"MESSIRIE'S"
A narrow street, paved with the roughest and sharpest of flints,
debouching into three other streets even less commodious than itself; a
Turkish sentry dozing torpid at his post--half-a-dozen _hamauls_[#] clad
in rough frieze jackets, and wide pantaloons of the same material,
gathered in at the knee, scratching their brown herculean legs, and
examining their broad flat feet, as they recline against a dirty dead
wall, and interchange their jests with a degree of humour foreign to our
English ideas of Turkish gravity--a rascally-looking dragoman in a black
frock-coat and a fez, rolling a cigarette, prepared to cheat, rob,
swindle, or lie at the shortest notice, a slave to every sensual vice
except drunkenness, and speaking all the languages on earth in bad
Italian--a brace of English Jack-tars, afire with raki, trolling out
"Cheer, boys, cheer," and a stray Zouave, equally exhilarated, joining
in chorus; a T.G., or travelling gent, with nascent beard, and towel
wound turban-wise around his straw-hat, wishing himself in Pall Mall,
and indignant at the natives, who call him "_Johnny_."
[#] Porters.
The REAL thing from the Crimea, in a curiously worn-out shell jacket,
patched and darned, stained and tarnished, with a bronzed face, a bushy
beard of two years' growth, and a slight limp that for the rest of his
life will bid him "remember the fifth of November," and the turning of
the tide upon the declivity of Inkermann.
Two or three English merchants, like crows, to be seen all over the
world, and everywhere in the same dress, with white shirts, and honest
broad-cloth coats, that remind one of home; a Queen's messenger, with
tweed shooting-jacket and official forage-cap, clean shaved and
clear-looking, after the bad passage and gale of wind he is sure at all
seasons to encounter in the Mediterranean, a miracle to us _habitues_ of
the place, being actually as fresh from London as yonder copy of _The
Times_ newspaper, which came with him by the same mail, the only
unfeathered biped in creation that thoroughly carries out the idea of
"Here to-day, gone to-morrow." Such are the concomitants of the scene
upon which I enter at the door of Messirie's hotel, that well-known
rendezvous in Pera where congregate all that have any connection with
the mother country; a place where every rumour is to be heard with its
latest embellishments, and where, for the sum of seventeen francs a day,
I can command a moderate breakfast, a dinner into the components of
which it is better not to inquire, and a murky bedroom, where the fierce
mosquito shall drain my life-blood all the weary night.
"Is Major Manners in the hotel?" I inquire, as I throw myself off the
Pasha's horse, and, glancing at a face in the street very like that of
the man I knocked down some three-quarters of an hour ago, reflect what
a family resemblance reigns amongst the wretched sons of Ham. Bold is in
his worst of humours, and growls ominously. "Is Major Manners here?" I
repeat, and three Greek servants, with an abortive attempt to pronounce
the Frankish name, shrug their shoulders and open their hands to express
the hopeless imbecility in which they rejoice. I perceive a stout man
in a white hat, picking his teeth unconcernedly in the passage, and,
recognising him for the master, I apply at once for the information I
require. He looks contemptuously at me in reply, and, turning his broad
back upon me, walks off without deigning to take any further notice of a
customer; but I have been here before, and I know there is balm in
Gilead. I know that in a certain little room on the left I shall find
the hostess, and that she, the mainstay and prop of the establishment,
will spare no pains to assist a countryman. Kindly Madame Messirie!
always ready to aid one in a difficulty, always busy, always
good-humoured, always so thoroughly English, it was quite refreshing to
hear the tones of your homely voice, and fancy oneself in the "White
Lion," or the "Blue Bear," or some other pleasant hostelry, with
post-horses and a bar, and an ostler's bell, far away in merry England.
"Vere Egerton! can that be you?" said a voice that I thought I
recognised, as I entered the sanctum in which the hostess reigned
supreme. "Little Egerton, as I'm alive, growed out of knowledge, and
doubtless by this time a Pasha with three tails, and a true believer.
Tell me all about the process of conversion and the tenets of your
faith."
It was indeed Ropsley,--Ropsley the Guardsman--Ropsley the dandy, but
how altered! The attenuated _roue_ of former days had grown large and
muscular, his face was brown and healthy, his forehead frank and open,
the clear grey eye was brighter and quicker than it used to be; it had
caught the ready, eager glance of those who look death habitually in the
face, but had lost much of the cruel, calculating, leaden expression I
remembered so well. Despite his worn-out uniform, the rents in which
showed here and there a red flannel shirt,--despite his close-cropped
hair and flowing beard,--I could not but confess to myself, as I grasped
his hand, that Ropsley looked ten years younger and ten times handsomer
than when I saw him last.
Yes, I met him cordially, and as an old friend. 'Tis true he had been
my greatest enemy, 'tis true he had inflicted on me a wound, the scar of
which I felt I should carry to my grave; but months had passed away
since then; months which, crowding events upon events, had seemed like
years; months of danger, labour, hardship, and tribulation. Of what
avail is suffering if it does not soften and purify the heart? Why are
those that mourn blessed, if it is not that they learn the bitter lesson
grief alone can teach? My task had been a hard one--how hard none knew
save the poor humbled scholar who conned it day by day, and blistered
the page with his tears; but I had conquered it at last, and so I freely
forgave Ropsley, and clasped him by the hand.
"You dine here, of course," he said, in his old half-humorous,
half-sarcastic voice. "Madame Messirie, princess of Pera, and queen of
my soul, order a place to be set for my friend the Pasha, and lots of
champagne to be put in ice. I have only just come down from the front;
I have scarcely had a decent dinner, or seen a silver fork, for a year
and a half. It's an endless business, this, Egerton; hammer, hammer,
hammer, yet nothing comes of it, and the old place looks whiter and more
inviting than ever, but we _can't get in_!"
"And the Mamelon?" said I, eager for the last news from the spot to
which millions of hearts were reaching, all athirst for hope.
"Got it at last," was his reply, "at least, our neighbours have; I hope
they'll keep it. We made a sad mess last week, Egerton; lost no end of
men, and half our best officers. Whew! I say nothing, only mark my
words, if ever--but there's the bell! Never mind the siege now. War's a
mistake, but dinner (if you can get it) never deceives you." And so
saying, the _ci-devant_ dandy patted me on the back, and pushed me
before him into the well-lighted and now crowded _salon_.
In that strange country, so thoroughly Asiatic, which we call Turkey in
Europe, there were so few links to connect us with the life of
civilisation which seemed to have passed from us like a dream, that it
was no wonder we clung to Messirie's hotel and thronged its _table
d'hote_ with a constancy and devotion less to be attributed to its own
intrinsic merits than to the associations and reminiscences it called
forth. Here were to be met all the gallant fellows who were going to,
or coming from, the front. Heroes, whose names were destined to gild
the page of history, might here be seen drinking bad tea and complaining
of the butter like ordinary mortals; but always in the highest spirits,
as men seem invariably to be during the short lulls of a campaign. When
you are likely to be shot next Monday week, if you have small hopes, you
have few anxieties. Here, too, you might sit opposite a diplomatist,
who was supposed to know the innermost secrets of the court at Vienna,
and to be advised of what "the Austrians meant to do," whilst rubbing
shoulders with you as he helped himself to fish; and confronting the man
of ciphers, some heroic refugee, Pole, Croat, or Hungarian, whose name
was in every journal in Europe, as it was inscribed on every military
post in Austria or Russia, munched away with a capital appetite, and
appeared only conspicuous for the extreme modesty and gentleness of his
demeanour. Contractors of every nation jabbered in every language, nor
was the supple Armenian, grafting the bold spirit of European
speculation on his own Oriental duplicity, wanting to grasp his share of
the plunder, which John Bull was so magnanimously offering as a premium
to every description of fraud. Even the softer sex was not without its
representatives. Two or three high-born English ladies, whose loving
hearts had brought them hovering as near the seat of war as it was
possible for a non-combatant to venture, daily shed the light of their
presence at the dinner-table, and were silently welcomed by many a bold
spirit with a degree of chivalrous enthusiasm, of which, anxious and
pre-occupied, they were but little aware. A man must have been living
for months among men, must have felt his nature gradually brutalising
amidst the hardships, the sufferings, and the horrors of war, thoroughly
to appreciate the softening influence of a woman's, and especially of a
_countrywoman's_, society. Even to look on those waving white dresses,
those gentle English faces, with their blooming cheeks and rich brown
hair, was like a draught of water to a pilgrim in a weary land. It
reminded us of home--of those we loved--and we went our way back into
the desert a thought saddened, perhaps, yet, for all that, kindlier and
happier men.
"What a meeting!" exclaimed Manners, as, gorgeously arrayed in the
splendours of a full-dress uniform, he took his seat by my side and
shook hands with Ropsley, who returned his greeting with a cordial
pressure and a look of quiet amusement in his eye that almost upset my
gravity: "Everdon at Constantinople!" continued our former usher; "we
only want De Rohan to make our gathering quite perfect!"
I winced, and for the first time in my life I saw Ropsley colour, but
Manners was too much occupied to notice the emotion of either of us;
for, during his many visits to Constantinople, the dashing officer of
Bashi-Bazouks had made such numerous acquaintances, and become so
necessary an ingredient in the society of Pera, that there seemed to be
hardly an individual at table, from the _attache_ of the Embassy down to
the last-joined officer of the Commissariat, with whom he was not on
terms of intimate familiarity. He had scarcely taken his seat and
unfolded his dinner-napkin, ere the cross-fire of greetings and
inquiries began. Manners, too, in the sunshine of all his popularity,
had expanded into a wag; and although his witticisms were of a somewhat
profound order, and not always very apparent to the superficial
observer, they were generally well received; for a wag was a scarcer
article in Constantinople than at the front.
So Manners proceeds with his dinner in great satisfaction and glory.
After a couple of glasses of champagne he becomes overpoweringly
brilliant. He is good enough, too, to take upon himself the onerous
task of drilling the waiters, which he affects in bad French, and of
abusing the deficiencies of the _cuisine_; a topic affording, indeed,
ample scope for declamation. The waiters, especially a cunning old
Greek, with a most villainous expression of countenance, betray an
immense respect for Manners, tinged with an amused sort of amazement,
and always help him first.
They bring him a dish of hare, large of limb and venerable in point of
years. Our Bashi-Bazouk exclaims indignantly, "_Qu'est que ca?_"
"_C'est un lievre, M'sieur_," replies the waiter, with a forced smile,
as of one who expects a jest he will not comprehend.
"_C'est un chat!_" gasps out Manners, glaring indignantly on the
official.
"_Pardon, M'sieur,_" says the waiter, "_c'est trop gros pour un chat._"
"_Chat_," repeats Manners; "_Chat_ THOMAS!" he adds, in a sepulchral
voice, and with a frowning brow. The waiter shrinks abashed, the
company laugh, and Manners's observation counts for a joke.
By this time conversation begins to buzz pretty freely around.
Everybody drinks champagne, and tongues soon become loosened by the
exhilarating fluid. Various topics are discussed, including a new
beauty that has just arrived from Smyrna, of French extraction, and
supposed to possess a fortune that sounds perfectly fabulous when
calculated in francs. Manners listens attentively, for he has not
totally abandoned the idea of combining the excitement of war with the
pursuit of beauty--properly gilded, of course--and his maxim is that
"None but the brave deserve the fair." Her praises, however, as also
her name and address, are intercepted by the voluble comments of two
stout gentlemen, his neighbours, on the utter incapacity of the Turkish
Government, and the hopeless imbecility of "the people of this unhappy
country, Sir,--a people without a notion of progress---destined to
decay, Sir, from the face of the earth," as the stouter of the two, a
British merchant, who is about investing in land here, remarks to his
neighbour, a jovial Frenchman, who has already bought many a fertile
acre in the neighbourhood of Constantinople, under the new
Hatti-Sheriff;[#] and who replies, fixing his napkin securely in his
button-hole--
[#] An act empowering foreigners to hold land in Turkey.
"_Pourri, voyez-vous, mon cher. Crac! ca ne durera pas trois ans._"
Opposite these worthies, an ensign in the Guards, and the Queen's
messenger, who is of a theatrical turn, are busy with the character,
private as well as professional, of a certain star of the Opera, whom
the latter has already criticised in the execution of his duty at
Vienna, and an ardent desire to hear whom haunts the former enthusiast
to such a degree, even in the very trenches, that he longs to attack and
take Sebastopol single-handed, in order to get home again before she
leaves London for the winter. The Turkish Ministry, changing as it does
about once a week; the policy of Austria; the Emperor Napoleon's energy;
the inefficiency of our own Commissariat; the ludicrous blunders of the
War Office, and the last retort courteous of Lord Stratford, all come in
for their share of remark from prejudiced observers of every party and
every opinion; but by degrees one voice rises louder than the rest, one
individual attracts the notice of the whole dinner-table, and nowise
abashed, but rather encouraged by the attention he commands, details
volubly his own account of the capture of the Mamelon. He is a
Frenchman, and a civilian, but somehow he has a red ribbon on his
breast, and belongs to the Legion of Honour, so he "assisted," as he
calls it, at the attack; and if he speaks truth, it must indeed have
been an awful sight, and one in which his countrymen outdid themselves
for valour, and that quality peculiar to the soldiers of France which
they term _elan_, a word it is hopeless to think of translating. His
opinions are decided, if not satisfactory; his plan of storming the
place an excellent one, if it could only be carried out.
"We have taken the Mamelon!" says he, "and what remains? Bah! The
Malakhoff Tower is the key to the whole position. What would you have?
Every simple soldier in the army knows it as well as you and I do. I
tell you I 'assisted' at the capture of the _Mamelon Vert_. They
received us with a fire, well sustained, of grape and small arms. Our
ammunition failed us at the critical moment. I was in the
ditch--_me!_--when the Zouaves came on with their yell--the 152nd of the
line were in front of them. It must be carried with the
bayonet!--_Pflan!_--our little red pantaloons were swarming up the work
and over the parapet ere you could count ten--the tricolor was hoisted
and the guns spiked in a twinkling--that is the only way to arrange
these affairs. Now, see here--you have your Redan, you others--you have
sapped up to it, as near as you can get. There must be a combined
attack. You cannot hold it till we have silenced that little rogue of a
Malakhoff. What to do? One of these '_four mornings_,' as it was with
the Mamelon so will it be with the Malakhoff! Give me a thick column,
with the Zouaves in front and rear. These are not follies. I advance
my column under cover--I pour in a volley!--I rush on with the bayonet!
At the same moment the Redan falls. Your Guards and Scotchmen run in
with their heads, a thousand cannon support you with their fire, the
Allies hold the two most important defences, the Garden Batteries are
silenced. Chut! the place is ours! France and England are looking on.
I do not say that this will be done; but this is how it ought to be
done. If your generals are fools, what is that to me? I am not a
general--I!--but a simple civilian!--Waiter, a cigar! _Qui vivra,
verra_."
It is all _pipe-clay_, as the soldiers call it, now. The one engrossing
topic silences every other. Alma, Inkermann, Lord Raglan's flank march,
and the earlier incidents of the siege, are related by the very men who
took an active share in those deeds of glory. Two cavalry officers,
both wounded on the fatal day, recapitulate once more the _pros_ and
_cons_ of the immortal charge at Balaklava--a question that has been
vexed and argued till the very actors themselves in that most brilliant
of disasters scarcely know how they got in, and still less how they ever
got out. Though struck down by the same shell, and within ten yards of
one another, each takes a diametrically opposite view of the whole
transaction from his comrade. They differ materially as to time,
position, pace, and results; above all, as to the merits of the leader
whose wreath of laurels faded as undeservedly as it bloomed prematurely.
"I was close behind him the whole way," says the one; "I never saw a
fellow so cool in my life, or so well 'got up.' He regulated every
stride of that good chestnut horse like clock-work. When we came into
fire, our line was dressed as if on parade. I know it by my own
squadron. Will you tell me _that_ man lost his head?"
"But where was he after we rode through the guns?" replied the other.
"Answer me that! I grant you he took us in like a _brick_. But why
didn't he bring us out? I never saw him after I was hit, and I _must_
have seen him if he had rallied the first line, and been in his proper
place to look out for his support. You were close to me, old fellow! I
never knew before that bob-tailed Irish horse of yours could gallop a
mile and a half. You were sickish, my boy, for I saw your face; but
your eyesight was unimpaired. Tell me, did _you_ see him, and what was
he doing?"
"I _did_, I'll swear!" answers the partisan, as fine a specimen of a
young hussar as ever drew a sword. "And I'll tell you what he was
doing. Mind, I don't say it because I _like him_, for I don't.
Confound him! he put me under arrest once in Dublin, and I believe it
was only because my boots weren't well blacked. But I saw him, with my
own eyes, striking at three Cossacks, who were prodding him with their
long lances; and if poor old Champion had not dropped under me just at
that moment, I'd have gone in and had a shy to help him, if I lost my
stick. No, no! he's game as a pebble, let them say what they will; and
if it wasn't for those cursed papers, he'd have had all the credit he
deserves. It was the quickest thing I ever rode to, my boy," adds the
young one, rather flushed, and drinking off his champagne at a gulp in
his excitement. "He had a _lead_, and he kept it right well, and I
won't hear him run down."
"I don't care," replies his friend. "I maintain it's a general's duty
to know everything that's going on. I maintain he ought to have stood
still and looked about him (to be sure, we couldn't see much in that
smoke); ay! and, if necessary, waited there for the Heavies to come up.
Now, I'll prove it to you in five minutes, if you'll only listen, you
obstinate young beggar! Do you remember, just before we were both hit,
your saying to me, 'What a go this is!' and my answering, 'Whatever we
do, we must keep the men together, but half my horses are blown.' Do
you remember that?"
"I _admit_ nothing," answers the young man, laughing, "but I do remember
that. It was just before we saw that strong body of Russian cavalry in
rear of the guns, and I don't make out now why they weren't down upon
us."
"Never mind that," pursues his opponent. "They behaved very steadily,
and retired in good order; but you remember the circumstance. Well, he
was then about six horses' lengths from us on our fight."
"On our left," interposes the younger man--"on our left; for I remember
poor Blades was knocked over between me and him."
"On our _right_," persists the other. "I am certain of it, my dear
fellow, for I remarked at the time----"
"I am positive he was on our left! I remember it as well as if it was
yesterday."
"I could take my oath he was on our right; for I recollect seeing his
sabretasche swinging."
"Left!" says one, "Right!" says the other; and they never advance one
step farther in the discussion, which will be prolonged far into the
night, to the consumption of much brandy and water, together with
countless cigars, but with no further result.
If no two men see any one action of common life in the same light, how
hopeless must it be to endeavour to get at the true statement of an
event which takes place in the presence of a crowd of witnesses, all
excited, all in peril of their lives, all enveloped in the dense smoke
of a hundred guns, all maddening with the fierce, blood-stirring turmoil
of such a deed of arms as the death-ride at Balaklava.
The instant dinner is finished, and coffee served, cigars are lit. It
is a signal for the ladies to retire, and our handsome countrywomen sail
out of the room, with that stately walk that none but an English lady
ever succeeds in effecting. Many a glance follows them as they
disappear; many a stout heart tightens under its scarlet covering, to
think of the ideal at home--her gloves, her dress, her fragrant hair,
her graceful gestures, and the gentle smile that may never gladden him
again. Men are strange mixtures! the roughest and the coldest exteriors
sometimes hide the most sensitive feelings; and when I hear a man
professing audacious libertinism, and a supreme contempt for women, I
always mistrust the bravado that is but a covering for his weakness, and
set him down at once as a puppet, that a pair of white hands--if one
only knew where to find them--can turn and twist and set aside at will.
Ropsley was much softer in his manner than he used to be. Had he, too,
experienced the common fate? Was the dandy Guardsman no longer
impervious, _nulli penetrabilis astro_? Painful as was the subject, he
talked much of the De Rohans. He had seen Constance married; he had
heard repeatedly from Victor during the past year; and though he
evidently knew my hopes and their disappointment, by the tenderness with
which he handled the subject, he could not resist enlarging on the
topic, and talking to me of that family, in which I could never cease to
take the warmest interest. I winced, and yet I listened, for I longed
to know and hear of her even now. I would have lain quietly on the rack
only to be told of her welfare. It _was_ painful too. Perhaps there is
no moment at which the heart feels so empty--at which the hopelessness
of a loss is so completely realised, as when we hear the idol of our
lives talked of in a matter-of-course way, as being totally unconnected
with, and independent of, ourselves.
I remarked that, of his own accord, Ropsley never mentioned Valerie. To
an inquiry of mine as to the welfare of my kind and handsome nurse, he
gave, I thought, rather an abrupt reply; and, turning suddenly round to
Manners, asked him "if there was nothing to be done in the evening in
this stupid place?" To which our gallant Bashi-Bazouk, who considered
himself responsible for our amusement, answered delightedly, "No opera
yet, Ropsley, though we shall have one in six weeks; no evening parties
either, except a few amongst the French inhabitants--delightful people,
you know, and very select. I am invited to-night to a little music, not
far from here. I could take you both, if you like, with _me_. As
friends of mine you would be most welcome. You speak French, Ropsley,
if I remember right?"
"A little," replied the latter, much amused, "but _not_ with _your
accent_;" which, indeed, was true enough; for he had lived a good deal
at Paris, and knew Chantilly as well as Newmarket. "Am I well enough
dressed, though, for your fastidious friends?" he added, glancing, not
without a gleam of inward satisfaction, from his own war-worn,
threadbare uniform, to Manners's brilliant and somewhat startling
costume.
"Couldn't be better!" replied the latter; "looks workmanlike, and all
that. This time next year I only hope mine will be half as good.
Meanwhile, come along, you and Egerton; never mind your cigars, they all
smoke here."
"What! ladies and all, at these _select_ parties?" laughed Ropsley. "I
thought we were going amongst a lot of duchesses: but I hope they don't
drink as well?"
"Custom of the country, my dear sir," replied Manners, gravely--"only
cigarettes, of course. If a young lady offers to roll you one, don't
refuse it. These little things are matters of etiquette, and it is as
well to know beforehand." So, drilling us on the proper behaviour to be
observed at a Pera party, our cicerone swaggered out into the night air,
clanking his spurs, and rattling his sabre, with a degree of jingling
vigour which seemed to afford him unlimited satisfaction. It was rather
good to see Ropsley of the Guards--the man who had the _entree_ to all
the best houses in London, the arbiter of White's, the quoted of
diners-out, the favourite of fine ladies--listening with an air of the
greatest attention to our former usher's lectures on the proper
deportment to be assumed in the company to which he was taking us, and
thanking him with the utmost gravity for his judicious hints and kind
introduction to the _elite_ of Pera society.
"Go home, Bold, go home." The old dog _would_ accompany me out of the
hotel, _would_ persist in following close at my heel along the narrow
street. Not a soul but our three selves seemed to be wandering about
this beautiful starlight night. The Turkish sentry was sound asleep on
his post; a dark figure, probably some houseless _hamaul_, crouched near
the sentry-box. Savage Bold wanted to fly at it as he passed.
"How cantankerous the old dog grows," remarked Ropsley, as Bold stalked
behind us, ears erect, and bristling all over with defiance. Ere we
were fifty yards from the hotel he stopped short and barked loudly; a
footstep was rapidly approaching up the street. Murders and robberies
were at this time so frequent in Constantinople, that every passenger
was an object of mistrust in the dark. We, however, were three strong
men, all armed, and had nothing to fear. Bold, too, seemed to recognise
the step. In another moment the Beloochee overtakes us, and with even a
more imperturbable air than usual salutes me gravely, and whispers a few
words in my ear. On my reply, he places my hand against his forehead,
and says, "The brothers of the sword are brothers indeed. Effendi, you
know Ali Mesrour, the son of Abdul. From henceforth my life is at the
disposal of my Frankish brother."
A hurried consultation between the three Englishmen succeeds. Manners
makes a great virtue of sacrificing sundry waltzes on which he seems to
have set his heart, and is pathetic about the disappointment his absence
will too surely inflict on Josephine, and Philippine, and Seraphine, but
is amazingly keen and full of spirits notwithstanding. Ropsley, no
longer the unimpressionable, apathetic dandy, whom nothing can excite or
amuse, enters with zest into our project, and betrays a depth of
feeling,--nay, a touch of romance--of which I had believed him
incapable. Bold is ordered peremptorily to "go home," and obeys, though
most unwillingly, stopping some twenty paces off, and growling furiously
in the darkness. Two and two we thread the narrow streets that lead
down to the water's edge. The Beloochee is very silent, as is his wont,
but ever and anon draws his shawl tighter round his waist, and loosens
his dagger in its sheath. It is evident that he means _real business_.
Manners and Ropsley chat and laugh like boys out of school. The latter
never seemed half so boyish as now; the former will be a boy all his
life--so much the better for him. At the bridge Ali gives a low shrill
whistle. It reminds me of the night we escaped from the Cossacks in
Wallachia; but the good mare this time is safe in her stable, and little
thinks of the errand on which her master is bound. The whistle is
answered from the water, and a double-oared caique, with its white-robed
watermen, looms through the darkness to take us on board. As we glide
silently up the Bosphorus, listening to the unearthly chorus of the
baying wild-dogs answering each other from Pera to Stamboul, Manners
produces a revolver from his breast-pocket, and passing his finger along
the barrel shining in the starlight, observes, "Four of us, and five
_here_, make nine. If the gate is only unlocked, we can carry the place
by storm."