THE GOLDEN HORN
"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?" The speaker was a Greek of the lowest
class, depraved and dirty, with a flexibility of limb and cunning of
countenance only to be seen in the present representatives of that race
who once furnished the sculptor with his glorious ideal of godlike
strength and intellectual beauty. I longed to kick him--the climate of
Constantinople is provocative of irritation, and I felt that with my
bushy beard, my Oriental demeanour, my acquaintance with Turkish habits
and proficiency in the language, it was irritating to be called
"Johnny," and asked to "see the bazaar," as though I had been the
smoothest and ruddiest ensign, disembarked for a day's leave from yonder
crowded troop-ship, an innocent lamb frisking in the sun on my way up to
the shambles before Sebastopol.
Yes, I was pretty well acclimatised in Turkey now. A year and more had
passed over my head since I had left Vienna, the morning after that
memorable ball at the Redouten-Saal, and what changes had that year
brought forth! Sir Harry Beverley was gathered to his fathers, and an
investigation into that worthy gentleman's affairs had explained much
that was hitherto incomprehensible in his conduct as to his daughter's
marriage and his connection with Ropsley. The latter had played his
game scientifically throughout. He was aware that on a proper
settlement being made, by marriage or otherwise, for his daughter, Sir
Harry would obtain the fee-simple of certain property which, until such
an event, he only held in trust for the young lady's benefit; and as
these were the sole funds to which the far-seeing Guardsman could look
to liquidate Sir Harry's debts to himself, incurred no one knew exactly
how, it was his object to expedite as speedily as possible the marriage
of my early love. As she was an heiress he would have had no objection
to wed her himself, and indeed, as we have already seen, had entered
into terms with her father for the furtherance of this object. That
scheme was, however, defeated by her own determination, and it had long
been apparent to my mind that Constance had only married my old friend
Victor to escape from the dreadful alternative of becoming Ropsley's
wife: that such an alliance promised but ill for the future happiness of
both I could not conceal from myself, and yet so selfish is the human
heart, so difficult is it to shake the "trail of the serpent" from off
the flowerets of our earthly love, I could not regret as I ought to have
done that the two people whom most I cared for in the world, should not
be as devoted to each other as is essential to the happiness of those
whom the tie of marriage has bound indissolubly together.
Ah! she was Countess de Rohan now, living at Edeldorf in all that state
and luxury which she was so well calculated to adorn; and I, what had I
done since we parted for ever at the masquerade? Well, I had striven to
fulfil her wishes--to rise to honour and distinction, to be worthy of
her friendship and esteem. Fame I had gained none, but I had done my
duty. Omar Pasha, my kind patron, who had never forgotten the child
that sympathised with him at Edeldorf, had expressed himself satisfied
with my services; and 'Skender Bey, drunk or sober, never passed me
without a cordial grasp of the hand. For more than a year I had shared
the fortunes of the Turkish commander and the Turkish army. I had seen
the merits of those poor, patient, stanch, unflinching troops, and the
shortcomings of their corrupt and venal officers. I knew, none better,
how the Turkish soldier will bear hunger, thirst, privation, ill-usage,
and arrears of pay without a murmur; how, with his implicit faith in
destiny, and his noble self-sacrifice in the cause of God and the
Sultan, he is capable of endurance and effort such as put the ancient
Spartan to the blush--witness the wan faces, the spectral forms, gaunt,
famine-stricken and hollow-eyed, that so doggedly carried out the
behests of the tameless defender of Kars. I had seen him starved and
cheated that his colonel might gormandise--ay! and, in defiance of the
Prophet, drink to intoxication of the forbidden liquid--and I wondered
not, as none who knew the nation need wonder, that Russian gold will
work its way to the defeat of a Turkish army far more swiftly than all
the steel that bristles over the thronging columns of the Muscovite.
Keep the Pasha's hands clean, or make it worth his while to be faithful
to his country--forbid the northern eagle from spreading his wing over
the Black Sea, and you may trust the Turkish soldier that not a Russian
regiment ever reaches the gates of Constantinople. All this I had seen,
and for long I was content to cast in my lot with this brave people,
struggling against the invader; but my own countrymen were in arms
scarce two hundred miles off, the siege of Sebastopol was dragging
wearily on from day to day--I felt that I would fain be under the dear
old English flag, would fain strike one blow surrounded by the kindly
English faces, cheered by the homely English tongues. She was more
likely to hear of me, too, if I could gain some employment with the
English army; and this last argument proved to me too painfully what I
had vainly striven to conceal from myself, how little these long months
of trials, privations, and excitement had altered the real feelings of
my heart. Would it be always so? Alas, alas! it was a weary lot!
"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?" He woke me from my day-dream, but I
felt more kindly towards him now, more cosmopolitan, more charitable.
In such a scene as that, how could any man, a unit in such a throng,
think only of his own individual interests or sufferings?
Never since the days of the Crusaders--ay, scarcely even in that
romantic time, was there seen such a motley assemblage as now crowded
the wooden bridge that traverses the Golden Horn between bustling,
dirty, dissonant Pera, and stately, quiet, dignified Stamboul, those two
suggestive quarters that constitute the Turkish capital. On that bridge
might be seen a specimen of nearly every nation under the sun--the
English soldier with his burly, upright figure, and staid,
well-disciplined air; the rakish Zouave, with his rollicking gait, and
professed libertinism of demeanour, foreign to the real character of the
man. Jauntily he sways and swaggers along, his hands thrust into the
pockets of his enormous red petticoat trousers, his blonde hair shaved
close _a la Khabyle_, and his fair complexion burnt red by an African
sun long before he came here, "en route, voyez-vous," to fill the ditch
of the Malakhoff. "Pardon," he observes to a tall, stately Persian,
fresh from Astracan, whom he jostles unwittingly, for a Frenchman is
never impolite, save when he really _intends_ insult; the
fire-worshipper, in his long sad-coloured robes and high-pointed cap,
wreathes his aquiline nose into an expression of stately
astonishment--for a Persian, too, has his notions of good breeding, and
is extremely punctilious in acting up to them. His picturesque costume,
however, and dignified bearing, are lost upon the Zouave, for a gilded
_araba_ is at the moment passing, with its well-guarded freight, and the
accursed Giaour ogles these flowers of the harem with an impudent
pertinacity of truly Parisian growth. The beauties, fresh from their
bath, attempt, with henna-tinted fingers, to draw their thin veils
higher over their radiant features, their bed-gown-looking dresses
tighter round their plump forms; an arrangement which by some fatality
invariably discloses the beauties of face and figure more liberally than
before. Here a Jew, in his black dress and solemn turban, is counting
his gains attentively on his fingers; there an Armenian priest, with
square cap and long dusky draperies, tells his prayers upon his
sandal-wood beads. A mad dervish, naked to the loins, his hair knotted
in elf-locks, his limbs macerated by starvation, howls out his unearthly
dirge, to which nobody seems to pay attention, save that Yankee skipper
in a round hat, fresh from Halifax to Balaklava, who is much astonished,
if he would only confess it, and who sets down in his mental log-book
all that he sees and hears in this strange country as an "almighty
start." Italian sailors, speaking as much with their fingers as their
tongues, call perpetually on the Virgin; whilst Greeks, Maltese, and
Ionian Islanders scream and gesticulate, and jabber and cheat whenever
and however they can. Yonder an Arab from the desert stalks grim and
haughty, as though he trod the burning sands of his free, boundless
home. Armed to the teeth, the costly shawl around his waist bristling
with pistols and sword and deadly yataghan, he looks every inch the
tameless war-hawk whose hand is against every man, and every man's hand
against him. Preoccupied as he is, though, and ill at ease, for he has
left his steed in a stable from whence he feels no certainty that
priceless animal may not be stolen ere he returns; and should he lose
his horse, what will his very life avail him then? Nevertheless he can
sneer bitterly on that gigantic Ethiopian--a slave, of course--who
struts past him in all the borrowed importance of a great man's
favourite. At Constantinople, as at New Orleans,--in the City of the
Sultan as in the Land of the Free--the swarthy skin, the flattened
features, and the woolly hair of the negro denote the slave. That is a
tall, stalwart fellow, though, and would fetch his price in South
Carolina fast enough, were he put up for sale to the highest bidder.
Such a lot he need not dread here, and he leads some half-dozen of his
comrades, like himself, splendidly dressed and armed, with a confident,
not to say bellicose air, that seems to threaten all bystanders with
annihilation if they do not speedily make way for his master the Pasha.
And now the Pasha himself comes swinging by at the fast easy walk of his
magnificent Turkish charger, not many crosses removed from the pure
blood of the desert. The animal seems proud of its costly
accoutrements, its head-stall embossed with gold, and housings sown with
pearls, nor seems inclined to flag or waver under the goodly weight it
carries so jauntily. A gentleman of substantial proportions is the
Pasha; broad, strong, and corpulent, with the quiet, contented air of
one whose habitual life is spent amongst subordinates and inferiors. He
is a true Turk, and it is easy to trace in his gestures and
demeanour--haughty, grave and courteous--the bearing of the dominant
race. His stout person is buttoned into a tight blue frock-coat, on the
breast of which glitters the diamond order of the Medjidjie, and a fez
or crimson skull-cap, with a brass button in the crown, surmounts his
broad, placid face, clean and close shaved, all but the carefully
trimmed black moustache. A plain scimitar hangs at his side, and the
long chibouques, with their costly amber mouthpieces, are carried by the
pipe-bearer in his rear. The cripple asking for alms at his horse's
feet narrowly escapes being crushed beneath its hoofs; but in Turkey
nobody takes any trouble about anybody else, and the danger being past,
the cripple seems well satisfied to lie basking in the sun on those warm
boards, and wait for his destiny like a true Mussulman as he is. Loud
are the outcries of this Babel-like throng; and the porters of Galata
stagger by under enormous loads, shouting the while with stentorian
lungs, well adapted to their Herculean frames. Water-carriers and
sweetmeat-venders vie with each other in proclaiming the nature of their
business in discordant tones; a line of donkeys, bearing on their
patient backs long planks swaying to and fro, are violently addressed by
their half-naked drivers in language of which the poetic force is
equalled only by the energetic enunciation; and a string of Turkish
firemen, holloaing as if for their lives, are hurrying--if an Osmanli
can ever be said to hurry--to extinguish one of those conflagrations
which periodically depopulate Pera and Stamboul.
The blue sparkling water, too, is alive with traffic, and is indeed
anything but a "silent highway." Graceful caiques, rowed by their
lightly-clad watermen--by far the most picturesque of all the dwellers
by the Bosphorus--shoot out in all directions from behind vessels of
every rig and every tonnage; the boatmen screaming, of course, on every
occasion, at the very top of their voices. All is bustle, confusion,
and noise; but the tall black cedars in the gardens of the
Seraglio-palace tower, solemn and immovable, into the blue cloudless
sky, for there is not a breath of air stirring to fan the scorching
noon, and the domes and minarets of Stamboul's countless mosques glitter
white and dazzling in the glare. It is refreshing to watch the ripple
yonder on the radiant Bosphorus, where the breeze sighs gently up from
the sea of Marmora--alas! we have not a chance of it elsewhere; and it
is curious to observe the restless white sea-fowl, whom the Turks
believe to be the lost souls of the wicked, scouring ever along the
surface of the waters, seemingly without stay or intermission, during
the livelong day. It is ominous, too; mark that enormous vulture poised
aloft on his broad wing, like a shadow of evil impending over the
devoted city. There are few places in the world so characteristic as
the bridge between Galata[#] and Stamboul.
[#] The suburb of Pera lying next the Bosphorus, a locality combining
the peculiarities of our own Smithfield, St. Giles's, and Billingsgate
in their worst days. There is another bridge across the Golden Horn,
higher up; but its traffic, compared to that of its neighbour, is as
that of Waterloo to London Bridge.
And now the traffic is brought to a stand-still, for the huge fabric has
to be opened, and swings back on its hinges for the passage of some
mighty craft moving slowly on to the inner harbour to refit. It is a
work of time and labour: the former article is of considerably less
value to our Moslem friends than the latter, and is lavished
accordingly; but though business may be suspended for the nonce, noise
increases tenfold, every item of the throng deeming the present an
opportune moment at which to deliver his, her, or its opinion on things
in general. Nimble fingers roll the fragrant cigarette, and dissonant
voices rise above the white spiral smoke into the clear bright air.
Close behind me I recognise the well-known Saxon expletive adjuring
_Johnny_ to "drive on,"--said "Johnny" invariably returning a blessing
for a curse, but "driving on," if by that expression is meant activity
and progress, as little as may be. Turning round, I confront a florid
Saxon face, with bushy beard and whiskers, surmounting a square form
that somehow I think I have seen before. "Scant greeting serves in time
of strife," and taking my chance of a mistake, I salute my neighbour
politely.
"Mr. Manners, I believe? I am afraid you do not recollect me."
"_Major_ Manners, sir; _Major_ Manners--very much at your service," is
the reply, in a tone of mild correction. "No; I confess you have the
advantage of me. And yet--can it be? Yes, it is--Vere Egerton!"
"The same," I answered, with a cordial grasp of the hand; "but it is
strange we should meet here, of all places in the world."
"I always told you I was born to be a soldier, Egerton," said the usher,
with his former jaunty air of good-humoured bravado; "and here I am
amongst the rest of you. Bless me, how you're grown! I should not have
known you had you not spoken to me. And I--don't you think I am
altered, eh? improved perhaps, but certainly altered--what?"
I glanced over my friend's dress, and agreed with him most cordially as
to the _alteration_ that had taken place in his appearance. The eye
gets so accustomed to difference of costume at Constantinople, that it
is hardly attracted by any eccentricity of habit, however uncommon; but
when my attention was called by Manners himself to his exterior, I could
not but confess that he was apparelled in a style of gorgeous
magnificence, such as I had never seen before. High black riding-boots
of illustrious polish, with heavy steel spurs that would have become
Prince Rupert; crimson pantaloons under a bright green tunic,
single-breasted, and with a collar _a la guillotine_, that showed off to
great advantage the manly neck and huge bushy beard, but at the same
time suggested uncomfortable ideas of sore throats and gashing
sabre-strokes; a sash of golden tissue, and a sword-belt, new and richly
embroidered, sustaining a cavalry sabre nearly four feet long,--all this
was more provocative of admiration than envy; but when such a _tout
ensemble_ was surmounted by a white beaver helmet with a red plume,
something of a compromise between the head-dress of the champion at
Astley's and that which is much affected by the Prince Consort, the
general effect, I am bound to confess, became striking in the extreme.
"I see," said I; "I admire you very much; but what is it?--the uniform,
I mean. Staff corps? Land Transport? What?"
"Land Transport, indeed!" replied Manners, indignantly. "Not a bit of
it--nothing half so low. The Bashi-Bazouks--Beatson's Horse--whatever
you like to call them. Capital service--excellent pay--the officers a
jovial set of fellows; and really--eh now? confess, a magnificent
uniform. Come and join us, Egerton--we have lots of vacancies; it's the
best thing out."
"And your men?" I asked, for I had heard of these Bashi-Bazouks and
their dashing leader. "What sort of soldiers are they?--can you depend
upon them?"
"I'd lead them anywhere," replied my enthusiastic friend, whose
experience of warfare was as yet purely theoretical. "The finest
fellows you ever saw; full of confidence in their officers, and such
horsemen! Talk of your English dragoons! why, _our_ fellows will ride
up to a brick wall at a gallop, and pull up dead short; pick a glove off
the ground from the saddle, or put a bullet in it when going by as hard
as they can lay legs to the ground. You should really see them under
arms. _My opinion is_, they are the finest cavalry in the world."
"And their discipline?" I continued, knowing as I did something of these
wild Asiatics and their predatory and irregular habits.
"Oh, discipline!" answered my embryo warrior; "bother the discipline! we
mustn't begin by giving them too much of that; besides, it's nonsense to
drill those fellows, it would only spoil their _dash_. They behave very
well in camp. I have been with them now six weeks, and we have only had
one row yet."
"And was that serious?" I asked, anxious to obtain the benefit of such
long experience as my friend's.
"Serious"--replied Manners, thoughtfully; "well, it was serious; pistols
kept popping off, and I thought at one time things were beginning to
look very ugly, but the chief soon put them to rights. They positively
adore him. I don't know whether he punished the ringleaders. However,"
added he, brightening up, "you must expect these sort of things with
Irregulars. It was the first time I ever was shot at, Egerton; it's not
half so bad as I expected: we are all dying to get into the field.
Hollo! they have shut the bridge again, and I must be getting on. Which
way are you going?--to the Seraskerat? Come and dine with me to-day at
Messirie's--Salaam!"
And Manners strutted off, apparently on the best of terms with himself,
his uniform, and his Bashi-Bazouks. Well! he, too, had embarked on the
stormy career of war. It was wonderful how men turned up at
Constantinople, on their way to or from the Front. It seemed as if
society in general had determined on making an expedition to the East.
Dandies from St. James's-street were amusing themselves by amateur
soldiering before Sebastopol, and London fine ladies were to be seen
mincing about on the rugged stones of Pera, talking bad French to the
astonished Turks with a confidence that was truly touching. It was
Europe invading Asia once more, and I could not always think Europe
showed to advantage in the contrast. A native Turk, calm, dignified,
kindly, and polite, is a nobler specimen of the human race than a
bustling French barber or a greedy German Jew; and of the two latter
classes Pera was unfortunately full even to overflowing. Well, it was
refreshing to have crossed the bridge at last--to have left behind one
the miserable attempt at Europeanism, the dirt, the turmoil, and the
discomfort of Pera, for the quiet calm, the stately seclusion, and the
venerable magnificence of Stamboul.