"'SKENDER BEY"
The old Lion is sober enough now. What a headache he ought to have
after all that brandy yesterday: but the prospect of fighting always
puts Iskender Bey to rights, and to-day he will have a bellyful, or we
are much mistaken. At the head, in the rear, on the flanks of his small
force, the fiery Pole seems to have eyes and ears for every trooper
under his command. The morning is dark and cloudy; a small drizzling
rain is falling, and effectually assists our manoeuvres. We have
crossed the Danube in a few flat boats before daybreak, fortunately with
no further casualty than the drowning of one horse, whose burial-service
has been celebrated in the strongest oaths of the Turkish language. We
have landed without opposition; and should we not be surprised by any
outpost of the enemy, we are in a highly favourable position for taking
our share in the combined attack.
Victor de Rohan has been attached for the occasion to our commander's
staff. He is accompanied by a swarthy, powerful man, mounted on a
game-looking bay mare, the only charger of that sex present on the
field. This worthy goes by the name of Ali Mesrour, and is by birth a
Beloochee: fighting has been his trade for more than twenty years, and
he has literally fought his way all over the East, till he found himself
a sort of henchman to Omar Pasha on the banks of the Danube. He has
accompanied De Rohan here from head-quarters, and sits on his mare by
the Hungarian's side, grim and unmoved as becomes a veteran warrior.
There is charlatanism in all trades. It is the affectation of the young
soldier to be excited, keen, volatile, and jocose, while the older hand
thinks it right to assume an air of knowing calmness, just dashed with a
touch of sardonic humour. We are situated in a hollow, where we are
completely hidden from the surrounding district: the river guards our
rear and one of our flanks; a strong picket is under arms in our front;
and beyond it a few videttes, themselves unseen, are peeping over the
eminence before them. Our main body are dismounted, but the men are
prepared to "stand to their horses" at a moment's notice, and all noise
is strictly forbidden in the ranks. If we are surprised by a
sufficiently strong force we shall be cut to pieces, for we have no
retreat; if we can remain undiscovered for another hour or so, the game
will be in our own hands.
Iskender Bey is in Paradise. This is what he lives for; and to-day, he
thinks, will see him a pasha or a corpse.
"Tergyman," he whispers to me, whilst his sides shake, and his eyes
kindle with mirth, "how little they think who is their neighbour. And
the landing, Tergyman! the landing; the only place for miles where we
could have accomplished it, and they had not even a sentry there. Oh, it
is the best joke!" And Iskender dismounts from his horse to enjoy his
laugh in comfort, while his swollen veins and bloodshot eyes betoken the
severity of the internal convulsion, all the more powerful that he must
not have it out in louder tones.
"Another hour of this, at least," observes Victor, as he lights a large
cigar, and hands another to the commandant, and a third to myself, "one
more hour, Egerton, and then comes our chance. You have got a picked
body of men to-day, Effendi!" he observes to the Bey; "and not the worst
of the horses."
"They are my own children to-day, Count," answers Iskender, with
sparkling eyes. "There are not too many of the brood left; but the
chickens are game to the backbone. What say you, Ali? These fellows
are better stuff than your Arabs that you make such a talk about."
The Beloochee smiles grimly, and pats his mare on the neck.
"When the sun is low," he answers, "I shall say what I think; meanwhile
work, and not talk, is before us. The Arab is no bad warrior, Effendi,
on the fourth day, when the barley is exhausted, and there is no water
in the skins."
Iskender laughs, and points to the Danube. "There is water enough
there," he says, "for the whole cavalry of the Padisha, Egyptian guards,
and all. Pah! don't talk of water, I hate the very name of it. Brandy
is the liquor for a soldier--brandy and blood. Count de Rohan, your
Hungarians don't fight upon water, I'll answer for it."
"You know our proverb, Effendi," replies Victor, "'The hussar's horse
drinks wine.' But the rain is coming on heavier," he adds, looking up
at the clouds; "we shall have water enough to satisfy even a true
Mussulman like Ali, presently. How slow the time passes. May I not go
forward and reconnoitre?"
The permission is willingly granted; and as my office is to-day a
sinecure, I creep forward with Victor beyond our advanced posts to a
small knoll, from which, without being seen, we can obtain a commanding
view of the surrounding country.
There is a flat extent in front of us, admirably adapted for the
operations of cavalry; and a slight eminence covered with brushwood,
which will conceal our movements for nearly half-a-mile farther.
"The fools!" whispers Victor; "if they had lined that copse with
riflemen, they might have bothered us sadly as we advanced."
"How do you know they have not?" I whisper in reply; "not a man could we
see from here; and their grey coats are exactly the colour of the soil
of this unhappy country."
Victor points to a flock of bustards feeding in security on the plain.
"Not one of those birds would remain a second," says he, "if there were
a single man in the copse. Do you not see that they have got the wind of
all that brushwood? and the bustard, either by scent or hearing, can
detect the presence of a human being as unerringly as a deer. But see;
the mist is clearing from the Danube. It cannot but begin soon."
Sure enough the mist was rolling heavily away from the broad, yellow
surface of the river; already we could descry the towers and walls of
Roustchouk, looming large, like some enchanted keep, above the waters.
The rain, too, was clearing off, and a bit of blue sky was visible above
our heads. In a few minutes the sun shone forth cheeringly, and a lark
rose into the sky from our very feet, with his gladsome, heavenward
song, as the boom of a cannon smote heavily on our ears; and we knew
that, for to-day, the work of death had at last begun.
The mist rose like a curtain: and the whole attack was now visible from
our post. A few flats were putting off from the Bulgarian side of the
river, crowded with infantry, whose muskets and accoutrements glittered
in the fitful sunlight, loaded to the water's edge. It was frightful to
think of the effect a round-shot might have on one of those crazy
shallops, with its living freight. The Russian batteries, well and
promptly served, were playing furiously on the river; but their range
was too high, and the iron shower whizzed harmlessly over the heads of
the attacking Moslem. A Turkish steamer, coolly and skilfully handled,
was plying to and fro in support of her comrades, and throwing her
shells beautifully into the Russian redoubts, where those unwelcome
visitors created much annoyance and confusion. Victor's eyes lightened
as he puffed at his cigar with an assumed _sang-froid_ which it was easy
to see he did not feel.
"The old Lion won't stay here long," he whispered to me; "look back at
him now, Vere. I told you so: there they go--'boots and saddles.' We,
too, shall be at it in ten minutes. _Vive la guerre!_"
As he spoke, the trumpet rang out the order to "mount." Concealment was
no longer necessary, and we rushed back to our horses, and placed
ourselves on either side of our commander, ready to execute whatever
orders he might choose to give.
Iskender Bey was now cool as if on parade; nay, considerably cooler: for
the rehearsal was more apt to excite his feelings than the play itself.
He moved us forward at a trot. Once more he halted amongst the
brushwood, from which the scared bustards were by this time flying in
all directions; and whilst every charger's frame quivered with
excitement, and even the proud Turkish hearts throbbed quicker under the
Sultan's uniform, he alone appeared wholly unmoved by the stake he had
to play in the great game. It was but the calm before the hurricane.
From our new position we could see the boats of our comrades rapidly
nearing the shore. Iskender, his bridle hanging over his mutilated arm,
and his glass pressed to his eye, watched them with eager gaze. It was
indeed a glorious sight. With a thrilling cheer, the Turkish infantry
sprang ashore, and fixing bayonets as they rushed on, stormed the
Russian redoubts at a run, undismayed and totally unchecked by the
well-sustained fire of musketry, and the grape and canister liberally
showered on them by the enemy. An English officer in the uniform of a
brigadier, whom through my glass I recognised as the good-humoured
intercessor for the prisoner in Omar Pasha's tent, led them on, waving
his sword, several paces in front of his men, and encouraging them with
a gallantry and daring that I was proud to feel were truly British.
But the Russian redoubts were well manned, and a strong body of infantry
were drawn up in support a few hundred paces in their rear; the guns,
too, had been depressed, and the cannonade was terrible. Down went the
red fez and the shaven head; Turkish sabre and French musket lay
masterless on the sand, and many a haughty child of Osman gasped out his
welling life-blood to slake the dry Wallachian soil. Wave your green
scarfs, dark-eyed maids of Paradise! for your lovers are thronging to
your gates. But the crimson flag is waving in the van, and the Russian
eagle even now spreads her wings to fly away. A strong effort is made
by the massive grey column which constitutes the enemy's reserve, but
the English brigadier has placed himself at the head of a freshly-landed
regiment--Albanians are they, wild and lawless robbers of the hills--and
he sweeps everything before him. The redoubts are carried with a cheer,
the gunners bayoneted, the heavy field-pieces turned on their former
masters, and the Russian column shakes, wavers, and gives way. The
glass trembles in Iskender's hand; his eye glares, and the veins of his
forehead begin to swell: for him too _the_ moment has come.
"Count de Rohan," says he, while he shuts up his glass like a man who
now sees his way clearly before him, "bring up the rear-guard.
Tergyman! I have got them _here_ in my hand!" and he clasps the
mutilated fingers as he speaks. "Now I can crush them. The column will
advance at a trot--'March!'"
Rapidly we clear the space that intervenes between our former position
and the retreating columns of the enemy--now to sweep down with our
handful of cavalry on their flank, and complete the victory that has
been so gallantly begun! For the first time the enemy appears aware of
our proximity. A large body of cavalry moves up at a gallop to
intercept us. We can see their commander waving his sword and giving
his orders to his men; their number is far greater than our own, and
Iskender is now indeed in his glory.
"Form line!" he shouts in a voice of thunder, as he draws his glittering
sabre and shakes it above his head. "Advance at a gallop!--charge!!"
Victor de Rohan is on one side of him, the Beloochee and myself on the
other; the wildest blood and the best horses in Turkey at our backs: and
down we go like the whirlwind, with the shout of "_Allah! Allah!_"
surging in our ears, lances couched and pennons fluttering, the maddened
chargers thundering at their speed, and the life-blood mounting to the
brain in the fierce ecstasy of that delirious moment.
I am a man of peace, God knows! What have I to do with the folly of
ambition--the tinsel and the glare and the false enthusiasm of war? And
yet, with steel in his hand and a good horse between his knees, a man
may well be excused for deeming such a moment as this worth many a year
of peaceful life and homely duties. Alas! alas! is it all vanity? is
_cui bono_ the sum and the end of everything? Who knows? And yet it
was glorious while it lasted!
Long ere we reach them, the Russian cavalry wavers and hesitates. Their
commander gallops nobly to the front. I can see him now, with his high
chivalrous features, and long, fair moustache waving in the breeze. He
gesticulates wildly to his men, and a squadron or two seem inclined to
follow the example of their gallant leader. In vain: we are upon them
even now in their confusion, and we roll them over, man and horse, with
the very impetus of our charge. Lance-thrust and sabre-cut, stab, blow
and ringing pistol-shot, make short work of the enemy. "_Allah!
Allah!_" shout our maddened troopers, and they give and take no quarter.
The fair-haired Colonel still fights gallantly on. Hopeless as it is he
strives to rally his men--a gentleman and a soldier to the last. My
comrade, the Beloochee, has his eye on him. They meet in the _melee_.
The Colonel deals a furious blow at his enemy with his long sabre, but
the supple Asiatic crouches on his mare's neck, and wheels the
well-trained animal at the same instant with his heel. His curved blade
glitters for a moment in the sun. It seems to pass without resistance
through the air; then the fair moustache is dabbled all in blood, and
the Colonel's horse gallops masterless from the field.
Victor de Rohan fights like a very Paladin, and even I feel the accursed
spirit rising in my heart. The Russian cavalry are scattered like chaff
before the wind. Their disorganised masses ride in upon their own
infantry, who are vainly endeavouring to form with some regularity. The
retreat becomes a general rout, and our Turkish troopers fly like
hell-hounds to the pursuit.
How might a reserve have turned the tables then! What a bitter lesson
might have been taught us by a few squadrons of veteran cavalry, kept in
hand by a cool and resolute officer. In vain Iskender rides and curses
and gesticulates; he is himself more than half inclined to follow the
example of his men. In vain the Beloochee entreats and argues, and even
strikes the refractory with the flat of his sabre; our men have tasted
blood, and are no longer under control. One regiment of Russian
infantry, supported by a few hussars and a field-piece, are still
endeavouring to cover the retreat.
"De Rohan," exclaims Iskender, while the foam gathers on his lip and his
features work with excitement, "I must have that gun! Forward, and
follow me!"
We placed ourselves at the head of two squadrons of the flower of our
cavalry; veterans are they, well seasoned in all the artifices of war,
and "_own children_"--so he delights to call them--to their chief. The
Beloochee has also succeeded in rallying a few stragglers; and once more
we rush to the attack.
The Russian regiment, however, is well commanded, and does its duty
admirably. The light field-piece opens on us as we advance, and a
well-directed volley, delivered when we are within a few paces, checks
us at the instant we are upon them. I can hear the Russian officer
encouraging his men.
"Well done, my children," says he, with the utmost _sang-froid_--"once
more like that will be enough."
Several of our saddles are emptied, and Iskender begins to curse.
"Dogs!" he shouts, grinding his teeth, and spurring furiously
forward--"dogs! I will be amongst you yet. Follow me, soldiers! follow
me!"
Meantime, the Russian hussars have been reinforced, and are now capable
of showing a front. They threaten our flank, and we are forced to turn
our attention to this new foe. The infantry hold their ground manfully,
and Iskender, wheeling his men, rushes furiously upon the comparatively
fresh regiment of hussars with his tired horses. The Beloochee and
myself are still abreast. Despite of a galling fire poured in by the
infantry upon our flank, the men advance readily to the attack. We are
within six horses' lengths of the hussars. I am setting my teeth and
nerving my muscles for the encounter, which must be fought out hand to
hand, when--crash!--Injour bounds into the air, falls upon his head,
recovers himself, goes down once more, rolls over me, and lies
prostrate, shot through the heart. I disentangle myself from the
saddle, and rise, looking wildly about me. One leg refuses to support my
weight, but I do not know that my ankle-bone is broken by a musket-ball,
and that I cannot walk three yards to save my life. A loose charger
gallops over me and knocks me down once more. I cannot rise again. The
short look I have just had has shown me our cavalry retiring, probably
to obtain reinforcements. The Russian hussars are between me and them,
whilst the desultory firing on my right tells me that the pursuit is
still rolling away far into Wallachia. But all this is dim and
indistinct. Again the old feeling comes on that it is not Vere Egerton,
but some one else, who is lying there to die. A cold sweat covers my
face; a deadly sickness oppresses me; the ground rises and heaves around
me, and I grasp the tufts of trodden grass in my hands. The sound of
church bells is in my ears. Surely it is the old bell at Alton; but it
strikes painfully on my brain. A vision, too, fleets before me, of
Constance, with her soft, dark eyes--the white dress makes me giddy--a
flash as of fire seems to blind me, and I know and feel no more.
* * * * *
I was brought to my senses by the simple process of a Cossack dropping
his lance into the fleshy part of my arm--no pleasant restorative, but
in my case a most effectual one. The first sight that greeted my eyes
was his little horse's girths and belly, and his own rough, savage
countenance, looking grimly down upon me as he raised his arm to repeat
the thrust. I muttered the few words of Russian I knew, to beg for
mercy, and he looked at his comrades, as though to consult them on the
propriety of acceding to so unheard-of a request as that of a wounded
man for his life. A few paces off I saw the Beloochee, evidently taken
prisoner, disarmed, and his head running with blood, but his whole
bearing as dignified and unmoved as usual.
In this awkward predicament I happily bethought me of the Russian
prisoner's epistle.
"Quarter, comrade! quarter!" I shouted as loudly as my failing voice
would suffer me. "I have a letter from your officer. Here it is."
"Osmanli?" inquired the Cossack, once more raising his arm to strike. I
shuddered to think how quickly that steel lance-head might be buried in
my body.
"No, Inglis!" I replied, and the man lowered his weapon once more and
assisted me to rise.
Fortunately at this juncture an officer rode up, and to him I appealed
for mercy and proper treatment as a prisoner of war. I misdoubted
considerably the humanity of my first acquaintance, whose eyes I could
see wandering over my person, as though he were selecting such
accoutrements and articles of clothing as he thought would suit his own
taste. The officer, who seemed of high rank, and was accompanied by an
escort, fortunately spoke German, and I appealed eloquently to him in
that language. He started at the superscription of the deserter's
letter, and demanded of me sternly how I obtained it. In a few words I
told him the history of the unfortunate spy, and he passed his gloved
hand over his face as though to conceal his emotion.
"You are English?" he observed rapidly, and looking uneasily over his
shoulder at the same time. "We do not kill our English prisoners,
barbarians as you choose to think us; but to the Turk we give no
quarter. Put him on a horse," he added, to my original captor, who kept
unpleasantly near: "do not ill-treat him, but bring him safely along
with you. If he tries to escape, blow his brains out. As for that
rascal," pointing to the Beloochee, "put a lance through him forthwith."
A happy thought struck me. I determined to make an effort for Ali.
"Excellence," I pleaded, "spare him, he is my servant."
The Russian officer paused. "Is he not a Turk?" he asked, sternly.
"No, I swear he is not," I replied. "He is my servant, and an
Englishman."
If ever a lie was justifiable, it was on the present occasion: I trust
this _white_ one may not be laid to my charge.
"Bring them both on," said the Russian, still glancing anxiously to his
rear. "Lieutenant Dolwitz, look to the party. Keep your men together,
and move rapidly. This is the devil's own business, and our people are
in full retreat." All this, though spoken in Russian, I was able to
understand; nor did the hurried manner in which the great man galloped
off shake my impression that he still dreaded a vision of Iskender Bey
and his band of heroes thundering on his track.
I was placed on a little active Cossack pony. The Beloochee's wrist was
tied to mine, and he was forced to walk or rather run by my side;
whenever he flagged a poke from the butt-end of a lance admonished him
to mend his pace, and a Russian curse fell harmlessly on his ear. Still
he preserved his dignity through it all; and so we journeyed onwards
into Wallachia, and meditated on the chances of war and the changes that
a day may bring forth.