[*] A character not unlike Urbain Gautier figures in the account of the first or second expedition of Sir John Franklin.CHAPTER XXVIII.Pass we the long, unvarying course, the trackOft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,And each well-known caprice of wave and wind,Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.BYRON.Pleasantly we traversed the almost tideless waters of the Mediterranean, the great inland sea of Europe.We generally had a fair wind; but in our tacks southward and northward more than once we sighted the shores of Europe on one side, and those of Africa on the other.The routine of transport life varied but little, so every passing sail became an object of speculation and interest. Day by day, and frequently night after night, we walked with the same person on the same side of the quarter-deck, turning short round at the taffrail aft, and at the break forward, to resume the same pace, without making a remark, for all our mutual ideas had been interchanged over and over again, and no tie remained, save that of being comrades, weary and worn alike, though each had his own thoughts, the mental orbit in which his soul revolved, and these were, perhaps, three thousand leagues astern.Every probable and possible phase of the war we had dissected and discussed, and the future excitement that was to come we contrasted impatiently with the quiet, inglorious monotony of the present, while the swift clipper cleft the classic waters of the Mediterranean.The monotony on board was once varied by a trivial practical joke played by M'Goldrick, the paymaster, on the colonel and some of the English officers, who had been deriding Scottish cookery. He produced at dinner a valuable preserve, which he had previously had carefully soldered up in a tin case, by the armourer's aid, and which he had compounded with the joint assistance of the ship's cook and my man, Pitblado.It was duly boiled, and produced at table in its tin case as a scarce and rare Parisian decoction—Farina d'avoine au fromage, or some such name; and after being partaken of by Beverley, Studhome, and the rest, was pronounced excellent, though it proved, after all, to be only a very ill-made Scotch haggis.In the Mediterranean we were frequently impressed by the extreme blueness of the water. It seemed to have a purer and deeper tint than we had ever seen it wear even in higher latitudes, especially when the weather was fine, and light scattered clouds were floating through the sky.About a fortnight after passing "old Gib," the outline of Malta and its sister isle, the abode of Calypso, rose from the morning sea on our lee bow; and during the whole of a lovely day our eyes were strained in that direction, watching that rocky shore of so many great and glorious memories—the last stronghold of Christian chivalry—the link between Britain and her Indian empire—our "halfway house" to the Bosphorus—with all its cannon bristling as the mistress of the Mediterranean and Levant.As we drew nearer, our field-glasses enabled us to trace the rocky outline of the greater isle—the hilly range of which is only about a hundred feet higher than the dome of St. Paul's—and the steep, rugged coast to the north-east, beyond which lie thecasals, or villages of the lank, yellow-visaged, black-bearded, and malicious-looking Maltese, concerning whom I do not mean to afflict my reader with either a description or a dissertation.The evening gun flashed redly from the Castle of St. Elmo, and the harbour lights of Valetta were sparkling brightly amid the golden evening haze, as we ran into the harbour, round which a thousand or more pieces of cannon were bristling on battery and platform, and on coming to anchor found that we were only a pistol-shot astern of theGanges, which had on board Wilford's troop of ours, and which had come in two days before us.We were only to wait the refilling of our tank with fresh water, of which, being a horse transport, we required an unusual quantity; and now our poor nags were neighing in concert in the hold, for, as Captain Binnacle termed it, "they smelt the land."No officer or soldier was permitted to go on shore, unless on duty, for already Malta was crowded with troops, so much so that the 93rd Highlanders were actually bivouacking in a burying-ground. But these orders did not prevent us from visiting our comrades in theGanges; so Binnacle sent off his gig, with the colonel, Studhome, Sir Harry Scarlett, and me.We found that all were well on board, and had suffered no casualties, save the loss of four horses by disease. Unlike us, however, they had been favoured by that remarkable illumination known in those waters as St. Elmo's light, which had shone on their main-topgallant mast for a space of three feet below the truck in the night, when they were off the volcanic isle of Pantalaria.My old friend Fred Wilford received us with warmth and welcome. Thus far our voyages had been equally unmarked by danger or adventure.In the cabin we found Berkeley, reading one of the London morning papers, which was only a week or so old. It had come by the steam packet from Marseilles. He addressed a few remarks, in his usual languid way, to the colonel and to Scarlett, made a pencil-mark on his paper, as if half casually, and tossing it on the cabin table, retired, with his strange smile and lounging gait, on deck.Under other circumstances I should most probably have been awaiting him at the hotel of M. Dessin, at Calais, for the purpose of giving him a morning airing on the beach, with the chance of myself being carried back on a shutter, perhaps, to that famous room, in which, as all the travelling world know, Lawrence Sterne and Walter Scott have slept. But fate or duty had arranged it otherwise; so here we were, quietly smoking cheroots in the harbour of Valetta. But his voice and presence recalled all the baseness of his conduct at the Reculvers, and the bitterness of the time when he involved me in disgrace with Louisa Loftus—a double piece of treachery for which I had yet to demand satisfaction.Curious to see the paragraph which had such interest for him, I took up his paper, and my eye fell at once upon the following paragraph:—"THE NEW PEERAGE.—Our readers will be glad to perceive that, by last night'sLondon Gazette, a right honourable lord, long known in the world of fashion, and latterly in political circles, has been raised to a marquisate, by the title of Marquis of Slubber de Gullion and Viscount Gabey of Slubberleigh. Rumour adds that, lest the newly-won honours perish, the noble marquis is about to lead to the altar the only daughter and heiress of one of the greatest of our English families—the fair maid of Kent."I knew well that the closing words could only refer to Louisa Loftus. I had seen her but a few days before this piece of impertinent twaddle had been penned, and the memory of our parting hour, and the expression of her eyes, came vividly before me; but we were far separated now, and it is difficult to describe how deeply the tenor of that paragraph stung me.The drums were beating in barrack and citadel, and the trumpets were sounding tattoo in the transports, as we were rowed back to our vessel. Studhome and the colonel were chatting gaily, and Scarlett was humming a waltz, as he pulled the stroke-oar and thought of past days at Oxford.I alone was silent and sad.From violet and purple, the tints of the later evening—the gloaming, as we call it in Scotland—passed into blue and amber, and the lights of Valetta rose over each other, glittering in tiers along the slope on which the city is built, with all its "streets of stairs," which Byron anathematized.The band of an infantry regiment was playing in Citta Nuova, and softly the strains of the music came across the rippling water, over which the blue and amber tints were swiftly spreading, while in its depths the stars were shining, and all the shipping were reflected downwards.Lights glittered gaily all round the harbour; the ramparts of St. Elmo and of Ricazoli, with the mass of the cathedral, where the knights of the Seven Nations sleep in their marble tombs, and where hung of old the silver keys of Acre, Rhodes, and Jerusalem, stood in bold outline against the ruddy, but deepening, twilight sky.The scene was lovely and stirring withal; but my heart and thoughts were far away from Malta, as we were rowed back between crowded transports, and huge, silent frigates and line-of battle ships, to thePride of the Ocean.My good friend, Jack Studhome, who knew the cause of my too apparent depression, made light of the matter, and endeavoured, in his own fashion, to soothe and console me while we took a whiff together on deck, before turning in for the night."Consider, Norcliff," said he; "Lady Louisa Loftus, sole heiress of Chillingham Park!""Ay, there's the rub, Jack—sole heiress. I would rather that she had not a shilling in the world.""Indeed! Why?""Our chances were more equal then.""Hear me out. Sole heiress of Lord Chillingham—all save his titles! What should, what could, tempt her—already too, in the face of her engagement with you—to throw herself away on old Slubber, who might be her grandfather? Where would be her gain?""The title of marchioness, with vast estates," said I bitterly. "In my case, my dear fellow, she would only be Lady Louisa Loftus, wife of a very poor captain of lancers.""But those newspaper rumours are frequently such impertinent falsehoods. Remember that, if their authors get their columns filled, they care little with what it may be, for a newspaper must contain daily the same amount of words, whether it give news or not. So with messieurs the editors, it is anything for the nonce. Their best productions are in the press to-day, and too often, perhaps, we don't know where to-morrow; so put not your trust in this, Norcliff. And now to bed. We have stable duty at seven, A.M., to-morrow," concluded Studhome.Next morning, Captain Binnacle, who had been on shore at Valetta, brought off with him the mail, which came from LondonviâMarseilles, and by it I received a welcome letter from Sir Nigel.It was long and hurried; but was filled chiefly with hunting intelligence. Had Cora written—and why did she not?—I might have had more interesting tidings.He had bought a couple of hunters from Lord Chillingham but feared they wouldn't do in such a stone-wall county as Fife; and he had secured a new huntsman—such a tip-top fellow! He had hunted all the counties on the Welsh border—could tell the pedigree of a hound at a glance—was perfect in his work, and rode under ten stone. Sir Hubert himself was but a sham when compared to him, and he was sure to figure some day in the columns ofBell's Life.I had full permission to draw for whatever I required; but I scanned the letter in vain for the name of Louisa. Slubber's was spoken of only twice. Indeed, my hearty old uncle viewed that noble peer of the realm with no small contempt."I am still at Chillingham Park, with our kind friends; but I must be home in Scotland for the Lanarkshire steeple-chase on Beltane day. There will be some queer jockeyship in the mounts, I fear. Four miles distance will be the run, including thirteen stone walls, four rough burns, two water leaps, and six-and-twenty most infernal fences. I know the course well—by Gryffwraes and Waterlee. (All this stuff, thought I, and not one word of Louisa!) Old Slubber is to be made a marquis, it seems, so the countess talks nothing but 'peerage'—Douglas and Debrett, Lodge, and Sir Bernard Burke. It is all noble 'shop,' and we poor commoners have not the shadow of a chance!"Slubber is an old humbug; I am as old as he is, perhaps; but I don't wear my hat in the nape of my neck, or use goloshes and an umbrella—never had one in all my life. I don't mount my horse with the aid of a groom, and ride him as if I was afraid he'd take it into his head to run up a tree. I don't take dinner pills and Seltzer water on the sly from the butler; and my stomach, thank God, is not like his—a more delicate piece of machinery than Cora's French watch; for I can take a jolly curler's dinner of salt beef and greens, and can rush my horse at a six-foot wall neck and neck with the lightest lad in your troop."So why he's made a marquis, the devil, and that Scoto-Russian, Lord Aberdeen, on whose policy he always gobbles like a turkey-cock, only know."Sir Nigel's ridicule of Slubber consoled me a little for his omitting the dear name of Louisa. I knew that it was my regard for her that inspired his chief dislike for the lord. But why was the good-hearted baronet so vituperative? Was the senile peer really likely to become a successful lover? Save by the side of his mistress, a lover is never content.CHAPTER XXIX.We pass the scattered isles of Cyclades,That, scarce distinguished seemed to stud the seas.The shouts of sailors double near the shores,They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.Full on the promised land at length we bore,With joy descending on the Cretan shore.DRYDEN.—Translation of Æn.iii.We were favoured by Æolus. One might have supposed that Captain Robert Binnacle had succeeded to the bag of wind which that airy monarch gave to the wise and gentle king of Ithaca. Thus a few days more saw our transport amid the Isles of Greece as she bore through the Archipelago.One day it was Milo, with Elijah's lofty peak, its smoky spring, and hollow, sea-soaked rocks, that rose upon our lee; the next it was Siphanto's marble shore, where ireful Apollo flooded the golden mines; rugged Chios—in pagan times the land of purity, in later days the land of slaughter; then Mytilene, the most fertile of all the Ægean Isles, where "burning Sappho loved and sung," and where Terpander strung the lyre anew. Now it was Lemnos, where Vulcan fell from heaven, and where his forges blazed; and the next tack brought us to Tenedos, whose name has never changed since Priam reigned in Troy—all names that recalled alike our schoolboy labours, and the departed glories of the Grecian name.Off Tenedos theHimalayasteamed past us, with two thousand two hundred souls in her capacious womb. Soon after we entered the Hellespont, between the famous castles of the Dardanelles, where Sestos and Abydos stood of old, and the cannon of Kelidbahar (the lock of the sea) on the European side saluted us, while the Turkish sentinels yelled and brandished their muskets; and amid the haze of a summer evening we saw the harbour lights of Gallipoli rise twinkling from the waters of the strait; and when the anchor was let go, the courses were hauled up, and the transport swung at her moorings, we knew that we were hard by the shores of Thrace."And where the blazes is this same Seblastherpoll?" asked Lanty O'Regan, my Irish groom, who was taking a survey of the waters where Leander took his nightly bath."That place we sha'n't see, Lanty, for many a long and weary day," said his Scotch companion, Pitblado, with more foresight than some of us then possessed.Few of us slept that night, and all were busy with preparations for landing; for, with all its varieties, we were weary of the voyage, the confinement of the transport, impatient for shore and for action. So vague were the ideas our soldiers had of distance and locality, that most of them expected to find themselves face to face with the Russians at once.Beverley and Studhome prepared their "disembarkation returns" for the information of the adjutant-general; and these were so elaborate that one might have supposed the worthy man's peace of mind depended entirely on their literary productions. The whole troop had their traps packed, and were ready to start with the first boat, when the order came to land; and almost with dawn next morning an aide-de-camp, sent by Lieutenant-General the Earl of Lucan, commanding the cavalry division, arrived with orders for our immediate disembarkation, as we were to be posted in the Light Brigade, which already consisted of the 8th and 11th Hussars, and the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons.The news spread through the ship like wildfire, and the cheer which rose above and below almost drowned the welcome notes of the warning trumpet, as it blew "boot and saddle"—a sound we had not heard since the day we marched from Maidstone."Gentlemen, welcome to Gallipoli!" said the staff officer, as he clattered into the cabin, with his steel scabbard and spurs, and proceeded forthwith to regale himself with a long glass of Seltzer, dashed with brandy, for the morning breeze was chilly as it swept across the Hellespont."It's a queer-looking place, this Gallipoli," said Beverley."And a queer-looking place you'll find it, colonel," added the aide-de-camp, as we gathered round him. "You will be more given to airing your clothes than your classics, and won't be much enchanted with your quarters in Roumania. In lack of space and cleanliness, and in the liberal allowance of gnats and fleas, they are all up to Turkish regulation.""Any society here?" asked Jocelyn, with his little affected lisp, as he caressed his incipient moustache.The aide burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and then replied—"Plenty, and of the most varied and original character.""And how about the ladies?""Is it true that the Turks still regulate their establishments of womenkind according to the Koran?" asked the paymaster, with a grin on his long, thin Scotch face."Upon the system of the 4th Veteran Battalion rather," replied the aide-de-camp."Ah, and that——""Gave a wife to every private, and three to the adjutant.""Good Lord deliver us!" exclaimed Studhome, as he doubled his dose of cognac and Seltzer."Is it a good country for hunting hereabouts?" asked Sir Harry Scarlett."Can't say much for that," replied our visitor, shrugging his shoulders. "Besides, the Earl of Lucan will probably cut out other work for you than riding across country; but for sportsmen there are plenty of hares, partridges, and wild duck to keep one's hand in till we see the Russians, which I hope will not be long, for we are already all bored and sick to death of Gallipoli.""How long have you been here?" asked Beverley."A month, colonel. Another troop has just been signalled off the mouth of the Dardanelles.""TheGanges, with more of ours, perhaps."Likely enough; but they come in here every hour.""Any word yet of moving to the front—of taking the field?" asked Beverley."No, nothing seems decided on yet. There are a thousand idle rumours; but we are all in the dark as to the future—French and British alike.""A deuced bore!" exclaimed two or three together."Ah, you'll find it when you have been a month or so under canvas at Gallipoli. And now, Colonel Beverley, I need not suggest to so experienced a cavalry officer how the horses are to be got on shore, but for the time shall take my leave. Some of the cavalry divisional staff have established a kind of clubhouse in a deserted khan, opposite the old palace of the Bashaw, or Capudan Pacha, where we shall be glad to see you, till we can make other arrangements; and so adieu. Should you look us up, ask for Captain Bolton, of the 1st Dragoon Guards."In another minute the officer—a purpose-like fellow, in a well-worn blue surtout, his steel scabbard and spurs already rusted—was down the ship's side, and being rowed ashore by eight marines in a man-of-war boat.We experienced some difficulties in getting our horses slung up and landed, as, to plunge them into the sea, after being so long in the close and confined atmosphere of the hold, was not advisable; and after they were all disembarked (with the assistance of some merry and singing Zouaves of the 2nd Regiment, while a horde of lazy Turks of the Hadjee Mehmet's corps looked idly on), we had to give them a cooling regimen and gentle exercise, as the best means of restoring them to their wonted vigour, and preparing them for the strife and service that were to come. The vessel that was reported as being in sight, proved really to be theGanges. We were at last on foreign soil, and Studhome, by a word and a glance, reminded me that he had not forgotten what was to take place between me and Berkeley; but immediately after landing, that personage was reported on the doctor's list, so we had to let the matter lie over for a time. Troop after troop of ours arrived; and gradually Colonel Beverley had again the whole regiment under his kindly and skilful command.Studhome and I, who had frequently chummed together, when in India, had the good luck to be quartered in the quiet and snug house of Demetrius Steriopoli, the well-known and industrious miller, at a short distance from the town. Eighteen thousand British troops were now in Gallipoli, which, from being a quiet little den of Oriental dirt and Oriental indolence, Moslem filth and fatuity, became instinct with European life and bustle, by the presence of the soldiers of the allied armies. Those who landed with no other ideas of the Orient than such as were inspired by the "Arabian Nights," and Byron's poetry, were somewhat disappointed on beholding the dingy rows of queer and quaint wooden, rickety and dilapidated booths which composed the streets of this ancient Greek episcopal city of Gallipoli.Narrow, dirty, and tortuous, they were scattered without order on the slope of a round stony hill; the thoroughfares were made of large round pebbles, from which the foot slipped ever and anon into the mud, or those stagnant pools whence the hordes of lean and houseless dogs—houseless, because declared unclean by the Prophet—slaked their thirst in the sunshine. Over these brown, discoloured hovels rose the tall white minarets of a few crumbling mosques, with cone-shaped roofs and open galleries, where the muezzin's shrill voice summons the faithful to prayer. A leaden-covered dome of the great bazaar, and the old square fortress of Badjazet I., with a number of windmills on every available eminence, were the most prominent features of the view, which could never have been enchanting, even in its most palmy days—even when the vaults of Justinian were teeming with wine and oil; for the Emperor John Palæologus consoled himself for the capture of Gallipoli by the Turks with saying, "I have only lost a jar of wine and a nasty sty for hogs."But now its muddy streets of hovels were swarming with redcoats: the Scottish bagpipe, the long Zouave trumpet, and the British bugle-horn, rang there for parade and drill at every hour—even those when the followers of the Prophet bent their swarthy foreheads on the mosaic pavement of their mosques; and daily we, the light troops of the cavalry division, were exercised by squadrons, regiments, and brigades, near those green and grassy tumuli which lie on the southern side of the city, and cover the remains of the ancient kings of Thrace. Now the waters of the Hellespont were literally alive with war vessels and transports, belonging to all the allied powers. They were of every size, under sail or steam; and amid them, with white pinions outspread, the swift Greek polaccas sped up or down the strait, which always presented a lively and stirring scene, with the hills of Asia Minor, toned down by distance, seeming faint and blue, and far away. Parade over, it often amused me to watch the varied groups which gathered about the doors of the bazaar, the wine and coffee-houses. There were the grave Armenian of Turcomania, with his black fur cap, and long, flowing robe; the black-eyed Greek, in scarlet tarboosh and ample blue breeches; the dirty, hawk-visaged Jew, attired like a stage Shylock, waiting for his pound of flesh; the kilted Highlander, in the "garb of old Gaul;" the smart Irish rifleman; the well-fed English guardsman,blasé, sleek, and fresh from London; the half savage-like Zouave, in his short bluejacket and scarlet knickerbockers; the bronzed Chasseur d'Afrique; the rollicking British man-o'-war's man, in his guernsey shirt and wide blue collar; the half-naked Nubian slave; the pretty French vivandière, in her short skirt and clocked stockings, looking like Jenny Lind in "The Daughter of the Regiment," only twice as piquante and saucy; even a Sister of Charity, sombre, pale, and placid, would appear at times, crossing herself as she passed a howling dervish, when seeking milk or wine for the sick; and amid all these varied costumes and nationalities were to be seen such heedless fellows as young Rakeleigh, Jocelyn, Scarlett, Wilford, and Berkeley, of ours, in wideawake hats, all-round collars, with Tweed shooting suits and flyaway whiskers, hands in pockets, and cheroot in mouth, as they quizzed and "chaffed" the great solemn Turk of the old school, with his vast green turban and silver beard, which steel had never profaned, or drank pale ale with his son of the new school, in the military fez and frogged surtout, with varnished boots and shaven chin, who, in his double capacity of a true believer and a mulazim (or subaltern of Hadjee Mehmet's regiment), deemed himself at full liberty to use his whip without mercy among the camel-drivers and lazy galiondjis (or boatmen), eliciting shrieks, yells, and curses, which Berkeley, in his languid drawl, considered to be "aw—doocid good fun."Many of those smart youths of ours, and other fast Oxford men, had their constitutional and national conceit somewhat taken out of them before the war was ended."There is nothing more disgusting," says a distinguished writer, with pardonable severity, "or more intolerable, than a young Englishman sallying forth into the world, full of his own ignorance and John-Bullism, judging of mankind by his own petty, provincial, and narrow notions of fitness and propriety—a mighty observer of effects and disregarder of causes, and traversing continent and ocean, at once blinded and shackled by the bigotry and prejudices of a limited and imbecile intellect."Much of this was the secret spring of our Indian mutiny, and is the cause that we are hated and shunned on the Continent. There are, of course, exceptions, for in the East I have seen local prejudices so far respected that we formed an escort when the British colours of the Sepoy infantry were marched into theGanges, to consecrate them in the eyes of the Bengalese—the same pampered ruffians who slaughtered our women and children at Cawnpore and Delhi.We looked in vain for pretty women, and the reader may be assured that some of our researches were of the most elaborate description. Not a trace of the boasted Grecian beauty was to be found in those oddly-dressed females, whose costume seemed a mere oval bale of clothing (the feridjee), surmounted by a white linen veil, and ending in boots of yellow leather, as they flitted like fat ghosts about the public wells, or the gates of the great bazaar. All were, indeed, plain even to ugliness, save in one instance—pretty little Magdhalini, the daughter of the miller, Steriopoli. I remember a charming vivandière, who belonged to the 2nd Zouaves, for I saw her frequently under circumstances that could never be forgotten—in fact, under fire, at the head of the regiment. She was a smart little Parisienne, possessed of great beauty, with eyes that sparkled like the diamonds in her ears. She wore a pretty blue Zouave jacket, braided with red, over a pretty chemisette, and had her black hair smoothly braided under a scarlet kepi, which bore the regimental number. The first time I saw Sophie she was simply maintaining a flirtation with one of the corps, to whom she gave a mouthful of brandy from her barrel, as he stood on sentry under my window, and their banter rather interfered with the composition of a letter which I was writing to my cousin Cora."Ah, Mademoiselle Sophie," said the Zouave, in his most dulcet tone, "you—mon Dieu—you look so lovely that——""That what—what—Jules?""Well, so lovely this morning that I am quite afraid——""To kiss me—is it not so, Monsieur Jolicoeur?""Yes.""Très bien. Take courage,mon camarade.""Mademoiselle Sophie, you quiz me!""A Zouave, and afraid," exclaimed the vivandière; and then followed a little sound there was no mistaking."You are indeed beautiful, Sophie. There is not a vivandière in the whole French army like you.""Yet I may die an old maid," said she demurely."May?""Yes, Jules.""Then it will be your own fault,ma belle coquette, and not the fault of others.""Parbleu! I sha'n't marry a Zouave, at all events.""Don't speak so cruelly, Sophie. When I look on your charming face, I always think of glorious Paris. Paris! Ah,mon Dieu!shall we ever see it again?""Why did you leave it, Jules, and your studies at the Ecole de Médecin, to fight and starve here?""Why?" exclaimed the student."Yes,mon ami.""The old girl at the wheel, Madame Fortune, proved false to me. I lost my last money, fifty Napoleons, at the rouge-et-noir table in the Palais Royal. I was ruined, Sophie; and as I had no wish to jump into the Seine, and then to figure next morning on the leaden tables of the Morgue, like a salmon at the fishmonger's, I joined the 2nd Zouaves in the snapping of a flint, and so—am here.""You will return with your epaulettes and the cross, Jules.""I don't think so. Kiss me, at all events,ma belle.""Well, camarade, if it will console you——"Here I tried to close the window, on which Jules "carried arms," and looked very unconscious; while the pretty vivandière gave me a military salute, and tripped laughingly away, singing—Vivandière du régiment,C'est Catin qu'on me nomme, &c.Daily more troops arrived from Britain and France; daily the camps extended in size, and, notwithstanding the season, we suffered much from cold, while, so bad were the commissariat arrangements, that, in some instances, officers and soldiers were alike without beds or bedding, few having more than a single blanket; so, for warmth, they reversed the usual order, by dressing in all their spare clothes to go to bed.Gallipoli became so crowded at last that some of the troops were despatched towards Constantinople and Scutari. There the Highland regiments, beyond all others, excited astonishment and admiration, not unmixed with fear, their costume seemed so remarkable to Oriental eyes; and many may yet remember the anecdote current in camp concerning them.An old Turkish pasha, who had brought the ladies of his harem in acaïque, closely veiled in theiryashmacs, to see our troops land, was intensely horrified by the bare brawny legs of the 93rd foot; but after surveying them, he said, with a sigh, to an English officer—"Ah! if the Sultan had such fine soldiers as these, we should not need your aid against the Russians.""Well,effendi," observed the Englishman, who was quizzing, "would it not be advisable to propagate the species in this country?""Inshallah!(please God!) it will be done, whether we advise it or not," said the old Turk, sighing again, as he ordered his boatload ofOdalisquesto shove off for Istamboul with all despatch.Amid the novelty of our new life at Gallipoli, a week or two passed rapidly away, ere rumours were heard of our probable advance to Varna; but, as I do not mean to repeat the well-known details of so recent a war, rather confining myself to my own adventures, and those of my regiment, I shall close this chapter by relating an episode which will serve to illustrate the brutal and lawless character of the Turk, and the slavery to which ages of conquest and degradation have reduced the wretched Greek. I have said that Jack Studhome and I were quartered in the house of a Greek miller, named Demetrius Steriopoli. His chief worldly possessions were a melon-garden, and two ricketty old windmills, which whirled their brown and tattered sails on the breezes that came from the Hellespont. In the basement of these edifices, and in the walls of his dwelling-house, were—and I have no doubt still are—built many exquisitely-carved fragments of some old Grecian temple; for there triglyphs, sculptured metopæ, the honeysuckle, and so forth, with portions of statues, all of white marble, were used pell mell among the rough rubble masonry.These edifices—to wit, the house and mills—stood on an eminence a little way beyond the ruins of the old wall of Gallipoli, on the side of the road that leads across the isthmus towards the Gulf of Saros.His dwelling was picturesque, and that which is better, it was clean and airy; thus, while Beverley and others of ours were nightly devoured by gnats and other entomological torments, we slept each in a separate kiosk, or bedroom, as comfortably as if quartered in the best hotel of Dover or Southampton—so much for the housewifery of the little Magdhalini. Steriopoli was by birth a Cypriote Greek—a handsome and fine-looking man, about eight-and-thirty, and when armed with sabre, pistol, and yataghan, had rather more the aspect of a marauder than a peaceful miller, especially as his attire usually consisted of a scarlet fez, a large loose jacket of green cloth, a silk sash round his waist, a capacious pair of blue breeches, his legs being further encased in sheepskin hose, and his feet in sandals of hide. When the merciless Turkish troops massacred twenty-five thousand persons in Cyprus, destroying seventy-four once happy and industrious villages, with all their monasteries and churches, seizing the young women as slaves, and casting the male children into the sea, it was his fate, when disposed of in the latter fashion, to be picked up by the boat's crew of a British man-of-war. Torn from the arms of his shrieking mother, he had been tossed into the harbour of Larneca, which was filled with the corpses of poor little infants. On board the British ship he had been kept for a time as a species of pet among the sailors. Hence his regard for us was great; and his open trust in us was only equalled by his secret abhorrence of the Turks. He was a widower, and his family consisted only of his daughter and a few servants, male and female—the latter being his assistants at the mills.After the plain-looking women of Gallipoli, the beauty of the little Greek maid, Magdhalini, proved an agreeable surprise for us; and within doors she always laid aside the hideousyashmacwhich concealed her features when abroad. She was not much over fifteen, but already fully developed; she was lively in manner, and graceful in deportment; and her picturesque costume—a crimson jacket, with short, wide sleeves, open at the throat, and embroidered at the bosom, her skirt of various colours, and her hair ornamented with gold coins, all added to the piquancy of her beauty. Her features were remarkably regular; her forehead low and broad; her rich, thick hair was of a bright auburn hue; but her eyes were of the deepest black. In the latter, when contrasted with the pale purity of her complexion, the form of their delicate lids and curled lashes, I saw—or fancied so—a resemblance to Louisa, which gave the girl a deeper interest to me; and her appearance frequently recalled to me Byron's description of Haidee:—"Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyesWere black as death; their lashes the same hue,Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow liesDeepest attraction; for when to the viewForth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.* * * * *Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dyeLike twilight rosy still with the set sun;Short upper lips—sweet lips! that make us sighEver to have seen such."In stature she was a foot less than Louisa Loftus; but her form, her delicate hands, small feet, and rounded arms, might have served as models for the best sculptors of the old Greek days. On one occasion I showed her Louisa's miniature, and she clapped her hands, and begged permission to kiss it, like a child, as she was in some respects. She was very curious to know why Studhome and I did not wear crucifixes or holy medals, like all the Christians she knew—even the Russians; and when I told her that such was not the custom in my country, she shook her head sadly, and expressed sorrow for its somewhat benighted condition.I found a smattering of Italian which I possessed most useful to me now, for, next to the language of the country, it proves the most available in Greece or Turkey. Thedivan hanée, or principal apartment of the house (from which the doors of all the kiosks and other chambers open), was handsome, lofty, and airy. Its lower end was lined by a screen of trellised woodwork, containing arched recesses, or cupboards for vases of sherbet, cool water, or fresh flowers. In the central recess a miniature fountain spouted from a white marble basin, and a landscape was painted on the wall beyond. Curtains covered each of the doorways, and round the room—on three sides, at least—was a long sofa, or cushioned divan, the height of the window-sills, in the Turkish fashion; but, as Steriopoli was a Greek, his dwelling had more European appurtenances, such as a dining-table and chairs; and on its walls were various coloured prints of Greek saints and bishops, while above the door of each sleeping kiosk hung a crucifix of carved wood. In the divan we took our meals, and there, greatly to our host's annoyance, we were joined at times by the Colonel Hadjee Mehmet, who commanded a battalion of the Turkish line at Gallipoli—an individual with whom Studhome had become acquainted through some transaction about the purchase of horses for some of our dismounted men, an affair in which, though worthy Jack would never admit it, this hook-nosed and keen-eyed follower of the Prophet jockeyed him and Farrier-sergeant Snaffles as completely as any groom might have done at Epsom or the Curragh. Now Demetrius Steriopoli, though he seemed not to care whether Studhome or I, or any of our brother officers who visited us, saw his daughter, manifested great uneasiness and irritation when she caught the wicked and licentious eyes of the Hadjee Mehmet, whose character he knew, whose power he dreaded, and whose nation and religion he detested; and thus she had standing orders to seclude herself whenever he came, which was pretty often now, to smoke his chibouque and drink brandy and water in secret, though the Prophet only forbade wine. He was a fat, bloated, and wicked-looking man, past fifty years of age. He wore a blue frogged surtout, scarlet trousers, and a scarlet fez, with the broad, flat, military button. He wore also a crooked Damascus sabre and beard, in virtue of his rank, as straight swords and shaven chins indicate the subaltern grades of the Turkish army, whose officers are the most contemptible in Europe. In boyhood they are generally the pipe-bearers or carpet-spreaders of the pashas. In this instance the Hadjee Mehmet (so named because he had performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, and kissed the Holy Kaaba) had begun life as a tiruaktzy, or nail-bearer, in the household of Chosrew Mehmet Pasha, who was the seraskier, or generalissimo of the forces, and who was supposed to be the gallant Hadjee's father, though that honour was usually assigned to a Janizary who escaped the massacre of that celebrated force by concealing himself; and by Chosrew he was speedily advanced to the rank of mire-alai, or colonel of infantry.He was very careful always to style us "effendi," such being the prefix for all who are deemed educated; and, as he sat cross-legged on the divan, with his paunch protruding before him, his ample and well-dyed beard half hiding the frogged lace of his surtout, the amber mouthpiece of his long chibouque between his thick lips, with his little scarlet fez, and sleepy, half-leering black eyes, he seemed the very beau-ideal of a used-up and sensual Osmanlee."Ev-Allah!" (praise God!) he said, on one occasion, "I have now seen all the world.""Indeed, colonel, I knew not that you had travelled," said I."Yes, and I would not give a grush (piastre) to see it again.""All, do you say?" queried I."Yes; Mecca, Medina, Bassora, Damascus, Cairo, and Iskandrich—there is no more to see; and of all the women I have ever beheld," he added, with one of his wicked little leers, "who can equal the Cockonas of Bucharest? Not even the golden-haired Tcherkesses.""And what think you of the Greeks, colonel?" asked Studhome, rather in a blundering manner, for Steriopoli's brows knit unpleasantly."Backallum" (we shall see), was his reply, as he gave a stealthy glance at Magdhalini, who was superintending the tandour, the substitute for a fireplace, consisting of a wooden frame, in which there is placed a copper vessel, full of charcoal, the whole being covered by a wadded coverlet, and closely reminding one of the brasseros of the Spaniards. Swift though the glance, it was not unseen by Steriopoli, whom the ominous remark which accompanied it sufficiently alarmed, and, with unwonted abruptness of manner, he requested his daughter to retire and assume her veil.On the following day it chanced that he had to visit Alexi (which is about twenty miles distant from Gallipoli), as he had some flour to dispose of, and would be absent all night. Whether our Turkish visitor was aware of this circumstance I cannot say, but in the forenoon I came suddenly upon him and Magdhalini, whom he had surprised or waylaid in the pathway near the windmills. He grasped one of her hands, and she was struggling to release herself. I had my sword under my arm, but as a fracas with a Turkish officer was by no means desirable, I lingered for a moment before interfering."Girl," I heard him say, with a dark scowl, while he grasped her slender wrist, "for the third time I tell thee not to bite the finger that puts honey into thy mouth.""Nonsense, Hadjee; let me go, I say," replied Magdhalini, laughing, though she was partly frightened."I should like to make my home in thy heart, Magdhalini, even as the bulbul buildeth her nest in the rose-tree," panted the fat Hadjee."Oh, thou owl, thou crow of bad omen!" exclaimed the lively Greek girl, as she wrenched her hand free, and, darting a bright and merry glance at her enraged and perspiring admirer, drew her yashmac close, and sprang away, blushing because I had witnessed the scene.That night Studhome and I had been supping with Beverley at his quarters near the palace of the Capudan Pasha, and were returning late to the house of Steriopoli. The sky was clear and starry; thus we could see distinctly several Turkish soldiers loitering about near the house and windmills, and though the hour was an unusual one for them to be absent, that we deemed no concern of ours, and on entering we retired to our kiosks, or rooms, and were both soon sound asleep—so sound that we failed to hear a loud knocking shortly after at the front door. Magdhalini and two female servants promptly responded to the unusual summons, but declined to open without further inquiry, on which the door was beaten in by a large hammer, and a chiaoush, or sergeant, and several soldiers, all in Turkish uniform, seized Magdhalini, bound, gagged, and carried her off, despite her cries and resistance. Roused by the sudden noise, and suspecting we knew not what, Studhome and I dragged on our trousers, and came forth both at the same moment, each with drawn sword and cocked revolver; but before lights were procured, and ere the terrified servants could make us understand the real state of affairs, and the catastrophe which had taken place, our pretty Greek hostess was gone beyond recovery.I shall willingly hurry over all that followed in this strange episode of social life in the East.Poor Steriopoli came back next day to a desolate house—a degraded and broken home! He was full of rage and despair, for his daughter was the pride, the idol of his heart; and suspecting justly the Hadjee Mehmet, he discovered that this celebrated warrior had gone to Alexi, the very town from which he, Steriopoli, had returned.There he traced his daughter, only to find that she had been most cruelly and shamefully treated. She was lodged in the house of the cole-agassi, or major of Mehmet's regiment—a wretch who had originally been a channator aga, or chief of the black eunuchs; and on the pretext that she had renounced Christianity and embraced Islamism, he refused to give her up. In compliance with the wish of her sorrowing father, and the indignant old Bishop of Gallipoli, she was brought before the vaivode of the district. She appeared the wreck of her former self, and, though not present, I afterwards heard that a most affecting scene took place.On beholding Steriopoli, whose once coal-black hair was now thickly seamed with grey, she broke away from the Turkish slaves who held her, and cast herself into his arms, in a passion of grief, exclaiming—"My father! oh, my father! after what has taken place, I am no longer worthy to be in your house, or to pray at my mother's grave. We can no longer be anything to each other.""Oh, Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)!" groaned the unfortunate Greek.Despite her solemn protests that she was still a Christian, the vaivode would not yield her to her father; but opening the Koran, closed the case by reading a passage from the sixteenth chapter thereof—a passage revealed to the Prophet at Medina:—"O Prophet! when unbelieving women come unto thee, and plight their faith unto thee, that they will not associate anything with God, nor steal, nor commit sin, nor kill their children, nor come with a calumny which they have forged between their hands and feet, nor be disobedient to thee in that which shall be reasonable: then do plight thy faith unto them, and ask pardon for them, of One who is inclined to forgive and be merciful. O true believers! enter not into friendship with a people against whom God is incensed; they despair of pardon and the life to come, even as infidels despair of the resurrection of those who dwell in the grave.""La-Allah-illah-Allah-Mohammed resoul Allah!"[*] shouted the people.
[*] A character not unlike Urbain Gautier figures in the account of the first or second expedition of Sir John Franklin.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the trackOft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,And each well-known caprice of wave and wind,Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.BYRON.
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the trackOft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,And each well-known caprice of wave and wind,Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.BYRON.
Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind;
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack,
And each well-known caprice of wave and wind,
Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel;
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind,
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell,
Till on some jocund morn—lo, land! and all is well.
BYRON.
BYRON.
Pleasantly we traversed the almost tideless waters of the Mediterranean, the great inland sea of Europe.
We generally had a fair wind; but in our tacks southward and northward more than once we sighted the shores of Europe on one side, and those of Africa on the other.
The routine of transport life varied but little, so every passing sail became an object of speculation and interest. Day by day, and frequently night after night, we walked with the same person on the same side of the quarter-deck, turning short round at the taffrail aft, and at the break forward, to resume the same pace, without making a remark, for all our mutual ideas had been interchanged over and over again, and no tie remained, save that of being comrades, weary and worn alike, though each had his own thoughts, the mental orbit in which his soul revolved, and these were, perhaps, three thousand leagues astern.
Every probable and possible phase of the war we had dissected and discussed, and the future excitement that was to come we contrasted impatiently with the quiet, inglorious monotony of the present, while the swift clipper cleft the classic waters of the Mediterranean.
The monotony on board was once varied by a trivial practical joke played by M'Goldrick, the paymaster, on the colonel and some of the English officers, who had been deriding Scottish cookery. He produced at dinner a valuable preserve, which he had previously had carefully soldered up in a tin case, by the armourer's aid, and which he had compounded with the joint assistance of the ship's cook and my man, Pitblado.
It was duly boiled, and produced at table in its tin case as a scarce and rare Parisian decoction—Farina d'avoine au fromage, or some such name; and after being partaken of by Beverley, Studhome, and the rest, was pronounced excellent, though it proved, after all, to be only a very ill-made Scotch haggis.
In the Mediterranean we were frequently impressed by the extreme blueness of the water. It seemed to have a purer and deeper tint than we had ever seen it wear even in higher latitudes, especially when the weather was fine, and light scattered clouds were floating through the sky.
About a fortnight after passing "old Gib," the outline of Malta and its sister isle, the abode of Calypso, rose from the morning sea on our lee bow; and during the whole of a lovely day our eyes were strained in that direction, watching that rocky shore of so many great and glorious memories—the last stronghold of Christian chivalry—the link between Britain and her Indian empire—our "halfway house" to the Bosphorus—with all its cannon bristling as the mistress of the Mediterranean and Levant.
As we drew nearer, our field-glasses enabled us to trace the rocky outline of the greater isle—the hilly range of which is only about a hundred feet higher than the dome of St. Paul's—and the steep, rugged coast to the north-east, beyond which lie thecasals, or villages of the lank, yellow-visaged, black-bearded, and malicious-looking Maltese, concerning whom I do not mean to afflict my reader with either a description or a dissertation.
The evening gun flashed redly from the Castle of St. Elmo, and the harbour lights of Valetta were sparkling brightly amid the golden evening haze, as we ran into the harbour, round which a thousand or more pieces of cannon were bristling on battery and platform, and on coming to anchor found that we were only a pistol-shot astern of theGanges, which had on board Wilford's troop of ours, and which had come in two days before us.
We were only to wait the refilling of our tank with fresh water, of which, being a horse transport, we required an unusual quantity; and now our poor nags were neighing in concert in the hold, for, as Captain Binnacle termed it, "they smelt the land."
No officer or soldier was permitted to go on shore, unless on duty, for already Malta was crowded with troops, so much so that the 93rd Highlanders were actually bivouacking in a burying-ground. But these orders did not prevent us from visiting our comrades in theGanges; so Binnacle sent off his gig, with the colonel, Studhome, Sir Harry Scarlett, and me.
We found that all were well on board, and had suffered no casualties, save the loss of four horses by disease. Unlike us, however, they had been favoured by that remarkable illumination known in those waters as St. Elmo's light, which had shone on their main-topgallant mast for a space of three feet below the truck in the night, when they were off the volcanic isle of Pantalaria.
My old friend Fred Wilford received us with warmth and welcome. Thus far our voyages had been equally unmarked by danger or adventure.
In the cabin we found Berkeley, reading one of the London morning papers, which was only a week or so old. It had come by the steam packet from Marseilles. He addressed a few remarks, in his usual languid way, to the colonel and to Scarlett, made a pencil-mark on his paper, as if half casually, and tossing it on the cabin table, retired, with his strange smile and lounging gait, on deck.
Under other circumstances I should most probably have been awaiting him at the hotel of M. Dessin, at Calais, for the purpose of giving him a morning airing on the beach, with the chance of myself being carried back on a shutter, perhaps, to that famous room, in which, as all the travelling world know, Lawrence Sterne and Walter Scott have slept. But fate or duty had arranged it otherwise; so here we were, quietly smoking cheroots in the harbour of Valetta. But his voice and presence recalled all the baseness of his conduct at the Reculvers, and the bitterness of the time when he involved me in disgrace with Louisa Loftus—a double piece of treachery for which I had yet to demand satisfaction.
Curious to see the paragraph which had such interest for him, I took up his paper, and my eye fell at once upon the following paragraph:—
"THE NEW PEERAGE.—Our readers will be glad to perceive that, by last night'sLondon Gazette, a right honourable lord, long known in the world of fashion, and latterly in political circles, has been raised to a marquisate, by the title of Marquis of Slubber de Gullion and Viscount Gabey of Slubberleigh. Rumour adds that, lest the newly-won honours perish, the noble marquis is about to lead to the altar the only daughter and heiress of one of the greatest of our English families—the fair maid of Kent."
I knew well that the closing words could only refer to Louisa Loftus. I had seen her but a few days before this piece of impertinent twaddle had been penned, and the memory of our parting hour, and the expression of her eyes, came vividly before me; but we were far separated now, and it is difficult to describe how deeply the tenor of that paragraph stung me.
The drums were beating in barrack and citadel, and the trumpets were sounding tattoo in the transports, as we were rowed back to our vessel. Studhome and the colonel were chatting gaily, and Scarlett was humming a waltz, as he pulled the stroke-oar and thought of past days at Oxford.
I alone was silent and sad.
From violet and purple, the tints of the later evening—the gloaming, as we call it in Scotland—passed into blue and amber, and the lights of Valetta rose over each other, glittering in tiers along the slope on which the city is built, with all its "streets of stairs," which Byron anathematized.
The band of an infantry regiment was playing in Citta Nuova, and softly the strains of the music came across the rippling water, over which the blue and amber tints were swiftly spreading, while in its depths the stars were shining, and all the shipping were reflected downwards.
Lights glittered gaily all round the harbour; the ramparts of St. Elmo and of Ricazoli, with the mass of the cathedral, where the knights of the Seven Nations sleep in their marble tombs, and where hung of old the silver keys of Acre, Rhodes, and Jerusalem, stood in bold outline against the ruddy, but deepening, twilight sky.
The scene was lovely and stirring withal; but my heart and thoughts were far away from Malta, as we were rowed back between crowded transports, and huge, silent frigates and line-of battle ships, to thePride of the Ocean.
My good friend, Jack Studhome, who knew the cause of my too apparent depression, made light of the matter, and endeavoured, in his own fashion, to soothe and console me while we took a whiff together on deck, before turning in for the night.
"Consider, Norcliff," said he; "Lady Louisa Loftus, sole heiress of Chillingham Park!"
"Ay, there's the rub, Jack—sole heiress. I would rather that she had not a shilling in the world."
"Indeed! Why?"
"Our chances were more equal then."
"Hear me out. Sole heiress of Lord Chillingham—all save his titles! What should, what could, tempt her—already too, in the face of her engagement with you—to throw herself away on old Slubber, who might be her grandfather? Where would be her gain?"
"The title of marchioness, with vast estates," said I bitterly. "In my case, my dear fellow, she would only be Lady Louisa Loftus, wife of a very poor captain of lancers."
"But those newspaper rumours are frequently such impertinent falsehoods. Remember that, if their authors get their columns filled, they care little with what it may be, for a newspaper must contain daily the same amount of words, whether it give news or not. So with messieurs the editors, it is anything for the nonce. Their best productions are in the press to-day, and too often, perhaps, we don't know where to-morrow; so put not your trust in this, Norcliff. And now to bed. We have stable duty at seven, A.M., to-morrow," concluded Studhome.
Next morning, Captain Binnacle, who had been on shore at Valetta, brought off with him the mail, which came from LondonviâMarseilles, and by it I received a welcome letter from Sir Nigel.
It was long and hurried; but was filled chiefly with hunting intelligence. Had Cora written—and why did she not?—I might have had more interesting tidings.
He had bought a couple of hunters from Lord Chillingham but feared they wouldn't do in such a stone-wall county as Fife; and he had secured a new huntsman—such a tip-top fellow! He had hunted all the counties on the Welsh border—could tell the pedigree of a hound at a glance—was perfect in his work, and rode under ten stone. Sir Hubert himself was but a sham when compared to him, and he was sure to figure some day in the columns ofBell's Life.
I had full permission to draw for whatever I required; but I scanned the letter in vain for the name of Louisa. Slubber's was spoken of only twice. Indeed, my hearty old uncle viewed that noble peer of the realm with no small contempt.
"I am still at Chillingham Park, with our kind friends; but I must be home in Scotland for the Lanarkshire steeple-chase on Beltane day. There will be some queer jockeyship in the mounts, I fear. Four miles distance will be the run, including thirteen stone walls, four rough burns, two water leaps, and six-and-twenty most infernal fences. I know the course well—by Gryffwraes and Waterlee. (All this stuff, thought I, and not one word of Louisa!) Old Slubber is to be made a marquis, it seems, so the countess talks nothing but 'peerage'—Douglas and Debrett, Lodge, and Sir Bernard Burke. It is all noble 'shop,' and we poor commoners have not the shadow of a chance!
"Slubber is an old humbug; I am as old as he is, perhaps; but I don't wear my hat in the nape of my neck, or use goloshes and an umbrella—never had one in all my life. I don't mount my horse with the aid of a groom, and ride him as if I was afraid he'd take it into his head to run up a tree. I don't take dinner pills and Seltzer water on the sly from the butler; and my stomach, thank God, is not like his—a more delicate piece of machinery than Cora's French watch; for I can take a jolly curler's dinner of salt beef and greens, and can rush my horse at a six-foot wall neck and neck with the lightest lad in your troop.
"So why he's made a marquis, the devil, and that Scoto-Russian, Lord Aberdeen, on whose policy he always gobbles like a turkey-cock, only know."
Sir Nigel's ridicule of Slubber consoled me a little for his omitting the dear name of Louisa. I knew that it was my regard for her that inspired his chief dislike for the lord. But why was the good-hearted baronet so vituperative? Was the senile peer really likely to become a successful lover? Save by the side of his mistress, a lover is never content.
CHAPTER XXIX.
We pass the scattered isles of Cyclades,That, scarce distinguished seemed to stud the seas.The shouts of sailors double near the shores,They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.Full on the promised land at length we bore,With joy descending on the Cretan shore.DRYDEN.—Translation of Æn.iii.
We pass the scattered isles of Cyclades,That, scarce distinguished seemed to stud the seas.The shouts of sailors double near the shores,They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.Full on the promised land at length we bore,With joy descending on the Cretan shore.DRYDEN.—Translation of Æn.iii.
We pass the scattered isles of Cyclades,
That, scarce distinguished seemed to stud the seas.
The shouts of sailors double near the shores,
They stretch their canvas, and they ply their oars.
Full on the promised land at length we bore,
With joy descending on the Cretan shore.
DRYDEN.—Translation of Æn.iii.
DRYDEN.—Translation of Æn.iii.
We were favoured by Æolus. One might have supposed that Captain Robert Binnacle had succeeded to the bag of wind which that airy monarch gave to the wise and gentle king of Ithaca. Thus a few days more saw our transport amid the Isles of Greece as she bore through the Archipelago.
One day it was Milo, with Elijah's lofty peak, its smoky spring, and hollow, sea-soaked rocks, that rose upon our lee; the next it was Siphanto's marble shore, where ireful Apollo flooded the golden mines; rugged Chios—in pagan times the land of purity, in later days the land of slaughter; then Mytilene, the most fertile of all the Ægean Isles, where "burning Sappho loved and sung," and where Terpander strung the lyre anew. Now it was Lemnos, where Vulcan fell from heaven, and where his forges blazed; and the next tack brought us to Tenedos, whose name has never changed since Priam reigned in Troy—all names that recalled alike our schoolboy labours, and the departed glories of the Grecian name.
Off Tenedos theHimalayasteamed past us, with two thousand two hundred souls in her capacious womb. Soon after we entered the Hellespont, between the famous castles of the Dardanelles, where Sestos and Abydos stood of old, and the cannon of Kelidbahar (the lock of the sea) on the European side saluted us, while the Turkish sentinels yelled and brandished their muskets; and amid the haze of a summer evening we saw the harbour lights of Gallipoli rise twinkling from the waters of the strait; and when the anchor was let go, the courses were hauled up, and the transport swung at her moorings, we knew that we were hard by the shores of Thrace.
"And where the blazes is this same Seblastherpoll?" asked Lanty O'Regan, my Irish groom, who was taking a survey of the waters where Leander took his nightly bath.
"That place we sha'n't see, Lanty, for many a long and weary day," said his Scotch companion, Pitblado, with more foresight than some of us then possessed.
Few of us slept that night, and all were busy with preparations for landing; for, with all its varieties, we were weary of the voyage, the confinement of the transport, impatient for shore and for action. So vague were the ideas our soldiers had of distance and locality, that most of them expected to find themselves face to face with the Russians at once.
Beverley and Studhome prepared their "disembarkation returns" for the information of the adjutant-general; and these were so elaborate that one might have supposed the worthy man's peace of mind depended entirely on their literary productions. The whole troop had their traps packed, and were ready to start with the first boat, when the order came to land; and almost with dawn next morning an aide-de-camp, sent by Lieutenant-General the Earl of Lucan, commanding the cavalry division, arrived with orders for our immediate disembarkation, as we were to be posted in the Light Brigade, which already consisted of the 8th and 11th Hussars, and the 4th and 13th Light Dragoons.
The news spread through the ship like wildfire, and the cheer which rose above and below almost drowned the welcome notes of the warning trumpet, as it blew "boot and saddle"—a sound we had not heard since the day we marched from Maidstone.
"Gentlemen, welcome to Gallipoli!" said the staff officer, as he clattered into the cabin, with his steel scabbard and spurs, and proceeded forthwith to regale himself with a long glass of Seltzer, dashed with brandy, for the morning breeze was chilly as it swept across the Hellespont.
"It's a queer-looking place, this Gallipoli," said Beverley.
"And a queer-looking place you'll find it, colonel," added the aide-de-camp, as we gathered round him. "You will be more given to airing your clothes than your classics, and won't be much enchanted with your quarters in Roumania. In lack of space and cleanliness, and in the liberal allowance of gnats and fleas, they are all up to Turkish regulation."
"Any society here?" asked Jocelyn, with his little affected lisp, as he caressed his incipient moustache.
The aide burst into a hearty fit of laughter, and then replied—
"Plenty, and of the most varied and original character."
"And how about the ladies?"
"Is it true that the Turks still regulate their establishments of womenkind according to the Koran?" asked the paymaster, with a grin on his long, thin Scotch face.
"Upon the system of the 4th Veteran Battalion rather," replied the aide-de-camp.
"Ah, and that——"
"Gave a wife to every private, and three to the adjutant."
"Good Lord deliver us!" exclaimed Studhome, as he doubled his dose of cognac and Seltzer.
"Is it a good country for hunting hereabouts?" asked Sir Harry Scarlett.
"Can't say much for that," replied our visitor, shrugging his shoulders. "Besides, the Earl of Lucan will probably cut out other work for you than riding across country; but for sportsmen there are plenty of hares, partridges, and wild duck to keep one's hand in till we see the Russians, which I hope will not be long, for we are already all bored and sick to death of Gallipoli."
"How long have you been here?" asked Beverley.
"A month, colonel. Another troop has just been signalled off the mouth of the Dardanelles."
"TheGanges, with more of ours, perhaps.
"Likely enough; but they come in here every hour."
"Any word yet of moving to the front—of taking the field?" asked Beverley.
"No, nothing seems decided on yet. There are a thousand idle rumours; but we are all in the dark as to the future—French and British alike."
"A deuced bore!" exclaimed two or three together.
"Ah, you'll find it when you have been a month or so under canvas at Gallipoli. And now, Colonel Beverley, I need not suggest to so experienced a cavalry officer how the horses are to be got on shore, but for the time shall take my leave. Some of the cavalry divisional staff have established a kind of clubhouse in a deserted khan, opposite the old palace of the Bashaw, or Capudan Pacha, where we shall be glad to see you, till we can make other arrangements; and so adieu. Should you look us up, ask for Captain Bolton, of the 1st Dragoon Guards."
In another minute the officer—a purpose-like fellow, in a well-worn blue surtout, his steel scabbard and spurs already rusted—was down the ship's side, and being rowed ashore by eight marines in a man-of-war boat.
We experienced some difficulties in getting our horses slung up and landed, as, to plunge them into the sea, after being so long in the close and confined atmosphere of the hold, was not advisable; and after they were all disembarked (with the assistance of some merry and singing Zouaves of the 2nd Regiment, while a horde of lazy Turks of the Hadjee Mehmet's corps looked idly on), we had to give them a cooling regimen and gentle exercise, as the best means of restoring them to their wonted vigour, and preparing them for the strife and service that were to come. The vessel that was reported as being in sight, proved really to be theGanges. We were at last on foreign soil, and Studhome, by a word and a glance, reminded me that he had not forgotten what was to take place between me and Berkeley; but immediately after landing, that personage was reported on the doctor's list, so we had to let the matter lie over for a time. Troop after troop of ours arrived; and gradually Colonel Beverley had again the whole regiment under his kindly and skilful command.
Studhome and I, who had frequently chummed together, when in India, had the good luck to be quartered in the quiet and snug house of Demetrius Steriopoli, the well-known and industrious miller, at a short distance from the town. Eighteen thousand British troops were now in Gallipoli, which, from being a quiet little den of Oriental dirt and Oriental indolence, Moslem filth and fatuity, became instinct with European life and bustle, by the presence of the soldiers of the allied armies. Those who landed with no other ideas of the Orient than such as were inspired by the "Arabian Nights," and Byron's poetry, were somewhat disappointed on beholding the dingy rows of queer and quaint wooden, rickety and dilapidated booths which composed the streets of this ancient Greek episcopal city of Gallipoli.
Narrow, dirty, and tortuous, they were scattered without order on the slope of a round stony hill; the thoroughfares were made of large round pebbles, from which the foot slipped ever and anon into the mud, or those stagnant pools whence the hordes of lean and houseless dogs—houseless, because declared unclean by the Prophet—slaked their thirst in the sunshine. Over these brown, discoloured hovels rose the tall white minarets of a few crumbling mosques, with cone-shaped roofs and open galleries, where the muezzin's shrill voice summons the faithful to prayer. A leaden-covered dome of the great bazaar, and the old square fortress of Badjazet I., with a number of windmills on every available eminence, were the most prominent features of the view, which could never have been enchanting, even in its most palmy days—even when the vaults of Justinian were teeming with wine and oil; for the Emperor John Palæologus consoled himself for the capture of Gallipoli by the Turks with saying, "I have only lost a jar of wine and a nasty sty for hogs."
But now its muddy streets of hovels were swarming with redcoats: the Scottish bagpipe, the long Zouave trumpet, and the British bugle-horn, rang there for parade and drill at every hour—even those when the followers of the Prophet bent their swarthy foreheads on the mosaic pavement of their mosques; and daily we, the light troops of the cavalry division, were exercised by squadrons, regiments, and brigades, near those green and grassy tumuli which lie on the southern side of the city, and cover the remains of the ancient kings of Thrace. Now the waters of the Hellespont were literally alive with war vessels and transports, belonging to all the allied powers. They were of every size, under sail or steam; and amid them, with white pinions outspread, the swift Greek polaccas sped up or down the strait, which always presented a lively and stirring scene, with the hills of Asia Minor, toned down by distance, seeming faint and blue, and far away. Parade over, it often amused me to watch the varied groups which gathered about the doors of the bazaar, the wine and coffee-houses. There were the grave Armenian of Turcomania, with his black fur cap, and long, flowing robe; the black-eyed Greek, in scarlet tarboosh and ample blue breeches; the dirty, hawk-visaged Jew, attired like a stage Shylock, waiting for his pound of flesh; the kilted Highlander, in the "garb of old Gaul;" the smart Irish rifleman; the well-fed English guardsman,blasé, sleek, and fresh from London; the half savage-like Zouave, in his short bluejacket and scarlet knickerbockers; the bronzed Chasseur d'Afrique; the rollicking British man-o'-war's man, in his guernsey shirt and wide blue collar; the half-naked Nubian slave; the pretty French vivandière, in her short skirt and clocked stockings, looking like Jenny Lind in "The Daughter of the Regiment," only twice as piquante and saucy; even a Sister of Charity, sombre, pale, and placid, would appear at times, crossing herself as she passed a howling dervish, when seeking milk or wine for the sick; and amid all these varied costumes and nationalities were to be seen such heedless fellows as young Rakeleigh, Jocelyn, Scarlett, Wilford, and Berkeley, of ours, in wideawake hats, all-round collars, with Tweed shooting suits and flyaway whiskers, hands in pockets, and cheroot in mouth, as they quizzed and "chaffed" the great solemn Turk of the old school, with his vast green turban and silver beard, which steel had never profaned, or drank pale ale with his son of the new school, in the military fez and frogged surtout, with varnished boots and shaven chin, who, in his double capacity of a true believer and a mulazim (or subaltern of Hadjee Mehmet's regiment), deemed himself at full liberty to use his whip without mercy among the camel-drivers and lazy galiondjis (or boatmen), eliciting shrieks, yells, and curses, which Berkeley, in his languid drawl, considered to be "aw—doocid good fun."
Many of those smart youths of ours, and other fast Oxford men, had their constitutional and national conceit somewhat taken out of them before the war was ended.
"There is nothing more disgusting," says a distinguished writer, with pardonable severity, "or more intolerable, than a young Englishman sallying forth into the world, full of his own ignorance and John-Bullism, judging of mankind by his own petty, provincial, and narrow notions of fitness and propriety—a mighty observer of effects and disregarder of causes, and traversing continent and ocean, at once blinded and shackled by the bigotry and prejudices of a limited and imbecile intellect."
Much of this was the secret spring of our Indian mutiny, and is the cause that we are hated and shunned on the Continent. There are, of course, exceptions, for in the East I have seen local prejudices so far respected that we formed an escort when the British colours of the Sepoy infantry were marched into theGanges, to consecrate them in the eyes of the Bengalese—the same pampered ruffians who slaughtered our women and children at Cawnpore and Delhi.
We looked in vain for pretty women, and the reader may be assured that some of our researches were of the most elaborate description. Not a trace of the boasted Grecian beauty was to be found in those oddly-dressed females, whose costume seemed a mere oval bale of clothing (the feridjee), surmounted by a white linen veil, and ending in boots of yellow leather, as they flitted like fat ghosts about the public wells, or the gates of the great bazaar. All were, indeed, plain even to ugliness, save in one instance—pretty little Magdhalini, the daughter of the miller, Steriopoli. I remember a charming vivandière, who belonged to the 2nd Zouaves, for I saw her frequently under circumstances that could never be forgotten—in fact, under fire, at the head of the regiment. She was a smart little Parisienne, possessed of great beauty, with eyes that sparkled like the diamonds in her ears. She wore a pretty blue Zouave jacket, braided with red, over a pretty chemisette, and had her black hair smoothly braided under a scarlet kepi, which bore the regimental number. The first time I saw Sophie she was simply maintaining a flirtation with one of the corps, to whom she gave a mouthful of brandy from her barrel, as he stood on sentry under my window, and their banter rather interfered with the composition of a letter which I was writing to my cousin Cora.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Sophie," said the Zouave, in his most dulcet tone, "you—mon Dieu—you look so lovely that——"
"That what—what—Jules?"
"Well, so lovely this morning that I am quite afraid——"
"To kiss me—is it not so, Monsieur Jolicoeur?"
"Yes."
"Très bien. Take courage,mon camarade."
"Mademoiselle Sophie, you quiz me!"
"A Zouave, and afraid," exclaimed the vivandière; and then followed a little sound there was no mistaking.
"You are indeed beautiful, Sophie. There is not a vivandière in the whole French army like you."
"Yet I may die an old maid," said she demurely.
"May?"
"Yes, Jules."
"Then it will be your own fault,ma belle coquette, and not the fault of others."
"Parbleu! I sha'n't marry a Zouave, at all events."
"Don't speak so cruelly, Sophie. When I look on your charming face, I always think of glorious Paris. Paris! Ah,mon Dieu!shall we ever see it again?"
"Why did you leave it, Jules, and your studies at the Ecole de Médecin, to fight and starve here?"
"Why?" exclaimed the student.
"Yes,mon ami."
"The old girl at the wheel, Madame Fortune, proved false to me. I lost my last money, fifty Napoleons, at the rouge-et-noir table in the Palais Royal. I was ruined, Sophie; and as I had no wish to jump into the Seine, and then to figure next morning on the leaden tables of the Morgue, like a salmon at the fishmonger's, I joined the 2nd Zouaves in the snapping of a flint, and so—am here."
"You will return with your epaulettes and the cross, Jules."
"I don't think so. Kiss me, at all events,ma belle."
"Well, camarade, if it will console you——"
Here I tried to close the window, on which Jules "carried arms," and looked very unconscious; while the pretty vivandière gave me a military salute, and tripped laughingly away, singing—
Vivandière du régiment,C'est Catin qu'on me nomme, &c.
Vivandière du régiment,C'est Catin qu'on me nomme, &c.
Vivandière du régiment,
C'est Catin qu'on me nomme, &c.
Daily more troops arrived from Britain and France; daily the camps extended in size, and, notwithstanding the season, we suffered much from cold, while, so bad were the commissariat arrangements, that, in some instances, officers and soldiers were alike without beds or bedding, few having more than a single blanket; so, for warmth, they reversed the usual order, by dressing in all their spare clothes to go to bed.
Gallipoli became so crowded at last that some of the troops were despatched towards Constantinople and Scutari. There the Highland regiments, beyond all others, excited astonishment and admiration, not unmixed with fear, their costume seemed so remarkable to Oriental eyes; and many may yet remember the anecdote current in camp concerning them.
An old Turkish pasha, who had brought the ladies of his harem in acaïque, closely veiled in theiryashmacs, to see our troops land, was intensely horrified by the bare brawny legs of the 93rd foot; but after surveying them, he said, with a sigh, to an English officer—"Ah! if the Sultan had such fine soldiers as these, we should not need your aid against the Russians."
"Well,effendi," observed the Englishman, who was quizzing, "would it not be advisable to propagate the species in this country?"
"Inshallah!(please God!) it will be done, whether we advise it or not," said the old Turk, sighing again, as he ordered his boatload ofOdalisquesto shove off for Istamboul with all despatch.
Amid the novelty of our new life at Gallipoli, a week or two passed rapidly away, ere rumours were heard of our probable advance to Varna; but, as I do not mean to repeat the well-known details of so recent a war, rather confining myself to my own adventures, and those of my regiment, I shall close this chapter by relating an episode which will serve to illustrate the brutal and lawless character of the Turk, and the slavery to which ages of conquest and degradation have reduced the wretched Greek. I have said that Jack Studhome and I were quartered in the house of a Greek miller, named Demetrius Steriopoli. His chief worldly possessions were a melon-garden, and two ricketty old windmills, which whirled their brown and tattered sails on the breezes that came from the Hellespont. In the basement of these edifices, and in the walls of his dwelling-house, were—and I have no doubt still are—built many exquisitely-carved fragments of some old Grecian temple; for there triglyphs, sculptured metopæ, the honeysuckle, and so forth, with portions of statues, all of white marble, were used pell mell among the rough rubble masonry.
These edifices—to wit, the house and mills—stood on an eminence a little way beyond the ruins of the old wall of Gallipoli, on the side of the road that leads across the isthmus towards the Gulf of Saros.
His dwelling was picturesque, and that which is better, it was clean and airy; thus, while Beverley and others of ours were nightly devoured by gnats and other entomological torments, we slept each in a separate kiosk, or bedroom, as comfortably as if quartered in the best hotel of Dover or Southampton—so much for the housewifery of the little Magdhalini. Steriopoli was by birth a Cypriote Greek—a handsome and fine-looking man, about eight-and-thirty, and when armed with sabre, pistol, and yataghan, had rather more the aspect of a marauder than a peaceful miller, especially as his attire usually consisted of a scarlet fez, a large loose jacket of green cloth, a silk sash round his waist, a capacious pair of blue breeches, his legs being further encased in sheepskin hose, and his feet in sandals of hide. When the merciless Turkish troops massacred twenty-five thousand persons in Cyprus, destroying seventy-four once happy and industrious villages, with all their monasteries and churches, seizing the young women as slaves, and casting the male children into the sea, it was his fate, when disposed of in the latter fashion, to be picked up by the boat's crew of a British man-of-war. Torn from the arms of his shrieking mother, he had been tossed into the harbour of Larneca, which was filled with the corpses of poor little infants. On board the British ship he had been kept for a time as a species of pet among the sailors. Hence his regard for us was great; and his open trust in us was only equalled by his secret abhorrence of the Turks. He was a widower, and his family consisted only of his daughter and a few servants, male and female—the latter being his assistants at the mills.
After the plain-looking women of Gallipoli, the beauty of the little Greek maid, Magdhalini, proved an agreeable surprise for us; and within doors she always laid aside the hideousyashmacwhich concealed her features when abroad. She was not much over fifteen, but already fully developed; she was lively in manner, and graceful in deportment; and her picturesque costume—a crimson jacket, with short, wide sleeves, open at the throat, and embroidered at the bosom, her skirt of various colours, and her hair ornamented with gold coins, all added to the piquancy of her beauty. Her features were remarkably regular; her forehead low and broad; her rich, thick hair was of a bright auburn hue; but her eyes were of the deepest black. In the latter, when contrasted with the pale purity of her complexion, the form of their delicate lids and curled lashes, I saw—or fancied so—a resemblance to Louisa, which gave the girl a deeper interest to me; and her appearance frequently recalled to me Byron's description of Haidee:—
"Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyesWere black as death; their lashes the same hue,Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow liesDeepest attraction; for when to the viewForth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.* * * * *Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dyeLike twilight rosy still with the set sun;Short upper lips—sweet lips! that make us sighEver to have seen such."
"Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyesWere black as death; their lashes the same hue,Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow liesDeepest attraction; for when to the viewForth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.* * * * *Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dyeLike twilight rosy still with the set sun;Short upper lips—sweet lips! that make us sighEver to have seen such."
"Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
Were black as death; their lashes the same hue,
Were black as death; their lashes the same hue,
Were black as death; their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.* * * * *
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.
Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew.
* * * * *
Her brow was white and low; her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun;
Short upper lips—sweet lips! that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such."
Ever to have seen such."
Ever to have seen such."
In stature she was a foot less than Louisa Loftus; but her form, her delicate hands, small feet, and rounded arms, might have served as models for the best sculptors of the old Greek days. On one occasion I showed her Louisa's miniature, and she clapped her hands, and begged permission to kiss it, like a child, as she was in some respects. She was very curious to know why Studhome and I did not wear crucifixes or holy medals, like all the Christians she knew—even the Russians; and when I told her that such was not the custom in my country, she shook her head sadly, and expressed sorrow for its somewhat benighted condition.
I found a smattering of Italian which I possessed most useful to me now, for, next to the language of the country, it proves the most available in Greece or Turkey. Thedivan hanée, or principal apartment of the house (from which the doors of all the kiosks and other chambers open), was handsome, lofty, and airy. Its lower end was lined by a screen of trellised woodwork, containing arched recesses, or cupboards for vases of sherbet, cool water, or fresh flowers. In the central recess a miniature fountain spouted from a white marble basin, and a landscape was painted on the wall beyond. Curtains covered each of the doorways, and round the room—on three sides, at least—was a long sofa, or cushioned divan, the height of the window-sills, in the Turkish fashion; but, as Steriopoli was a Greek, his dwelling had more European appurtenances, such as a dining-table and chairs; and on its walls were various coloured prints of Greek saints and bishops, while above the door of each sleeping kiosk hung a crucifix of carved wood. In the divan we took our meals, and there, greatly to our host's annoyance, we were joined at times by the Colonel Hadjee Mehmet, who commanded a battalion of the Turkish line at Gallipoli—an individual with whom Studhome had become acquainted through some transaction about the purchase of horses for some of our dismounted men, an affair in which, though worthy Jack would never admit it, this hook-nosed and keen-eyed follower of the Prophet jockeyed him and Farrier-sergeant Snaffles as completely as any groom might have done at Epsom or the Curragh. Now Demetrius Steriopoli, though he seemed not to care whether Studhome or I, or any of our brother officers who visited us, saw his daughter, manifested great uneasiness and irritation when she caught the wicked and licentious eyes of the Hadjee Mehmet, whose character he knew, whose power he dreaded, and whose nation and religion he detested; and thus she had standing orders to seclude herself whenever he came, which was pretty often now, to smoke his chibouque and drink brandy and water in secret, though the Prophet only forbade wine. He was a fat, bloated, and wicked-looking man, past fifty years of age. He wore a blue frogged surtout, scarlet trousers, and a scarlet fez, with the broad, flat, military button. He wore also a crooked Damascus sabre and beard, in virtue of his rank, as straight swords and shaven chins indicate the subaltern grades of the Turkish army, whose officers are the most contemptible in Europe. In boyhood they are generally the pipe-bearers or carpet-spreaders of the pashas. In this instance the Hadjee Mehmet (so named because he had performed the pilgrimage to Mecca, and kissed the Holy Kaaba) had begun life as a tiruaktzy, or nail-bearer, in the household of Chosrew Mehmet Pasha, who was the seraskier, or generalissimo of the forces, and who was supposed to be the gallant Hadjee's father, though that honour was usually assigned to a Janizary who escaped the massacre of that celebrated force by concealing himself; and by Chosrew he was speedily advanced to the rank of mire-alai, or colonel of infantry.
He was very careful always to style us "effendi," such being the prefix for all who are deemed educated; and, as he sat cross-legged on the divan, with his paunch protruding before him, his ample and well-dyed beard half hiding the frogged lace of his surtout, the amber mouthpiece of his long chibouque between his thick lips, with his little scarlet fez, and sleepy, half-leering black eyes, he seemed the very beau-ideal of a used-up and sensual Osmanlee.
"Ev-Allah!" (praise God!) he said, on one occasion, "I have now seen all the world."
"Indeed, colonel, I knew not that you had travelled," said I.
"Yes, and I would not give a grush (piastre) to see it again."
"All, do you say?" queried I.
"Yes; Mecca, Medina, Bassora, Damascus, Cairo, and Iskandrich—there is no more to see; and of all the women I have ever beheld," he added, with one of his wicked little leers, "who can equal the Cockonas of Bucharest? Not even the golden-haired Tcherkesses."
"And what think you of the Greeks, colonel?" asked Studhome, rather in a blundering manner, for Steriopoli's brows knit unpleasantly.
"Backallum" (we shall see), was his reply, as he gave a stealthy glance at Magdhalini, who was superintending the tandour, the substitute for a fireplace, consisting of a wooden frame, in which there is placed a copper vessel, full of charcoal, the whole being covered by a wadded coverlet, and closely reminding one of the brasseros of the Spaniards. Swift though the glance, it was not unseen by Steriopoli, whom the ominous remark which accompanied it sufficiently alarmed, and, with unwonted abruptness of manner, he requested his daughter to retire and assume her veil.
On the following day it chanced that he had to visit Alexi (which is about twenty miles distant from Gallipoli), as he had some flour to dispose of, and would be absent all night. Whether our Turkish visitor was aware of this circumstance I cannot say, but in the forenoon I came suddenly upon him and Magdhalini, whom he had surprised or waylaid in the pathway near the windmills. He grasped one of her hands, and she was struggling to release herself. I had my sword under my arm, but as a fracas with a Turkish officer was by no means desirable, I lingered for a moment before interfering.
"Girl," I heard him say, with a dark scowl, while he grasped her slender wrist, "for the third time I tell thee not to bite the finger that puts honey into thy mouth."
"Nonsense, Hadjee; let me go, I say," replied Magdhalini, laughing, though she was partly frightened.
"I should like to make my home in thy heart, Magdhalini, even as the bulbul buildeth her nest in the rose-tree," panted the fat Hadjee.
"Oh, thou owl, thou crow of bad omen!" exclaimed the lively Greek girl, as she wrenched her hand free, and, darting a bright and merry glance at her enraged and perspiring admirer, drew her yashmac close, and sprang away, blushing because I had witnessed the scene.
That night Studhome and I had been supping with Beverley at his quarters near the palace of the Capudan Pasha, and were returning late to the house of Steriopoli. The sky was clear and starry; thus we could see distinctly several Turkish soldiers loitering about near the house and windmills, and though the hour was an unusual one for them to be absent, that we deemed no concern of ours, and on entering we retired to our kiosks, or rooms, and were both soon sound asleep—so sound that we failed to hear a loud knocking shortly after at the front door. Magdhalini and two female servants promptly responded to the unusual summons, but declined to open without further inquiry, on which the door was beaten in by a large hammer, and a chiaoush, or sergeant, and several soldiers, all in Turkish uniform, seized Magdhalini, bound, gagged, and carried her off, despite her cries and resistance. Roused by the sudden noise, and suspecting we knew not what, Studhome and I dragged on our trousers, and came forth both at the same moment, each with drawn sword and cocked revolver; but before lights were procured, and ere the terrified servants could make us understand the real state of affairs, and the catastrophe which had taken place, our pretty Greek hostess was gone beyond recovery.
I shall willingly hurry over all that followed in this strange episode of social life in the East.
Poor Steriopoli came back next day to a desolate house—a degraded and broken home! He was full of rage and despair, for his daughter was the pride, the idol of his heart; and suspecting justly the Hadjee Mehmet, he discovered that this celebrated warrior had gone to Alexi, the very town from which he, Steriopoli, had returned.
There he traced his daughter, only to find that she had been most cruelly and shamefully treated. She was lodged in the house of the cole-agassi, or major of Mehmet's regiment—a wretch who had originally been a channator aga, or chief of the black eunuchs; and on the pretext that she had renounced Christianity and embraced Islamism, he refused to give her up. In compliance with the wish of her sorrowing father, and the indignant old Bishop of Gallipoli, she was brought before the vaivode of the district. She appeared the wreck of her former self, and, though not present, I afterwards heard that a most affecting scene took place.
On beholding Steriopoli, whose once coal-black hair was now thickly seamed with grey, she broke away from the Turkish slaves who held her, and cast herself into his arms, in a passion of grief, exclaiming—
"My father! oh, my father! after what has taken place, I am no longer worthy to be in your house, or to pray at my mother's grave. We can no longer be anything to each other."
"Oh, Kyrie Eleison (Lord have mercy)!" groaned the unfortunate Greek.
Despite her solemn protests that she was still a Christian, the vaivode would not yield her to her father; but opening the Koran, closed the case by reading a passage from the sixteenth chapter thereof—a passage revealed to the Prophet at Medina:—"O Prophet! when unbelieving women come unto thee, and plight their faith unto thee, that they will not associate anything with God, nor steal, nor commit sin, nor kill their children, nor come with a calumny which they have forged between their hands and feet, nor be disobedient to thee in that which shall be reasonable: then do plight thy faith unto them, and ask pardon for them, of One who is inclined to forgive and be merciful. O true believers! enter not into friendship with a people against whom God is incensed; they despair of pardon and the life to come, even as infidels despair of the resurrection of those who dwell in the grave."
"La-Allah-illah-Allah-Mohammed resoul Allah!"[*] shouted the people.