CHAPTER XLVI.BEN. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!Supper is done, and we shall come too late.ROMEO. I fear too early; for my mind misgives,Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,Shall bitterly begin his fearful dateWith this night's revels; and expire the termOf a despised life, closed in my breast,By some vile forfeit of untimely death:But he that hath the steerage of my courseDirects the sail!SHAKSPEARE.The noon of the succeeding day saw me several miles from the Castle of Kourouk, and pursuing the rugged old Tartar highway that was to conduct me to Yekaterinoslav, under the escort of Trebitski's Cossacks, about a hundred of whom, armed with sabres, pistols, and lances, and carrying their forage, food, and in most instances, plunder, rode in double file on each side of a train ofkabitkas, which were filled with sick and wounded Russian soldiers, and, in a few instances, I saw Frenchmen among them.Every jolt of those wretched waggons over the rough and rocky roads caused wounds to burst out afresh; groans and curses rose in the air, and blood was soon oozing or dripping through the salt-encrusted planking on the dusty highway.Thesekabitkasare Tartar waggons, which are driven in vast numbers to Perecop for the conveyance of the salt, which, in the dry season—from June till August—lies on the plains or steppes so thick that they are usually driven axle-deep among it for loading.A number of these waggons had been improvised by General Baur for ambulance purposes; and now I found myself seated in one, among some bloody and dirty straw, with three severely wounded men of the 45th, or Tambrov regiment, and a French officer, whose face was half hidden by a large bandage, discoloured by the blood of a sword-wound, which had laid open his right cheek.Intent upon escape, I looked earnestly and constantly before me; but we were now traversing an undulating plain, that was dotted by a few trees, of strange aspect, and the flocks of the Nomadic Tartars. And as the path dipped down over an eminence, I took a last farewell, but certainly not "fond look," of Kourouk, with its two burnished domes, which glittered brightly in the sunshine, while the Mountain of the Tent looked faint and blue in distance.Trebitski, the Cossack officer, had conceived, I knew why, a personal animosity for me; and ever and anon, as if he would anticipate any attempt on my part to escape, he hovered about thekabitkain which I was reclining, and recoiling in disgust from the grey-coated Muscovites who lay beside me, and whose presence made the air redolent of Stamboul tobacco, bloody bandages, and the Russian leather of their clumsy boots and coarse accoutrements.One of the first acts of the pitiful Trebitski was to deprive me of a small basket of rations—cold fowl, wine, &c.—provided for me by the kindness of Vladimir Dahl and Captain Anitchoff, and to substitute in their place a meagre allowance of the black bread, salt, andvodkaused by the half-barbarian escort.I determined to report this petty theft on reaching his head-quarters; but where were they?At Yekaterinoslav, on the banks of the Dnieper, in the territory of the Cossacks of Azof, far over the desert plains that lie beyond the Isthmus of Perecop, whose vast fortress bars the way from the Crimea to the mainland of Europe.My blood boiled up with vengeance against Berkeley, my betrayer, and my entire soul revolted at the prospect of such a heartless and hopeless journey, with a doubtful termination—a captivity, the end of which none could foresee; and the desire—a deep, clamorous, and heart-burning desire—of escape at any hazard grew strong within me; but I was without weapon, money, or a horse.Oh, that I had but five minutes' start, with such an animal under me as that ridden by Trebitski, which was a beautiful and powerful Arab, whose actions were full of lightness and grace!To increase my annoyance, this bearded commander got tipsy more than once on brandy and absinthe; and then he would shake his crooked sabre at me with many "strange oaths," of which I could make nothing; but I thought that, if some of those "wives and daughters of England," who think foreigners so interesting, had been with us in the Crimea, their ideas of continentals might have changed in favour of their more prosaic countrymen."Ouf! pst! pst!" I heard the wounded Frenchman muttering, as he raised himself from an uneasy doze, and looked about him with one eye, that glared wildly, for bandages concealed the other. "But for this devilish Crimean business, I should have been flirting in the Bois de Boulogne, lounging in the Gardens of the Tuileries, eating ices at Tortoni's, or drinking lemonade at a café chantant with la belle Rogolboche.Pst! pst! c'est le diable!" Then, addressing himself to me, he said, "Ah, le Cossaque!—yon devil of a Trebitski—is a shocking ruffian—a veritable brigand! Luckily, the Russian savage does not understand a word we say. He has stolen your rations, and left you—pah! what a dog wouldn't eat; but I have something better, and you shall dine with me.""I thank you, monsieur," said I."Comrades in glory, we shall be friends in misfortune!" exclaimed the Frenchman, with great emphasis. While he ran on thus, something in his voice seemed familiar to me."You are, monsieur—you are——""Exactly, my friend; Victor Baudeuf, at your service—Captain of the French line.""I thought you were killed at Alma!""Only half killed, as you may see. Pardieu! but who told you so?""Mademoiselle Sophie.""The vivandière of the 2nd Zouaves?""Yes.""Ah! she had always a spite at me—that dear little Sophie. You should see her riding at the head of the 2nd, with her canteen slung over her shoulder, and a cigarette between her little fingers, and a saucy twinkle in her bright eyes as she sings—"Vivandière du régimentC'est Catin qu'on me nomme,Je vends, je donne, et bois gaimentMon vin et mon rogomme."I hope she may escape all this wild work, and see our beautiful France again. No, monsieur, I was not killed, but most severely wounded—left for dead—and thus fell into the hands of these beastly fellows. I remember you now, monsieur. We often met at Varna, at the Restaurant de l'Armée d'Orient. A droll den it was! And you remember Jules Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves. Poor Jules! A round shot finished him at Alma. He has gone to his last account. Heaven rest him! You are a Scotsman, I believe, though I always took you for a Jean Boule—àbiftek; and so you shall dine with me. 'Fier comme un Ecossais,' is still a proverb among us in France, in memory of the old times, which our Zouaves are about to renew, I think; for they boast themselves 'les Ecossais de l'Armée Française,' and fraternize like brothers with your sans culotte regiments, in what you call 'lakeelt.'"All this sounded so like some of Toole's "French before breakfast," that I could almost have laughed at my garrulous friend, who produced from a small havresack, which he opened with his left hand—the right being severely shattered by a grape shot—one of thosepâtés de foies grasfor which Strasbourg is so famous; made from the livers of geese, after the poor birds have undergone a process there is no use in detailing here. Heaven knows how M. Baudeuf came by it, but the pâté, with his biscuit, he divided very liberally with me, and with the three wounded Russians, who shared with us the soft comforts of thekabitka, and whose glances of hungry appeal there was no resisting.Aware that they knew not a word we were saying, we conversed freely; and I told the Frenchman that, as no parole had been offered us, we should escape together. He replied that the hazard was great; yet that he would have shared it with me, but for his shattered hand, which made him every way so helpless. He wished me every success, and gave me secretly a little map of the Crimea, which he had concealed in the lining of his tattered uniform; and this on every occasion I studied intently."Mutilated as I am, it is of no use to me," said he; "but may serve you,mon camarade, at a pinch."It was small, and by Huot and Demidoff; but was extremely correct.On our arrival at Karasu-bazar, sixteen or eighteen miles from Kourouk, I was separated from this pleasant Frenchman. I never saw him again, and have too much reason to fear that he perished amid the horrors of a catastrophe which ensued subsequently.It was evening when, after traversing a pleasant valley, we entered Karasu-bazar, so slow had been the progress of our primitive train of cars, with their melancholy load of human suffering. Situated on the Karasu, an affluent of the Salghir, this town is the great wine and fruit mart of the Crimea; and there a strange rabble of Tartars in short jackets, with open sleeves, high caps, and high boots; Greeks in scarlet fez and baggy blue breeches; Russians, with fur caps and canvas doublets, trimmed with fur; and Armenians, in long, flowing garments, crowded around us.These escorted us through the narrow and tortuous streets in the dusk. To attempt an escape there would be futile, notwithstanding that the Tambrov uniform which I wore seemed to favour the idea.Darkness set in. We were closely guarded; and now I heard the shrill, vicious whistle of a railway engine, and found the train ofkabitkashalted near some wooden booths, where the wires and posts of a telegraph, a platform, and covered passenger shed, with other familiar features of the usual kind, indicated a railway station!In fact, we had reached the head of a single track line of railroad, which had been hastily constructed for the conveyance of troops and munition of war a portion of the way towards Perecop; and probably it might have been carried to Arabat, at the head of the Putrid Sea, or to Sebastopol itself, but for the rapid advance of the Allies.Roughly constructed and hastily laid down, it led from the banks of the Karasu I knew not at the time whither, as it was not depicted in the map given to me by Captain Baudeuf, from whom I was now, as I have said, separated.We were all hurriedly thrust into carriages, or rather trucks, like those for conveying cattle in Britain, without seat or other accommodation, save a little straw for the miserable wounded, whose numbers were greatly augmented by some fugitives from Khutor-Mackenzie.The line of trucks might be, I suppose, about forty, including one which bore the gallant Trebitski with his "Araby steed;" and three quaint and old-fashioned locomotives, with large wheels and high chimneys, were getting up their steam—one in front, one in rear, and one in the centre; and these, after much wheezing and puffing, screaming and clanking, with other discordant noises, got into motion simultaneously, and in the dark we shot away from the streets and bazaars of the Karasu, for where was yet a mystery to me.The Cossack escort was now reduced to twenty dismounted men, who left their horses and lances behind them, and were distributed among the carriages; but luckily there were none in mine.We had scarcely left the lights of the town behind us, when an odour of burning attracted my attention, and the attention of those who were penned up like sheep in the same truck with me. We could only communicate our fears by signs, and heads were constantly put forth on both sides of the train, and withdrawn, always with exclamations of excitement, while the alarming odour increased strongly.The lines of rail were laid on sleepers of wood, and I imagined that, perhaps, the hot ashes dropping from the three engines might cause the smell of burning that was filling the air heavily, as we tore along past hills and rocks, the domes of village mosques, or churches, tipped with silver light by the rising moon; along wooden bridges that spanned hoarse and brawling mountain streams; across open wastes, where the millet, rye, and hemp had been reaped and gathered, or where the wild tobacco still grew; past slopes clothed by dark waving woods, the chestnut, the oak, and the wild pear tree, the rush of the train, and the scream of the engine scaring away the goshawks, the magpie, and kite from their nests; past round towers, arches, and aqueducts, the crumbling ruins of the old Genoese days; past where flocks and herds were grazing, till they fled on the noise of our approach.And now the train dashed into a forest of pine and turpentine trees, through which it seemed to rush for miles upon miles, its speed augmenting every instant, while the odour of burning increased with every revolution of the wheels.Anon, loud cries of terror and agony rang out at times upon the night breeze; and now a light—actual flames, other than those which came from the furnaces—occasionally shed its swift red gleam upon the gnarled tree stems that stood in thick ranks on each side of the way; and then came the appalling conviction upon all our minds that, in addition to having run off, or having been abandoned by its stupid Muscovite engine-drivers, the train was on fire!In those open and rudely-constructed trucks, there were no windows to lower. I thrust my head through the nearest opening, and found that the two carriages in front of ours were a mass of flames, which burst forth fiercely from all the apertures, and these, as they rushed in streams behind, in consequence of the intense draught caused by the wild speed at which the train careered through the forest, were setting our carriage on fire also. Fortunately I was in the rear compartment, and for a time could look steadily ahead.Oh, what a sight it was!The footways on each side of the carriages that were on fire were literally alive with sick and wounded wretches, who had crept out, and now clung to the steps and handles, by which the guards usually clamber about, afraid alike to fall or cast themselves off; but every instant a shriek was heard, as the grasp of some maimed or feeble unfortunate relaxed, and he vanished from sight as the train swept on. Some fell into watercourses, some fell over banks, and were flung into the forest, the turpentine trees of which, in many places, were now in flames.The straw amid which the more helpless wounded lay was soon on fire. Many of them were literally roasted alive, and I heard the pistols of the Cossacks exploding, as they went off in the heat, or as their despairing wearers shot themselves or each other.The engine-drivers, for some reason unknown to me, must have jumped off and abandoned the train, for it swept through the forest unchecked, a mass of flames, from which the yells and shrieks were appalling. More than one carriage was literally burned down to its iron, all within perishing miserably.Even at that desperate time the hope of escape grew strong within me, for every confusion was favourable. Being locked in on both sides, I crept through an aperture which served for a window, and found footing on the side gangway, with two or three others, who clung to the carriage and moaned fearfully, for the exertion had made their gunshot wounds burst out afresh. They soon dropped off, and I was left alone.The rush of the glowing flames came hotly aft upon my face and hands. I saw the clinging mass ahead, swaying to and fro, their faces and figures reddened in the scorching glare, which lit up the line of rails like two red-hot wires that vanished into the forest—all this I saw for a moment, and a moment only.I was about to drop off, and trust to Providence for the sequel, when there was a sudden shout, a crash, a vast shower of ruddy sparks, that seemed to fill the air with fire, a piercing yell, and then, in silence and darkness, I found myself rolling down a grassy bank for some twenty yards or so, until I was arrested from further harm by some soft tobacco plants, which there grew wild and thickly.Unhurt, but greatly confused, and completely breathless I staggered up to look around me.The coupling of two of the burning carriages had broken; they had tumbled heavily down the bank, breaking to pieces as they fell, scattering the brands of their blazing woodwork far and wide, killing outright some of the scorched and wounded occupants, several of whom I saw lying near me in the moonlight, blackened and mutilated, while the remainder of the train, with its three engines, all abandoned by their cowardly conductors, swept on its errand of destruction and death through the now flaming forest.As I rose from amid the strange débris of smouldering wood and shattered iron, of dead or dying, and half-burned men, and was considering in which way to turn, I was met face to face by one whose right arm was broken, but who, nevertheless, uttered a hoarse and guttural malediction, with which I was not unfamiliar, having heard it frequently from his lips before. Drawing a pistol from his belt, with his left hand he levelled it at my head.Luckily the percussion cap snapped, and the weapon hung fire. But to close with Trebitski—for he it was—to wrench the pistol away, and knock him mercilessly down with the butt-end, were all the work of a moment, and then I felt that I was "the monarch of all I surveyed."I was turning away, when a peculiar snorting sound attracted my attention, and in a well-padded horse-box, which lay on its side far down the slope, I saw the head of Trebitski's Arab charger, as the poor animal lolled out its red tongue, and threw back its small close ears in terror and anger, for the sides of the horse-box were all scorched by flame; and the mere odour of fire is sufficient to inspire a horse with the most bewildering fear.Here had Providence given me an additional chance for escape. But I had no time to lose; the train might be stopped by this time (though no sound, save the moans of the maimed, now disturbed the silence of that woody solitude), and succour might be sent to the sufferers, though human life is but little valued in Russia, and human suffering is viewed there with an amount of indifference that savours more of Asia than of Europe.My dragoon knowledge served me usefully here. I contrived to calm and soothe the Arab horse, to unbuckle the braces that secured it in the partly-shattered stall, and it came forth, half-scrambling and half-crawling, trembling in every limb, and every fibre quivering under its glossy coat, which was flecked with white foam. Cowed, calmed, and terrified by the recent catastrophe, the horse was as docile as if Mr. Rarey had been whispering his magic in its ear.A noble Arab, with all the peculiarities of its breed—the square forehead and fine black muzzle, the brilliant eyes and beautiful veins, the withers high and body light, and standing somewhere about fourteen hands and a half—it was whinnying, and rubbing its nose on my hand as if for protection and fellowship.He was saddled and accoutred, and the bridle was hanging on the pommel.In a moment I had it over his head, and buckled to perfection, the bridoon touching the corners of the mouth, but low enough not to wrinkle them.I vaulted into the saddle, leaving the adjustment of the stirrups to a more leisure time, as Trebitski, in Cossack fashion, rode with his knees up to his elbows; and just as that redoubtable personage was reviving after his rough tap on the head, I dashed into the forest, and soon left the scene of suffering far behind me.In several places the wood was on fire, and, being dry with the heat of the past summer, the branches and crisp leaves, particularly those of the turpentine trees, burned briskly. Thus I could see the wavering flames reddening the clouds above, while riding on, and ignorant of the route I was pursuing, through this dense old forest, the jungle and underwood at times completely retarding all progress.I paused only to lengthen the stirrups, and give my newly-acquired steed—in which I began to feel all the interest of proprietorship—a draught at a runnel, and then sought the recesses of the densest thicket I could find to wait for day, that I might look warily about, and consider what to do next, for, if taken with the horse of the Parooschick Adrian Trebitski in my possession, the chances of being shot, or sent to life-long slavery, were great. Anyway, I feared there would be a vacant troop in Her Majesty's lancers—a troop, perhaps, given to Berkeley; and I feared that few Russian officers like the gay young Anitchoff or kind old Vladimir Dahl might come in my way again.My more immediate fear was for the wolves, which there roam in packs, and were, no doubt, by this time howling and snarling among the victims on the railroad. If any of them scented me, I should have to take refuge in a pine, where I might be starved to death, after they had devoured my horse.Every sound startled me; but I heard only the occasional gobble of the wild bustards, which usually go in great flocks through all the wild places of the Crimea.I unbitted the Arab, and let him graze, but hobbled him so that he could not escape; and as day began to steal redly through the distant dingles of the wood, the light slowly descending from the summits to the lower stems of the lofty pines, I found some wild grapes whereon to breakfast, and quench the fierce thirst which recent excitement had induced.When the light sufficed I drew forth the map given me by poor Captain Baudeuf, and began to study my whereabouts. Through the openings of the trees I could see, about a mile distant, the current of a broad and evidently deep river shining in the morning sun.The railway had not, to my knowledge, crossed such a stream; it flowed from the west towards the east; hence, from its magnitude, it could only be the Salghir, which, after being joined by the Karasu, flows into the Putrid Sea.This stream has usually little water in its bed, save after the melting of the winter snows; but recent rains among the mountains of Ac-Metchet had swollen it beyond its usual size. And now I beheld what must have been a bend or sweep of it flowing between me and the tract of country where our armies lay—the tract that stretched away towards Sevastopol, which I supposed to be at least a hundred miles distant; and that idea afterwards proved to be correct.For a time my spirit quailed at the prospect before me. I was nearly in the middle of the savage and hostile Crimea, ignorant of the many languages spoken there, ignorant of the roads, and with no money to bribe or arms to intimidate.No house or town was visible, or a sign of any living thing, save the goldfinches that twittered in the trees, and the heron and wild duck that waded or squattered among the green weeds and long trailers on the bank of the rushing stream. The latter was nearly eighty yards broad. I knew that it must be crossed, as the south side was the safest. Crossed! but how?While considering this, the sound of a Cossack trumpet among the woodlands in my rear gave me a nervous start, and made me resolve on instant action. I put my treasured map carefully away, mounted, and urged my horse at once to the bank of the river.I took my feet out of the stirrups, which I then crossed above the saddle—a precaution no dragoon or other horseman should ever forget when about to cross a river mounted; for if the horse should sink his hind-legs to seek for footing, or, worse still, should he "turn a turtle," while the rider's feet are in the stirrups, the most fatal results may ensue, and he will be helplessly drowned.I was without spurs, yet I rushed him at the stream, for there are times when rider and horse feel as one. He took the water well, and struck out bravely, for I leant well forward, so that my body rested on his crest. I had no occasion to touch the rein or use the bit; but steered him by a switch torn from a tree.With his neck stretched out like that of a dog, he swam coolly and steadily across, with the ripples of the water under my armpits. When he grounded, and scrambled up the other side, I dismounted, and led him by the bridle into a thicket beyond.This was scarcely achieved, when some tall lances glittered on the other side of the stream, where a party of twelve Cossacks were scouting; and had my horse neighed they must have discovered me. However, they all disappeared in the wood; after which I breathed more freely, and proceeded to rub down my Arab with tufts of dry grass, and to wring out my wetted garments.All that day I travelled through the woods, and at times along the highways, avoiding even the Tartar herdsmen and field-labourers, steering in the direction of Sebastopol, guided by my tiny map and the sun; and towards nightfall I was lucky enough to meet with some French troops, though at first I narrowly escaped being shot by their advanced guard—a favour procured me by my Tambrov uniform. Luckily I could muster sufficient French to make myself known as an officer of her Britannic Majesty's service, and was conducted to the commander.These troops proved to be the 77th Regiment of the Infanterie de la Ligne, under Colonel Jean Louis Giomar, Commander of the Legion of Honour, on their march towards Sebastopol.I was in safety now, and was treated by him and his officers with every attention and kindness, and, in truth, after all I had undergone during the last twenty-four hours, I required both.The 77th had landed but a few days before fromLa Reine Blanche[*] a French ship of the line, in which the Emperor had revived the old Parisian name for Mary Queen of Scots.[*] Now an armour-clad, of six-inch iron plate.CHAPTER XLVII.In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which we felt from the pain of a recent injury and the pleasure of approaching vengeance.—VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.It was fully three weeks after the affair of the Belbeck river, when I found myself sharing Jack Studhome's quarters in Balaclava, after duly reporting myself to Colonel Beverley, and making special inquiries for Berkeley, who had already procured a few days' sick leave, prior to returning to Britain on "urgent private affairs," and was not with his regiment, but was very snug on board his own yacht, which for his convenience had come all the way from Cowes to Balaclava harbour."Leave—leave already—when we have barely broken ground before Sebastopol!" I exclaimed, with profound disgust."Already," said Studhome, with a grim smile, as he twisted up a cigarette, a luxury unknown to the "gentlemen of England" until introduced by returned Crimeans. "You may remember that I went home from India on sick leave, just before that Rangoon business.""That was annoying.""Not at all—I thought it would be a stupid concern, and I had a heavy book on the Oaks.""But you were, of course, ill.""What a Griff! Those who get home on sick leave are always in the best health. It is just like the 'urgent private affairs' of those who have swell friends in high places. Uncles who are grooms of the backstairs, and aunts who are ladies of the bedchamber. Take care of Dowb, you know, and Dowb will take deuced good care of himself.""Home to England!" I was almost stupefied with rage at the prospect of his escaping the speedy vengeance I had schemed out for him, after Studhome told me that he had had the daring effrontery to accuse me of shooting my own horse!"But now, Newton," said Jack, "for to-night, at least, not a word about Berkeley. The colonel, Travers, Wilford, the paymaster, Jocelyn, and Harry Scarlett are all coming here to sup with us jollily, in honour of your safe return, providing their own plates and spoons, of course. I omitted Scriven, because he is Berkeley's particular chum. To-morrow I'll get a boat and board his yacht. Confound the fellow! we must parade him—we must have him out now?""Or I shall shoot him in front of the line!" said I, grinding my teeth."Your Russian uniform would be quite in keeping with so melodramatic a situation. By Jove, you are a figure!" exclaimed Jack, turning me round, and surveying my Tambrov uniform with more amusement than admiration; but his own "turn out" was the most comical of the two, for the kind of work undergone since we landed had made serious alterations in the gay uniforms of our troops.Studhome had not enjoyed the luxury of washing his hands, perhaps, for a week; and as for shaving, that was never thought of now. All our officers had disembarked in their full uniforms. They had marched, fought, and slept in them; the lace was frayed, the gorgeous box-epaulettes all crushed, broken, and torn; the coats and trousers were a mass of mud; shakos and regulation caps had all disappeared, or, at least, the fez, the turban, the shawl, and the wide-awake were rapidly replacing them.Every officer had a canvas havresack wherein to carry those edibles he was lucky enough to beg, borrow, or find; a revolver, with belt and pouch, was strapped to his waist, and all had become bronzed, hairy, gaunt, and brigand-like in visage and expression. "Oh for the mantle of Fortunatus," says one in his letters, "to place such an officer all at once into his London haunts, and among the old familiar faces. Put him down in Pall Mall, or Piccadilly, or on the swelling carpets of the Junior United Service!"Such was the aspect of Lionel Beverley, that tall and stately soldier, and polished English gentleman; of Frank Jocelyn, our lisping dandy; of the usually clean-shaven M'Goldrick, our quaint old Scotch paymaster; of dashing young Sir Harry Scarlett, and all the rest of our once splendid lancer mess, most of whom came crowding into Jack's very queer bunk at Balaclava, to welcome me back among them, and hear the story of my adventures since I fell among the Russians.Seated on boxes, chests, the camp bed, and even on the floor, they jested, laughed, and smoked, while the din of the distant cannonade told how the work of death was going on ceaselessly at Sebastopol."We are now, Norcliff, fairly in for the business of the siege," said the colonel."Ugh! and a jolly and lucrative business it is likely to prove," added the paymaster, with a grimace."Welcome back, Norcliff, old fellow!" said Travers, shaking me warmly by the hand; "we must look up a kit for you somehow, and a remount too. Beverley has a second horse; but I think its tail was eaten off by Scarlett's bay mare when the corn fell short.""Our horses have no nosebags. Those infernal red-tape-worms in London are doing their best to destroy us," said Sir Harry Scarlett."Are Sir Nigel's suspicions to be right, after all?" thought I."You forget my Arab horse—my spoil from the enemy.""Well, gentlemen," said Studhome, who had been uncorking several bottles, "you shall supà la carte. I have a hare which is being jugged in that identical warming-pan which we picked up at Eskel; two golden plovers and a gallant bustard are being stewed with it. I shot the latter; the hare was caught by Travers' Kurdistan dog—a rough brute, like your Scotch staghounds, M'Goldrick. That is my kitchen," he added, pointing to a hole before the tent, in which some ashes were smouldering. "This is true Crimean fashion. Make a hole as a grate, and when you have aught to put in your kettle light a fire under it. 'Dost like the picture?' But here come the viands!"The stew, which had been prepared by Pitblado and Studhome's servant (both of whom officiated in their stablejackets), was certainly savoury enough in odour, though not quite such as we might have welcomed at the home mess-table. It steamed and spattered bravely in two large tin dishes; and with their contents, and some biscuits of Trieste flour from the bakery-shipAbundance(on board which twenty thousand pounds of bread were made daily, and yet the army starved), a piece of cheese, some fruit, and several bottles of Bass, sherry, and brandy, we resolved to make a night of it."'Od, it's a queer mess, this!" said that constitutional grumbler, M'Goldrick, as he fished away with his fork. "I doubt whether the mastodon or the megatherium of antediluvian times would have faced it. What do you call this, Studhome?""Come, don't mock the blessings of war, most learned Scot! That is the gizzard of a wild bustard. Help yourself and pass the sherry. Pitblado, uncork the Bass.""Wood is frightfully scarce here," said Travers. "Our fellows seized and burnt all the tent-poles and pegs of Hadji Mehmet's regiment of Bono Johnnies, and old Raglan made a devil of a row about it.""We are put to odd shifts, certainly," added the colonel, laughing; "and it is seldom a supper like this comes our way, Norcliff. The green coffee, pounded between two stones, is not the worst thing we have to encounter; for, after it is pounded, we have no fuel wherewith to boil it, and men are actually flogged for taking dry-wood from the beach. We must do our best to keep ourselves alive, though the Russians and red-tapists are doing theirs to make an end of us.""I have actually been thinking of turning Tartar, and speculating seriously on the merits of horseflesh," said Scarlett, as he tore away at a drumstick of the bustard. "I suppose you know that the chargers of the Heavies are dying like sheep with the rot?""Now, M'Goldrick, pass the bottle, will you!" said Jack. "By Jove! you Scotchmen are such slow fellows!""Slow or fast," growled the paymaster, "I don't know how in this war you would get on without us. You have the two Dundases, Charley Napier, Sir George Cathcart, two Campbells—Sir John and Sir Colin—Jamie Simpson, and Sir George Browne.""Anything you like; but pass the wine from right to left," said the jovial adjutant, who began to sing—Right about went horse and foot,Artillery and all,And as the devil left the house,They tumbled through the wall,WhenThey saw our light dragoons,With their long swords, boldly riding,Whack! fol de rol, &c.Amid this kind of merriment and banter, we heard ever and anon the thunder of the heavy guns from the batteries of Sebastopol, as they fired on the lines where our brave troops were working to get under cover—working with old spades and mattocks, which the Iron Duke had sent home as unserviceable from Spain—and I felt saddened by the idea that every boom which pealed in the distance was, perhaps, the knell of at least one human soul. I had other thoughts that made me grave and stern.No letters had reached me from home; nor had anything come, save an oldPunchor two, addressed in my uncle's handwriting. Even Cora was forgetting me!My blood was boiling against Berkeley. A long debt of cowardly wrong was about to be paid off, if he did not elude me by a hasty departure on leave. The clear grey eye of the colonel was fixed on me at times. He knew my thoughts; but he and the others, with the intuitive delicacy peculiar to well-educated and highly-bred men, forbore to speak of Berkeley, and the grave obligation which they were aware I was about to clear off in a manner that had become unusual now."You are listening to the cannon of the siege train," said Beverley. "We cavalry are in clover here, when compared to our poor infantry, who are potting the Russians like partridges, from amid the mud of the trenches.""Mud, thickened by blood, and fragments of shot and shell—a veritable Slough of Despond!" added the paymaster."There, in the rifle-pits, our advanced parties have fired till the grooves of their barrels are lined with lead, and their aching shoulders are black and blue with the kicking of the butt.""Yes, colonel; and if any one wishes to study the theory of sounds and atmospheric effects, my wigwam in the cavalry quarter is the very place," said Studhome. "Boom! there goes that Lancaster gun again. It must be playing old gooseberry with the Russians by moonlight. Only think of ten-inch shells, fired at point-blank range! I was up this morning at the trenches, and saw a long sixty-eight pounder from theTerriblebrought into position by the blue-jackets, to bear on a heavy gun on the left embrasure of the Mamelon. It was trained by a naval officer—a fine young fellow. The practice he made was perfect! The first shot tore away the left of the embrasure; the second struck the great gun full on the muzzle, shattering it, and then the eyes of the young officer flashed with delight! 'Bravo, my lads! load he again!' he exclaimed; and with the third shot he dismounted the gun completely. Lord Raglan then telegraphed to fire the sixty-eight every half hour, and effectually breach the Mamelon.""But before the order came, a shot struck our brave young sailor, and killed him on the spot," added the Colonel."His fall was sudden, and his interment as rapid as his demise," said Studhome; "he was buried beside the gun.""Poor fellow!" observed the Colonel, thoughtfully; "few would like to die thus. Yet that which was his fate to-day may be mine or yours to-morrow. This idea makes the memory, the heart, go home. We number those who love us there, and those whom we love. Their faces come before us, and their voices fall again on the ear. Little expressions and little episodes come vividly to mind. Shall we ever see them again, those home circles—those loved and treasured ones! Well, well; every bullet has its billet—duty is duty—(another old saw), and the first obligation of a soldier is obedience. And so we console ourselves, and hope on for the best, drowning dull care in the bottle, or boldly treading him under foot."The poor Colonel's words often came back to memory long after he led us to that terrible charge through the Valley of Death!Thus their conversation and anecdotes were all connected with the great siege then in progress; but after they had all retired, Studhome and I reverted, all at once, to the matter which was uppermost in my mind—the punishment of Berkeley."Take a caulker of cognac, Norcliff, and then turn in. Keep your head and your hand cool. I'll take a boat for his yacht afterreveillezto-morrow, and though he has got sick leave for a few days, he is not so sick that he can't hold a pistol.""Arrange this for me, Jack, and you shall win my lasting gratitude," said I, fervently.Jack shook me warmly by the hand, and then we betook us to our not over-luxurious couches for the night.When I awoke in the morning, Studhome had mounted and ridden off to the harbour.CHAPTER XLVIII.
CHAPTER XLVI.
BEN. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!Supper is done, and we shall come too late.ROMEO. I fear too early; for my mind misgives,Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,Shall bitterly begin his fearful dateWith this night's revels; and expire the termOf a despised life, closed in my breast,By some vile forfeit of untimely death:But he that hath the steerage of my courseDirects the sail!SHAKSPEARE.
BEN. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
BEN. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
ROMEO. I fear too early; for my mind misgives,Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,Shall bitterly begin his fearful dateWith this night's revels; and expire the termOf a despised life, closed in my breast,By some vile forfeit of untimely death:But he that hath the steerage of my courseDirects the sail!SHAKSPEARE.
ROMEO. I fear too early; for my mind misgives,
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,Shall bitterly begin his fearful dateWith this night's revels; and expire the termOf a despised life, closed in my breast,By some vile forfeit of untimely death:But he that hath the steerage of my courseDirects the sail!SHAKSPEARE.
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, closed in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death:
But he that hath the steerage of my course
Directs the sail!
SHAKSPEARE.
SHAKSPEARE.
The noon of the succeeding day saw me several miles from the Castle of Kourouk, and pursuing the rugged old Tartar highway that was to conduct me to Yekaterinoslav, under the escort of Trebitski's Cossacks, about a hundred of whom, armed with sabres, pistols, and lances, and carrying their forage, food, and in most instances, plunder, rode in double file on each side of a train ofkabitkas, which were filled with sick and wounded Russian soldiers, and, in a few instances, I saw Frenchmen among them.
Every jolt of those wretched waggons over the rough and rocky roads caused wounds to burst out afresh; groans and curses rose in the air, and blood was soon oozing or dripping through the salt-encrusted planking on the dusty highway.
Thesekabitkasare Tartar waggons, which are driven in vast numbers to Perecop for the conveyance of the salt, which, in the dry season—from June till August—lies on the plains or steppes so thick that they are usually driven axle-deep among it for loading.
A number of these waggons had been improvised by General Baur for ambulance purposes; and now I found myself seated in one, among some bloody and dirty straw, with three severely wounded men of the 45th, or Tambrov regiment, and a French officer, whose face was half hidden by a large bandage, discoloured by the blood of a sword-wound, which had laid open his right cheek.
Intent upon escape, I looked earnestly and constantly before me; but we were now traversing an undulating plain, that was dotted by a few trees, of strange aspect, and the flocks of the Nomadic Tartars. And as the path dipped down over an eminence, I took a last farewell, but certainly not "fond look," of Kourouk, with its two burnished domes, which glittered brightly in the sunshine, while the Mountain of the Tent looked faint and blue in distance.
Trebitski, the Cossack officer, had conceived, I knew why, a personal animosity for me; and ever and anon, as if he would anticipate any attempt on my part to escape, he hovered about thekabitkain which I was reclining, and recoiling in disgust from the grey-coated Muscovites who lay beside me, and whose presence made the air redolent of Stamboul tobacco, bloody bandages, and the Russian leather of their clumsy boots and coarse accoutrements.
One of the first acts of the pitiful Trebitski was to deprive me of a small basket of rations—cold fowl, wine, &c.—provided for me by the kindness of Vladimir Dahl and Captain Anitchoff, and to substitute in their place a meagre allowance of the black bread, salt, andvodkaused by the half-barbarian escort.
I determined to report this petty theft on reaching his head-quarters; but where were they?
At Yekaterinoslav, on the banks of the Dnieper, in the territory of the Cossacks of Azof, far over the desert plains that lie beyond the Isthmus of Perecop, whose vast fortress bars the way from the Crimea to the mainland of Europe.
My blood boiled up with vengeance against Berkeley, my betrayer, and my entire soul revolted at the prospect of such a heartless and hopeless journey, with a doubtful termination—a captivity, the end of which none could foresee; and the desire—a deep, clamorous, and heart-burning desire—of escape at any hazard grew strong within me; but I was without weapon, money, or a horse.
Oh, that I had but five minutes' start, with such an animal under me as that ridden by Trebitski, which was a beautiful and powerful Arab, whose actions were full of lightness and grace!
To increase my annoyance, this bearded commander got tipsy more than once on brandy and absinthe; and then he would shake his crooked sabre at me with many "strange oaths," of which I could make nothing; but I thought that, if some of those "wives and daughters of England," who think foreigners so interesting, had been with us in the Crimea, their ideas of continentals might have changed in favour of their more prosaic countrymen.
"Ouf! pst! pst!" I heard the wounded Frenchman muttering, as he raised himself from an uneasy doze, and looked about him with one eye, that glared wildly, for bandages concealed the other. "But for this devilish Crimean business, I should have been flirting in the Bois de Boulogne, lounging in the Gardens of the Tuileries, eating ices at Tortoni's, or drinking lemonade at a café chantant with la belle Rogolboche.Pst! pst! c'est le diable!" Then, addressing himself to me, he said, "Ah, le Cossaque!—yon devil of a Trebitski—is a shocking ruffian—a veritable brigand! Luckily, the Russian savage does not understand a word we say. He has stolen your rations, and left you—pah! what a dog wouldn't eat; but I have something better, and you shall dine with me."
"I thank you, monsieur," said I.
"Comrades in glory, we shall be friends in misfortune!" exclaimed the Frenchman, with great emphasis. While he ran on thus, something in his voice seemed familiar to me.
"You are, monsieur—you are——"
"Exactly, my friend; Victor Baudeuf, at your service—Captain of the French line."
"I thought you were killed at Alma!"
"Only half killed, as you may see. Pardieu! but who told you so?"
"Mademoiselle Sophie."
"The vivandière of the 2nd Zouaves?"
"Yes."
"Ah! she had always a spite at me—that dear little Sophie. You should see her riding at the head of the 2nd, with her canteen slung over her shoulder, and a cigarette between her little fingers, and a saucy twinkle in her bright eyes as she sings—
"Vivandière du régimentC'est Catin qu'on me nomme,Je vends, je donne, et bois gaimentMon vin et mon rogomme.
"Vivandière du régimentC'est Catin qu'on me nomme,Je vends, je donne, et bois gaimentMon vin et mon rogomme.
"Vivandière du régiment
C'est Catin qu'on me nomme,
C'est Catin qu'on me nomme,
Je vends, je donne, et bois gaiment
Mon vin et mon rogomme.
Mon vin et mon rogomme.
"I hope she may escape all this wild work, and see our beautiful France again. No, monsieur, I was not killed, but most severely wounded—left for dead—and thus fell into the hands of these beastly fellows. I remember you now, monsieur. We often met at Varna, at the Restaurant de l'Armée d'Orient. A droll den it was! And you remember Jules Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves. Poor Jules! A round shot finished him at Alma. He has gone to his last account. Heaven rest him! You are a Scotsman, I believe, though I always took you for a Jean Boule—àbiftek; and so you shall dine with me. 'Fier comme un Ecossais,' is still a proverb among us in France, in memory of the old times, which our Zouaves are about to renew, I think; for they boast themselves 'les Ecossais de l'Armée Française,' and fraternize like brothers with your sans culotte regiments, in what you call 'lakeelt.'"
All this sounded so like some of Toole's "French before breakfast," that I could almost have laughed at my garrulous friend, who produced from a small havresack, which he opened with his left hand—the right being severely shattered by a grape shot—one of thosepâtés de foies grasfor which Strasbourg is so famous; made from the livers of geese, after the poor birds have undergone a process there is no use in detailing here. Heaven knows how M. Baudeuf came by it, but the pâté, with his biscuit, he divided very liberally with me, and with the three wounded Russians, who shared with us the soft comforts of thekabitka, and whose glances of hungry appeal there was no resisting.
Aware that they knew not a word we were saying, we conversed freely; and I told the Frenchman that, as no parole had been offered us, we should escape together. He replied that the hazard was great; yet that he would have shared it with me, but for his shattered hand, which made him every way so helpless. He wished me every success, and gave me secretly a little map of the Crimea, which he had concealed in the lining of his tattered uniform; and this on every occasion I studied intently.
"Mutilated as I am, it is of no use to me," said he; "but may serve you,mon camarade, at a pinch."
It was small, and by Huot and Demidoff; but was extremely correct.
On our arrival at Karasu-bazar, sixteen or eighteen miles from Kourouk, I was separated from this pleasant Frenchman. I never saw him again, and have too much reason to fear that he perished amid the horrors of a catastrophe which ensued subsequently.
It was evening when, after traversing a pleasant valley, we entered Karasu-bazar, so slow had been the progress of our primitive train of cars, with their melancholy load of human suffering. Situated on the Karasu, an affluent of the Salghir, this town is the great wine and fruit mart of the Crimea; and there a strange rabble of Tartars in short jackets, with open sleeves, high caps, and high boots; Greeks in scarlet fez and baggy blue breeches; Russians, with fur caps and canvas doublets, trimmed with fur; and Armenians, in long, flowing garments, crowded around us.
These escorted us through the narrow and tortuous streets in the dusk. To attempt an escape there would be futile, notwithstanding that the Tambrov uniform which I wore seemed to favour the idea.
Darkness set in. We were closely guarded; and now I heard the shrill, vicious whistle of a railway engine, and found the train ofkabitkashalted near some wooden booths, where the wires and posts of a telegraph, a platform, and covered passenger shed, with other familiar features of the usual kind, indicated a railway station!
In fact, we had reached the head of a single track line of railroad, which had been hastily constructed for the conveyance of troops and munition of war a portion of the way towards Perecop; and probably it might have been carried to Arabat, at the head of the Putrid Sea, or to Sebastopol itself, but for the rapid advance of the Allies.
Roughly constructed and hastily laid down, it led from the banks of the Karasu I knew not at the time whither, as it was not depicted in the map given to me by Captain Baudeuf, from whom I was now, as I have said, separated.
We were all hurriedly thrust into carriages, or rather trucks, like those for conveying cattle in Britain, without seat or other accommodation, save a little straw for the miserable wounded, whose numbers were greatly augmented by some fugitives from Khutor-Mackenzie.
The line of trucks might be, I suppose, about forty, including one which bore the gallant Trebitski with his "Araby steed;" and three quaint and old-fashioned locomotives, with large wheels and high chimneys, were getting up their steam—one in front, one in rear, and one in the centre; and these, after much wheezing and puffing, screaming and clanking, with other discordant noises, got into motion simultaneously, and in the dark we shot away from the streets and bazaars of the Karasu, for where was yet a mystery to me.
The Cossack escort was now reduced to twenty dismounted men, who left their horses and lances behind them, and were distributed among the carriages; but luckily there were none in mine.
We had scarcely left the lights of the town behind us, when an odour of burning attracted my attention, and the attention of those who were penned up like sheep in the same truck with me. We could only communicate our fears by signs, and heads were constantly put forth on both sides of the train, and withdrawn, always with exclamations of excitement, while the alarming odour increased strongly.
The lines of rail were laid on sleepers of wood, and I imagined that, perhaps, the hot ashes dropping from the three engines might cause the smell of burning that was filling the air heavily, as we tore along past hills and rocks, the domes of village mosques, or churches, tipped with silver light by the rising moon; along wooden bridges that spanned hoarse and brawling mountain streams; across open wastes, where the millet, rye, and hemp had been reaped and gathered, or where the wild tobacco still grew; past slopes clothed by dark waving woods, the chestnut, the oak, and the wild pear tree, the rush of the train, and the scream of the engine scaring away the goshawks, the magpie, and kite from their nests; past round towers, arches, and aqueducts, the crumbling ruins of the old Genoese days; past where flocks and herds were grazing, till they fled on the noise of our approach.
And now the train dashed into a forest of pine and turpentine trees, through which it seemed to rush for miles upon miles, its speed augmenting every instant, while the odour of burning increased with every revolution of the wheels.
Anon, loud cries of terror and agony rang out at times upon the night breeze; and now a light—actual flames, other than those which came from the furnaces—occasionally shed its swift red gleam upon the gnarled tree stems that stood in thick ranks on each side of the way; and then came the appalling conviction upon all our minds that, in addition to having run off, or having been abandoned by its stupid Muscovite engine-drivers, the train was on fire!
In those open and rudely-constructed trucks, there were no windows to lower. I thrust my head through the nearest opening, and found that the two carriages in front of ours were a mass of flames, which burst forth fiercely from all the apertures, and these, as they rushed in streams behind, in consequence of the intense draught caused by the wild speed at which the train careered through the forest, were setting our carriage on fire also. Fortunately I was in the rear compartment, and for a time could look steadily ahead.
Oh, what a sight it was!
The footways on each side of the carriages that were on fire were literally alive with sick and wounded wretches, who had crept out, and now clung to the steps and handles, by which the guards usually clamber about, afraid alike to fall or cast themselves off; but every instant a shriek was heard, as the grasp of some maimed or feeble unfortunate relaxed, and he vanished from sight as the train swept on. Some fell into watercourses, some fell over banks, and were flung into the forest, the turpentine trees of which, in many places, were now in flames.
The straw amid which the more helpless wounded lay was soon on fire. Many of them were literally roasted alive, and I heard the pistols of the Cossacks exploding, as they went off in the heat, or as their despairing wearers shot themselves or each other.
The engine-drivers, for some reason unknown to me, must have jumped off and abandoned the train, for it swept through the forest unchecked, a mass of flames, from which the yells and shrieks were appalling. More than one carriage was literally burned down to its iron, all within perishing miserably.
Even at that desperate time the hope of escape grew strong within me, for every confusion was favourable. Being locked in on both sides, I crept through an aperture which served for a window, and found footing on the side gangway, with two or three others, who clung to the carriage and moaned fearfully, for the exertion had made their gunshot wounds burst out afresh. They soon dropped off, and I was left alone.
The rush of the glowing flames came hotly aft upon my face and hands. I saw the clinging mass ahead, swaying to and fro, their faces and figures reddened in the scorching glare, which lit up the line of rails like two red-hot wires that vanished into the forest—all this I saw for a moment, and a moment only.
I was about to drop off, and trust to Providence for the sequel, when there was a sudden shout, a crash, a vast shower of ruddy sparks, that seemed to fill the air with fire, a piercing yell, and then, in silence and darkness, I found myself rolling down a grassy bank for some twenty yards or so, until I was arrested from further harm by some soft tobacco plants, which there grew wild and thickly.
Unhurt, but greatly confused, and completely breathless I staggered up to look around me.
The coupling of two of the burning carriages had broken; they had tumbled heavily down the bank, breaking to pieces as they fell, scattering the brands of their blazing woodwork far and wide, killing outright some of the scorched and wounded occupants, several of whom I saw lying near me in the moonlight, blackened and mutilated, while the remainder of the train, with its three engines, all abandoned by their cowardly conductors, swept on its errand of destruction and death through the now flaming forest.
As I rose from amid the strange débris of smouldering wood and shattered iron, of dead or dying, and half-burned men, and was considering in which way to turn, I was met face to face by one whose right arm was broken, but who, nevertheless, uttered a hoarse and guttural malediction, with which I was not unfamiliar, having heard it frequently from his lips before. Drawing a pistol from his belt, with his left hand he levelled it at my head.
Luckily the percussion cap snapped, and the weapon hung fire. But to close with Trebitski—for he it was—to wrench the pistol away, and knock him mercilessly down with the butt-end, were all the work of a moment, and then I felt that I was "the monarch of all I surveyed."
I was turning away, when a peculiar snorting sound attracted my attention, and in a well-padded horse-box, which lay on its side far down the slope, I saw the head of Trebitski's Arab charger, as the poor animal lolled out its red tongue, and threw back its small close ears in terror and anger, for the sides of the horse-box were all scorched by flame; and the mere odour of fire is sufficient to inspire a horse with the most bewildering fear.
Here had Providence given me an additional chance for escape. But I had no time to lose; the train might be stopped by this time (though no sound, save the moans of the maimed, now disturbed the silence of that woody solitude), and succour might be sent to the sufferers, though human life is but little valued in Russia, and human suffering is viewed there with an amount of indifference that savours more of Asia than of Europe.
My dragoon knowledge served me usefully here. I contrived to calm and soothe the Arab horse, to unbuckle the braces that secured it in the partly-shattered stall, and it came forth, half-scrambling and half-crawling, trembling in every limb, and every fibre quivering under its glossy coat, which was flecked with white foam. Cowed, calmed, and terrified by the recent catastrophe, the horse was as docile as if Mr. Rarey had been whispering his magic in its ear.
A noble Arab, with all the peculiarities of its breed—the square forehead and fine black muzzle, the brilliant eyes and beautiful veins, the withers high and body light, and standing somewhere about fourteen hands and a half—it was whinnying, and rubbing its nose on my hand as if for protection and fellowship.
He was saddled and accoutred, and the bridle was hanging on the pommel.
In a moment I had it over his head, and buckled to perfection, the bridoon touching the corners of the mouth, but low enough not to wrinkle them.
I vaulted into the saddle, leaving the adjustment of the stirrups to a more leisure time, as Trebitski, in Cossack fashion, rode with his knees up to his elbows; and just as that redoubtable personage was reviving after his rough tap on the head, I dashed into the forest, and soon left the scene of suffering far behind me.
In several places the wood was on fire, and, being dry with the heat of the past summer, the branches and crisp leaves, particularly those of the turpentine trees, burned briskly. Thus I could see the wavering flames reddening the clouds above, while riding on, and ignorant of the route I was pursuing, through this dense old forest, the jungle and underwood at times completely retarding all progress.
I paused only to lengthen the stirrups, and give my newly-acquired steed—in which I began to feel all the interest of proprietorship—a draught at a runnel, and then sought the recesses of the densest thicket I could find to wait for day, that I might look warily about, and consider what to do next, for, if taken with the horse of the Parooschick Adrian Trebitski in my possession, the chances of being shot, or sent to life-long slavery, were great. Anyway, I feared there would be a vacant troop in Her Majesty's lancers—a troop, perhaps, given to Berkeley; and I feared that few Russian officers like the gay young Anitchoff or kind old Vladimir Dahl might come in my way again.
My more immediate fear was for the wolves, which there roam in packs, and were, no doubt, by this time howling and snarling among the victims on the railroad. If any of them scented me, I should have to take refuge in a pine, where I might be starved to death, after they had devoured my horse.
Every sound startled me; but I heard only the occasional gobble of the wild bustards, which usually go in great flocks through all the wild places of the Crimea.
I unbitted the Arab, and let him graze, but hobbled him so that he could not escape; and as day began to steal redly through the distant dingles of the wood, the light slowly descending from the summits to the lower stems of the lofty pines, I found some wild grapes whereon to breakfast, and quench the fierce thirst which recent excitement had induced.
When the light sufficed I drew forth the map given me by poor Captain Baudeuf, and began to study my whereabouts. Through the openings of the trees I could see, about a mile distant, the current of a broad and evidently deep river shining in the morning sun.
The railway had not, to my knowledge, crossed such a stream; it flowed from the west towards the east; hence, from its magnitude, it could only be the Salghir, which, after being joined by the Karasu, flows into the Putrid Sea.
This stream has usually little water in its bed, save after the melting of the winter snows; but recent rains among the mountains of Ac-Metchet had swollen it beyond its usual size. And now I beheld what must have been a bend or sweep of it flowing between me and the tract of country where our armies lay—the tract that stretched away towards Sevastopol, which I supposed to be at least a hundred miles distant; and that idea afterwards proved to be correct.
For a time my spirit quailed at the prospect before me. I was nearly in the middle of the savage and hostile Crimea, ignorant of the many languages spoken there, ignorant of the roads, and with no money to bribe or arms to intimidate.
No house or town was visible, or a sign of any living thing, save the goldfinches that twittered in the trees, and the heron and wild duck that waded or squattered among the green weeds and long trailers on the bank of the rushing stream. The latter was nearly eighty yards broad. I knew that it must be crossed, as the south side was the safest. Crossed! but how?
While considering this, the sound of a Cossack trumpet among the woodlands in my rear gave me a nervous start, and made me resolve on instant action. I put my treasured map carefully away, mounted, and urged my horse at once to the bank of the river.
I took my feet out of the stirrups, which I then crossed above the saddle—a precaution no dragoon or other horseman should ever forget when about to cross a river mounted; for if the horse should sink his hind-legs to seek for footing, or, worse still, should he "turn a turtle," while the rider's feet are in the stirrups, the most fatal results may ensue, and he will be helplessly drowned.
I was without spurs, yet I rushed him at the stream, for there are times when rider and horse feel as one. He took the water well, and struck out bravely, for I leant well forward, so that my body rested on his crest. I had no occasion to touch the rein or use the bit; but steered him by a switch torn from a tree.
With his neck stretched out like that of a dog, he swam coolly and steadily across, with the ripples of the water under my armpits. When he grounded, and scrambled up the other side, I dismounted, and led him by the bridle into a thicket beyond.
This was scarcely achieved, when some tall lances glittered on the other side of the stream, where a party of twelve Cossacks were scouting; and had my horse neighed they must have discovered me. However, they all disappeared in the wood; after which I breathed more freely, and proceeded to rub down my Arab with tufts of dry grass, and to wring out my wetted garments.
All that day I travelled through the woods, and at times along the highways, avoiding even the Tartar herdsmen and field-labourers, steering in the direction of Sebastopol, guided by my tiny map and the sun; and towards nightfall I was lucky enough to meet with some French troops, though at first I narrowly escaped being shot by their advanced guard—a favour procured me by my Tambrov uniform. Luckily I could muster sufficient French to make myself known as an officer of her Britannic Majesty's service, and was conducted to the commander.
These troops proved to be the 77th Regiment of the Infanterie de la Ligne, under Colonel Jean Louis Giomar, Commander of the Legion of Honour, on their march towards Sebastopol.
I was in safety now, and was treated by him and his officers with every attention and kindness, and, in truth, after all I had undergone during the last twenty-four hours, I required both.
The 77th had landed but a few days before fromLa Reine Blanche[*] a French ship of the line, in which the Emperor had revived the old Parisian name for Mary Queen of Scots.
[*] Now an armour-clad, of six-inch iron plate.
CHAPTER XLVII.
In this manner we all sat ruminating upon schemes of vengeance, when our little boy came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was approaching at the other end of the field. It is easier to conceive than describe the complicated sensations which we felt from the pain of a recent injury and the pleasure of approaching vengeance.—VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.
It was fully three weeks after the affair of the Belbeck river, when I found myself sharing Jack Studhome's quarters in Balaclava, after duly reporting myself to Colonel Beverley, and making special inquiries for Berkeley, who had already procured a few days' sick leave, prior to returning to Britain on "urgent private affairs," and was not with his regiment, but was very snug on board his own yacht, which for his convenience had come all the way from Cowes to Balaclava harbour.
"Leave—leave already—when we have barely broken ground before Sebastopol!" I exclaimed, with profound disgust.
"Already," said Studhome, with a grim smile, as he twisted up a cigarette, a luxury unknown to the "gentlemen of England" until introduced by returned Crimeans. "You may remember that I went home from India on sick leave, just before that Rangoon business."
"That was annoying."
"Not at all—I thought it would be a stupid concern, and I had a heavy book on the Oaks."
"But you were, of course, ill."
"What a Griff! Those who get home on sick leave are always in the best health. It is just like the 'urgent private affairs' of those who have swell friends in high places. Uncles who are grooms of the backstairs, and aunts who are ladies of the bedchamber. Take care of Dowb, you know, and Dowb will take deuced good care of himself."
"Home to England!" I was almost stupefied with rage at the prospect of his escaping the speedy vengeance I had schemed out for him, after Studhome told me that he had had the daring effrontery to accuse me of shooting my own horse!
"But now, Newton," said Jack, "for to-night, at least, not a word about Berkeley. The colonel, Travers, Wilford, the paymaster, Jocelyn, and Harry Scarlett are all coming here to sup with us jollily, in honour of your safe return, providing their own plates and spoons, of course. I omitted Scriven, because he is Berkeley's particular chum. To-morrow I'll get a boat and board his yacht. Confound the fellow! we must parade him—we must have him out now?"
"Or I shall shoot him in front of the line!" said I, grinding my teeth.
"Your Russian uniform would be quite in keeping with so melodramatic a situation. By Jove, you are a figure!" exclaimed Jack, turning me round, and surveying my Tambrov uniform with more amusement than admiration; but his own "turn out" was the most comical of the two, for the kind of work undergone since we landed had made serious alterations in the gay uniforms of our troops.
Studhome had not enjoyed the luxury of washing his hands, perhaps, for a week; and as for shaving, that was never thought of now. All our officers had disembarked in their full uniforms. They had marched, fought, and slept in them; the lace was frayed, the gorgeous box-epaulettes all crushed, broken, and torn; the coats and trousers were a mass of mud; shakos and regulation caps had all disappeared, or, at least, the fez, the turban, the shawl, and the wide-awake were rapidly replacing them.
Every officer had a canvas havresack wherein to carry those edibles he was lucky enough to beg, borrow, or find; a revolver, with belt and pouch, was strapped to his waist, and all had become bronzed, hairy, gaunt, and brigand-like in visage and expression. "Oh for the mantle of Fortunatus," says one in his letters, "to place such an officer all at once into his London haunts, and among the old familiar faces. Put him down in Pall Mall, or Piccadilly, or on the swelling carpets of the Junior United Service!"
Such was the aspect of Lionel Beverley, that tall and stately soldier, and polished English gentleman; of Frank Jocelyn, our lisping dandy; of the usually clean-shaven M'Goldrick, our quaint old Scotch paymaster; of dashing young Sir Harry Scarlett, and all the rest of our once splendid lancer mess, most of whom came crowding into Jack's very queer bunk at Balaclava, to welcome me back among them, and hear the story of my adventures since I fell among the Russians.
Seated on boxes, chests, the camp bed, and even on the floor, they jested, laughed, and smoked, while the din of the distant cannonade told how the work of death was going on ceaselessly at Sebastopol.
"We are now, Norcliff, fairly in for the business of the siege," said the colonel.
"Ugh! and a jolly and lucrative business it is likely to prove," added the paymaster, with a grimace.
"Welcome back, Norcliff, old fellow!" said Travers, shaking me warmly by the hand; "we must look up a kit for you somehow, and a remount too. Beverley has a second horse; but I think its tail was eaten off by Scarlett's bay mare when the corn fell short."
"Our horses have no nosebags. Those infernal red-tape-worms in London are doing their best to destroy us," said Sir Harry Scarlett.
"Are Sir Nigel's suspicions to be right, after all?" thought I.
"You forget my Arab horse—my spoil from the enemy."
"Well, gentlemen," said Studhome, who had been uncorking several bottles, "you shall supà la carte. I have a hare which is being jugged in that identical warming-pan which we picked up at Eskel; two golden plovers and a gallant bustard are being stewed with it. I shot the latter; the hare was caught by Travers' Kurdistan dog—a rough brute, like your Scotch staghounds, M'Goldrick. That is my kitchen," he added, pointing to a hole before the tent, in which some ashes were smouldering. "This is true Crimean fashion. Make a hole as a grate, and when you have aught to put in your kettle light a fire under it. 'Dost like the picture?' But here come the viands!"
The stew, which had been prepared by Pitblado and Studhome's servant (both of whom officiated in their stablejackets), was certainly savoury enough in odour, though not quite such as we might have welcomed at the home mess-table. It steamed and spattered bravely in two large tin dishes; and with their contents, and some biscuits of Trieste flour from the bakery-shipAbundance(on board which twenty thousand pounds of bread were made daily, and yet the army starved), a piece of cheese, some fruit, and several bottles of Bass, sherry, and brandy, we resolved to make a night of it.
"'Od, it's a queer mess, this!" said that constitutional grumbler, M'Goldrick, as he fished away with his fork. "I doubt whether the mastodon or the megatherium of antediluvian times would have faced it. What do you call this, Studhome?"
"Come, don't mock the blessings of war, most learned Scot! That is the gizzard of a wild bustard. Help yourself and pass the sherry. Pitblado, uncork the Bass."
"Wood is frightfully scarce here," said Travers. "Our fellows seized and burnt all the tent-poles and pegs of Hadji Mehmet's regiment of Bono Johnnies, and old Raglan made a devil of a row about it."
"We are put to odd shifts, certainly," added the colonel, laughing; "and it is seldom a supper like this comes our way, Norcliff. The green coffee, pounded between two stones, is not the worst thing we have to encounter; for, after it is pounded, we have no fuel wherewith to boil it, and men are actually flogged for taking dry-wood from the beach. We must do our best to keep ourselves alive, though the Russians and red-tapists are doing theirs to make an end of us."
"I have actually been thinking of turning Tartar, and speculating seriously on the merits of horseflesh," said Scarlett, as he tore away at a drumstick of the bustard. "I suppose you know that the chargers of the Heavies are dying like sheep with the rot?"
"Now, M'Goldrick, pass the bottle, will you!" said Jack. "By Jove! you Scotchmen are such slow fellows!"
"Slow or fast," growled the paymaster, "I don't know how in this war you would get on without us. You have the two Dundases, Charley Napier, Sir George Cathcart, two Campbells—Sir John and Sir Colin—Jamie Simpson, and Sir George Browne."
"Anything you like; but pass the wine from right to left," said the jovial adjutant, who began to sing—
Right about went horse and foot,Artillery and all,And as the devil left the house,They tumbled through the wall,WhenThey saw our light dragoons,With their long swords, boldly riding,Whack! fol de rol, &c.
Right about went horse and foot,Artillery and all,And as the devil left the house,They tumbled through the wall,WhenThey saw our light dragoons,With their long swords, boldly riding,Whack! fol de rol, &c.
Right about went horse and foot,
Artillery and all,
Artillery and all,
And as the devil left the house,
They tumbled through the wall,When
They tumbled through the wall,
When
When
They saw our light dragoons,
With their long swords, boldly riding,
Whack! fol de rol, &c.
Whack! fol de rol, &c.
Amid this kind of merriment and banter, we heard ever and anon the thunder of the heavy guns from the batteries of Sebastopol, as they fired on the lines where our brave troops were working to get under cover—working with old spades and mattocks, which the Iron Duke had sent home as unserviceable from Spain—and I felt saddened by the idea that every boom which pealed in the distance was, perhaps, the knell of at least one human soul. I had other thoughts that made me grave and stern.
No letters had reached me from home; nor had anything come, save an oldPunchor two, addressed in my uncle's handwriting. Even Cora was forgetting me!
My blood was boiling against Berkeley. A long debt of cowardly wrong was about to be paid off, if he did not elude me by a hasty departure on leave. The clear grey eye of the colonel was fixed on me at times. He knew my thoughts; but he and the others, with the intuitive delicacy peculiar to well-educated and highly-bred men, forbore to speak of Berkeley, and the grave obligation which they were aware I was about to clear off in a manner that had become unusual now.
"You are listening to the cannon of the siege train," said Beverley. "We cavalry are in clover here, when compared to our poor infantry, who are potting the Russians like partridges, from amid the mud of the trenches."
"Mud, thickened by blood, and fragments of shot and shell—a veritable Slough of Despond!" added the paymaster.
"There, in the rifle-pits, our advanced parties have fired till the grooves of their barrels are lined with lead, and their aching shoulders are black and blue with the kicking of the butt."
"Yes, colonel; and if any one wishes to study the theory of sounds and atmospheric effects, my wigwam in the cavalry quarter is the very place," said Studhome. "Boom! there goes that Lancaster gun again. It must be playing old gooseberry with the Russians by moonlight. Only think of ten-inch shells, fired at point-blank range! I was up this morning at the trenches, and saw a long sixty-eight pounder from theTerriblebrought into position by the blue-jackets, to bear on a heavy gun on the left embrasure of the Mamelon. It was trained by a naval officer—a fine young fellow. The practice he made was perfect! The first shot tore away the left of the embrasure; the second struck the great gun full on the muzzle, shattering it, and then the eyes of the young officer flashed with delight! 'Bravo, my lads! load he again!' he exclaimed; and with the third shot he dismounted the gun completely. Lord Raglan then telegraphed to fire the sixty-eight every half hour, and effectually breach the Mamelon."
"But before the order came, a shot struck our brave young sailor, and killed him on the spot," added the Colonel.
"His fall was sudden, and his interment as rapid as his demise," said Studhome; "he was buried beside the gun."
"Poor fellow!" observed the Colonel, thoughtfully; "few would like to die thus. Yet that which was his fate to-day may be mine or yours to-morrow. This idea makes the memory, the heart, go home. We number those who love us there, and those whom we love. Their faces come before us, and their voices fall again on the ear. Little expressions and little episodes come vividly to mind. Shall we ever see them again, those home circles—those loved and treasured ones! Well, well; every bullet has its billet—duty is duty—(another old saw), and the first obligation of a soldier is obedience. And so we console ourselves, and hope on for the best, drowning dull care in the bottle, or boldly treading him under foot."
The poor Colonel's words often came back to memory long after he led us to that terrible charge through the Valley of Death!
Thus their conversation and anecdotes were all connected with the great siege then in progress; but after they had all retired, Studhome and I reverted, all at once, to the matter which was uppermost in my mind—the punishment of Berkeley.
"Take a caulker of cognac, Norcliff, and then turn in. Keep your head and your hand cool. I'll take a boat for his yacht afterreveillezto-morrow, and though he has got sick leave for a few days, he is not so sick that he can't hold a pistol."
"Arrange this for me, Jack, and you shall win my lasting gratitude," said I, fervently.
Jack shook me warmly by the hand, and then we betook us to our not over-luxurious couches for the night.
When I awoke in the morning, Studhome had mounted and ridden off to the harbour.
CHAPTER XLVIII.