a third stands upright in a respectful attitude. A _chaoosh_, or
Serjeant, is walking a magnificently caparisoned bay Arab up and down,
just beyond the tent-pegs; while an escort of lancers, with two or three
more led horses, and a brace of English pointers, are standing a few
paces off. The upright figure, though dressed in a Turkish uniform,
with a red fez or skull-cap, I have no difficulty in recognising as
Victor de Rohan. He grasps my hand as I pass, and whispers a few words
in French, while I salute Iskender Bey, and await his orders.
My chief is more than three parts drunk. He has already finished the
best portion of a bottle of brandy, and is all for fighting, right or
wrong, as, to do him justice, is his invariable inclination. To and fro
he waves his half-grizzled head, and sawing the air with his right hand,
mutilated of half its fingers by a blow from a Russian sabre, he repeats
in German--
"But the attack! Excellency; the attack! when will you let me loose
with my cavalry? The attack! Excellency! the attack!"
The person he addresses looks at him with a half-amused, half-provoked
air, and then glancing at Victor, breaks into a covert smile, which he
conceals by bending over a map that is stretched before him. I have
ample time to study his appearance, and to wonder why I should have a
sort of vague impression that I have seen that countenance before.
He is a spare, sinewy man, above the middle height, with his figure
developed and toughened by constant exercise. An excellent horseman, a
practised shot, an adept at all field-sports, he looks as if no labour
would tire him, no hardships affect his vigour or his health. His small
head is set on his shoulders in the peculiar manner that always denotes
physical strength; and his well-cut features would be handsome, were it
not for a severe and somewhat caustic expression which mars the beauty
of his countenance. His deep-set eye is very bright and keen; its
glance seems accustomed to command, and also to detect falsehood under a
threefold mask. He has not dealt half a lifetime with Asiatics to fail
in acquiring that useful knack. He wears his beard and moustache short
and close; they are
Grizzled here and there,
But more with toil than age,
and add to his soldierlike exterior. His dress is simple enough; it
consists of a close-fitting, dark-green frock, adorned only with the
order of the Medjidjie, high riding-boots, and a crimson fez. A curved
Turkish sabre hangs from his belt, and a double-barrelled gun of English
workmanship is thrown across his knees. As he looks up from his map,
his eye rests on me, and he asks Victor in German, "Who is that?"
"An Englishman, who has joined your Excellency's force as an
Interpreter," answered my friend, "and who is now attached to Iskender
Bey. I believe the Bey can give a good account of his gallantry on more
than one occasion."
"The Bey," thus appealed to, musters up a drunken smile, and observes,
"A good swordsman, your Excellency, and a man of many languages. Sober
too," he adds, shaking his head, "sober as a Mussulman, the first
quality in a soldier."
His Excellency smiles again at Victor, who presents me in due form, not
forgetting to mention my name.
The great man almost starts. He fixes on me that glittering eye which
seems to look through me. "Where did you acquire your knowledge of
languages?" he asks. "My aide-de-camp informs me you speak Hungarian
even better than you do Turkish."
"I travelled much in Hungary as a boy, Excellency," was my reply.
"Victor de Rohan is my earliest friend: I was a child scarcely out of
the nursery when I first made his acquaintance at Edeldorf."
A gleam of satisfaction passed over his Excellency's face. "Strange,
strange," he muttered, "how the wheel turns;" and then pulling out a
small steel purse, but slenderly garnished, he selected from a few other
coins an old silver piece, worn quite smooth and bent double. "Do you
remember that?" said he, placing it in my hand.
The gipsy troop and the deserter flashed across me at once. I was so
confused at my own stupidity in not having recognised him sooner, that I
could only stammer out, "Pardon, your Excellency--so long ago--a mere
child."
He grasped my hand warmly. "Egerton," said he, "boy as you were, there
was heart and honour in your deed. Subordinate as I then was, I swore
never to forget it. I have never forgotten it. You have made a friend
for life in Omar Pasha."
I could only bow my thanks, and the General added, "Come to me at
head-quarters this afternoon. I will see what can be done for you."
"But, Excellency, I cannot spare him," interposed Iskender Bey. "I have
here an English officer, the bravest of the brave, but so stupid I
cannot understand a word he says. I had rather be without sword or
lance than lose my Interpreter. And then, Excellency, the attack
to-morrow--the attack."
Omar Pasha rose to depart. "I will send him back this evening with
despatches," said he, saluting his host in the Turkish fashion, touching
first the heart, then the mouth, then the forehead--a courtesy which the
old fire-eater returned with a ludicrous attempt at solemnity.
"De Rohan," he added, "stay here to carry out the orders I have given
you. As soon as your friend can be spared from the Bey, bring him over
with you, to remain at head-quarters. Salaam!" And the General was on
his horse and away long before the Turkish guard could get under arms to
pay him the proper compliments, leaving Iskender Bey to return to his
brandy-bottle, and my old friend Victor to make himself comfortable in
my tent, and smoke a quiet chibouque with me whilst we related all that
had passed since we met.
Victor was frank and merry as usual, spoke unreservedly of his _liaison_
with Princess Vocqsal, and the reasons which had decided him on seeing a
campaign with the Turkish army against his natural enemies, the
Russians.
"I like it, _mon cher_," said he, puffing at his chibouque, and talking
in the mixture of French and English which seemed his natural language,
and in which he always affirmed _he thought_. "There is liberty, there
is excitement, there is the chance of distinction; and above all, there
are _no women_. It suits my temperament, _mon cher: voyez-vous, je suis
philosophe_. I like to change my bivouac day by day, to attach myself
to my horses, to have no tie but that which binds me to my sabre, no
anxieties but for what I shall get to eat. The General does all the
thinking--_parbleu!_ he does it _a merveille_; and I--why, I laugh and I
ride away. Fill my chibouque again, and hand me that flask; I think
there is a drop left in it. Your health, Vere, _mon enfant_, and _vive
la guerre_!"
"_Vive la guerre!_" I repeated; but the words stuck in my throat, for I
had already seen something of the miseries brought by war into a
peaceful country, and I could not look upon the struggle in which we
were engaged with quite as much indifference as my volatile friend.
"And you, Vere," he resumed, after draining the flask, "I heard you were
with us weeks ago; but I have been absent from my chief on a
reconnaissance, so I never could get an opportunity of beating up your
quarters. What on earth brought you out here, my quiet, studious
friend?"
I could not have told him the truth to save my life. Any one but _him_,
for I always fancied she looked on him with favouring eyes, so I gave
two or three false reasons instead of the real one.
"Oh," I replied, "everything was so changed after my poor father's
death, and Alton was so dull, and I had no profession, no object in
life, so I thought I might see a little soldiering. When they found I
could speak Turkish, or rather when I told them so, they gave me every
facility at the War Office; so I got a pair of jack-boots and a
revolver, and here I am."
"But Omar will make you something better than an Interpreter," urged
Victor. "We must get you over to head-quarters, Vere. Men rise rapidly
in these days; next campaign you might have a brigade, and the following
one a division. This war will last for years; you are fit for something
better than a Tergyman."[#]
[#] An Interpreter.
"I think so too," I replied; "though, truth to tell, when I came out
here I was quite satisfied with my present position, and only thirsted
for the excitement of action. But this soldiering grows upon one,
Victor, does it not? Yet I am loth to leave Iskender too; the old Lion
stretched me his paw when I had no friends in Turkey, and I believe I am
useful to him. At least I must stay with him now, for we shall be
engaged before long, I can tell you that."
"_Tant mieux_," retorted Victor, with flashing eyes; "old Brandy-face
will ram his cavalry into it if he gets a chance. Don't let him ride
too far forward himself, Vere, if you can help it, as he did when he cut
his own way through that troop of hussars, and gave them another example
of the stuff the Poles are made of. The Muscov nearly had him that
time, though. It was then he lost the use of half his fingers, and got
that crack over the head which has been an excuse for drunkenness ever
since."
"Drunk or sober," I replied, "he is the best cavalry officer we have;
but make yourself comfortable, Victor, as well as you can. I recommend
you to sleep on my divan for an hour or two; something tells me we shall
advance to-night. To-morrow, old friend, you and I may sleep on a
harder bed."
"_Vive la guerre!_" replied Victor, gaily as before; but ere I had
buckled on my sabre to leave the tent, the chibouque had fallen from his
lips, and he was fast asleep.
My grey Arab, "Injour,"[#] was saddled and fastened to a lance; my
faithful Bold, who had accompanied me through all my wanderings, and who
had taken an extraordinary liking for his equine companion, was ready to
be my escort; a revolver was in my holster-pipe, a hunch of black bread
in my wallet, and with my sabre by my side, and a pretty accurate idea
of my route, I experienced a feeling of light-heartedness and
independence to which I had long been a stranger. Poor Bold enjoyed his
master's society all the more that, in deference to Moslem prejudices, I
had now banished him from my tent, and consigned him to the company of
my horses. He gambolled about me, whilst my snorting horse, shaking his
delicate head, struck playfully at him with his fore-feet, as the dog
bounded in front of him. Bad horseman as I always was, yet in a deep
demi-pique Turkish saddle, with broad shovel stirrups and a severe
Turkish bit, I felt thoroughly master of the animal I bestrode, and I
keenly enjoyed the sensation. "Injour" was indeed a pearl of his race.
Beautiful as a star, wiry and graceful as a deer, he looked all over the
priceless child of the desert, whose blood had come down to him from the
very horses of the Prophet, unstained through a hundred generations.
Mettle, courage, and endurance were apparent in the smooth satin skin,
the flat sinewy legs, the full muscular neck, broad forehead, shapely
muzzle, wide red nostril, quivering ears, and game wild eye. He could
gallop on mile after mile, hour after hour, with a stride unvarying and
apparently untiring as clockwork; nor though he had a heavy man on his
back did his pulses seem to beat higher, or his breath come quicker,
when he arrived at the head-quarters of the Turkish army than when he
had left my own tent an hour and a half earlier, the intervening time,
much to poor Bold's distress, having been spent at a gallop. There was
evidently a stir in Omar Pasha's quarters. Turkish officers were going
and coming with an eagerness and alacrity by no means natural to those
functionaries. An English horse, looking very thin and uncomfortable,
was being led away from the tent, smoking from the speed at which he had
been ridden. The sentry alone was totally unmoved and apathetic; a
devout Mussulman, to him destiny was destiny, and there an end. Had the
enemy appeared forty thousand strong, sweeping over his very camp, he
would have fired his musket leisurely--in all probability it would not
have gone off the first time--and awaited his fate, calmly observing,
"Kismet![#] there is but one Allah!"
[#] The Pearl.
[#] Destiny.
More energetic spirits are fortunately within those green canvas walls;
for there sits Omar Pasha, surrounded by the gallant little band of
foreigners, chiefly Englishmen, who never wavered or hesitated for an
instant, however desperate the task to be undertaken, and whom, it is
but justice to say, the Turks were always ready to follow to the death.
Very different is the expression on each countenance, for a council of
war is sitting, and to-day will decide the fate of many a grey-coated
Muscov and many a turbaned servant of the Prophet. A Russian prisoner
has moreover just been brought in, and my arrival is sufficiently
opportune to interpret, with the few words of Russian I have already
picked up, between the unfortunate man and his captors. If he prove to
be a spy, as is more than suspected, may Heaven have mercy on him, for
the Turk will not.
Omar Pasha's brow is contracted and stern. He vouchsafes me no look or
sign of recognition as he bids me ask the prisoner certain pertinent
questions on which life and death depend.
"What is the strength of the corps to which you belong?"
The man answers doggedly, and with his eyes fixed on the ground, "Twenty
thousand bayonets."
Omar Pasha compares his answer with the paper he holds in his hand. I
fancy he sets his teeth a little tighter, but otherwise he moves not a
muscle of his countenance.
"At what distance from the Danube did you leave your General's
head-quarters?"
The prisoner pretends not to understand. My limited knowledge of his
language obliges me to put the question in an involved form, and he
seems to take time to consider his answer. There is nothing about the
man to distinguish him from the common Russian soldier--a mere military
serf. He is dressed in the long, shabby, grey coat, the greasy boots,
and has a low overhanging brow, a thoroughly Calmuck cast of features,
and an intensely stupid expression of countenance; but I remark that his
hands, which are nervously pressed together, are white and slender, and
his feet are much too small for their huge shapeless coverings.
His eye glitters as he steals a look at the General, whilst he answers,
"Not more than an hour and a half."
Again Omar consults his paper, and a gleam passes over his face like
that of a chess-player who has checkmated his adversary.
"One more question," he observes, courteously, "and I will trouble you
no longer. What force of artillery is attached to your General's _corps
d'armee_?"
"Eight batteries of field-cannon and four troops of horse artillery,"
replies the prisoner, this time without a moment's hesitation; but the
sweat breaks out on his forehead, for he is watching Omar Pasha's
countenance, and he reads "death" on that impassible surface.
"It is sufficient, gentlemen," observes the General to the officers who
surround him. "Let him be taken to the rear of the encampment and shot
forthwith."
The prisoner's lip quivers nervously, but he shows extraordinary pluck,
and holds himself upright as if on parade.
"Poor devil!" says a hearty voice in English; and turning round, I see a
good-looking, broad-shouldered Englishman, in the uniform of a
brigadier, who is watching the prisoner with an air of pity and
curiosity approaching the ludicrous. "Excellence," says he, in somewhat
broken German, "will you not send him to me? I will undertake that he
spreads no false reports about the camp. I will answer for his safety
in my hands; he must not be permitted to communicate with any one, even
by signs; but it is a pity to shoot him, is it not?"
"I would do much to oblige you, Brigadier," replied Omar, with frank
courtesy; "but you know the custom of war. I cannot in this instance
depart from it--no, not even to oblige a friend;" he smiled as he spoke,
and added in Turkish to an officer who stood beside him, "March him out,
and see it done immediately. And now, gentlemen," he proceeded, "we
will arrange the plan of attack. Mr. Egerton, your despatches are
ready; let them reach Iskender Bey without delay. There will be work
for us all to-morrow."
At these words a buzz of satisfaction filled the tent; not an officer
there but was determined to win his way to distinction _coute qui
coute_. I felt I had received my dismissal, and bowed myself out. As I
left the tent, I encountered the unfortunate Russian prisoner marching
doggedly under escort to the place of his doom. When he caught sight of
me he made a mechanical motion with his fettered hand, as though to
raise it to his cap, and addressed me in French, of which language he
had hitherto affected the most profound ignorance.
"Comrade," said he, "order these men to give me five minutes. We are
both soldiers; you shall do me a favour."
I spoke to the "mulazim"[#] who commanded the guard. He pointed out an
open space on which we were entering, and observed, "The Moscov has
reached his resting-place at last. Five minutes are soon gone. What am
I that I should disobey the Tergyman? Be it on my head, Effendi."
[#] Lieutenant.
The Russian became perfectly composed. At my desire his arms were
liberated, and the first use he made of his freedom was to shake me
cordially by the hand.
"Comrade," said he, in excellent French, and with the refined tone of an
educated man, "we are enemies, but we are soldiers. We are civilised
men among barbarians; above all, we are Christians among infidels.
Swear to me by the faith we both worship that you will fulfil my last
request."
His coolness at this trying moment brought the tears into my eyes. I
promised to comply with his demand so far as my honour as a soldier
would permit me.
He had stood unmoved surrounded by enemies, he had heard his
death-warrant without shrinking for an instant; but my sympathy unmanned
him, and it was with a broken voice and moistened eyes that he
proceeded.
"I am not what I seem. I hold a commission in the Russian army.
Disguised as a private soldier I crossed the river of my own free will.
I have sacrificed myself willingly for my country and my Czar. He will
know it, and my brother will be promoted. The favour I ask you is no
trifling one." He took a small amulet from his neck as he spoke; it was
the image of his patron saint, curiously wrought in gold. "Forward this
to my mother, she is the one I love best on earth. _Mother_," he
repeated, in a low, heartbreaking voice, "could you but see me now!"
I had fortunately a memorandum-book in my pocket. I tore out a leaf and
handed him a pencil. He thanked me with such a look of gratitude as I
never saw before on mortal face, wrote a few lines, wrapped the amulet
in the paper, and inscribed on it the direction with a hand far steadier
than my own. As he gave it me, the mulazim coolly observed, "Effendi!
the time has expired," and ordered his men to "fall in." The Russian
squeezed my hand, and drew himself up proudly to his full height, whilst
his eye kindled, and the colour came once more into his cheek. As I
mounted my horse, he saluted me with the grave courteous air with which
a man salutes an antagonist in a duel.
I could not bear to see him die. I went off at a gallop, but I had not
gone two hundred paces before I heard the rattle of some half-dozen
muskets. I pulled up short and turned round. Some inexplicable
fascination forced me to look. The white smoke was floating away. I
heard the ring of the men's ramrods as they reloaded; and where the
Russian had stood erect and chivalrous while he bid me his last
farewell, there was nothing now but a wisp of grey cloth upon the
ground.
Sick at heart, I rode on at a walk, with the bridle on my horse's neck.
But a soldier's feelings must not interfere with duty. My despatches
had to be delivered immediately, and soon I was once more speeding away
as fast as I had come. An hour's gallop braced my nerves, and warmed
the blood about my heart. As I gave Injour a moment's breathing time, I
summoned fortitude to read the Russian's letter. My scholarship was
more than sufficient to master its brief contents. It was addressed to
the Countess D----, and consisted but of these few words: "Console
thyself, my mother; I die in the true faith."
He was a gallant man and a good.
"If this is the stuff our enemies are made of," thought I, as I urged
Injour once more to his speed, "there is, indeed--as Omar Pasha told us
to-day--there is, indeed, 'work cut out for us all.'"