While the table was being cleared Brenda left the room on some small errand, and Mrs. Wylie literally pounced upon the newspaper the moment the door was closed. With practised hand and eye she sought the column containing foreign intelligence. Eagerly she scanned the closely-printed lines, but disappointment was the evident result.
'Not a word,' she reflected—'not a word. But perhaps that is all the worse. Theo is coming down here for some specific reason, I am sure. Either to say good-bye or ... or for something else. War—war—war! I feel it in the air!'
And the good lady stood there in the bow-window gazing through the rime-shaded panes away across the moor, over the green and mournful sea. Her clever gray eyes were half-closed, owing to a peculiar contraction of the eyelids—a little habit she indulged in when thinking in her brave cheery way of those things, my sisters, which you have greater leisure to meditate over than we men—of the happiness and the great joy we seem ever about to grasp, and which with melancholy invariability slips through our earthly fingers, fades from our earthly eyes. I sometimes think that when other women would have wept Mrs. Wylie contracted her eyelids, set her lips, and looked 'very courageous and of a good faith.'
Unconsciously she was looking away towards the east, to those mysterious lands, whence so many chapters of the world's history have been drawn.
It happened that there were some warm balmy days towards the end of March, and on one of these Theodore Trist arrived at Wyvenwich. Mrs. Wylie and Brenda were on the little platform to meet him, and the elder lady, in her practical way, noted the lightness of his baggage and drew her own conclusions.
They walked to Wyl's Hall through the High Street of the little town, down towards the sea, up a steep path on the cliff, and finally across the moor. All green things were budding, tender shoots and bold weeds alike. Overhead the larks were singing in gladsome chorus. Side by side the three friends walked, and talked of ... the weather. I mention it because none of the three took much interest in the matter, as a rule, nor ever talked of it.
'Spring is upon us again,' Mrs. Wylie had said during the first pause.
'Yes,' answered Trist; 'this weather always makes me restless.'
'More so than usual?' inquired Brenda innocently.
Trist looked at her sideways.
'Yes,' he murmured, 'more so than usual. I suppose a new fund of energy creeps into my somnolent being.'
'Do you really believe,' inquired Mrs. Wylie, with exceeding great interest, 'that the weather has so much effect upon one as that?'
'I am sure of it. There is no denying the fact that in the springtime, when all things are beginning to grow, men grow energetic. If they be working, they work harder; fighting, fight harder; playing, play harder. The majority of events happen in the first six months of the year.'
'So the unexpected may be expected before July,' suggested Mrs. Wylie quietly.
'That may be expected at all times.'
Thus they talked on in vague commonplaces, not entirely devoid of a second meaning perhaps. Brenda scarcely joined in the conversation. It was enough for her to listen to these two strangely assorted friends, who seemed to her analytical mind to be rather different in each other's company than they were before the rest of the world. She never quite lost her youthful habit of studying human minds—picking them to pieces, dissecting them, assigning motives, seeking reasons—and her belief in the influence of one will over another (even at a distance) was singularly strong. She was pleased to consider that Theodore Trist and Mrs. Wylie possessed some hidden sympathies in common beyond the mere ties of friendship; and it is probable that she gained some instruction and perhaps a little benefit in watching their intercourse. Certain it is that each in turn spoke to the other as he or she spoke to no one else. Each possessed a power of bringing out certain qualities in the other, which power was unique. And so Brenda, who was at no time a talkative woman, listened in silence as they walked home to Wyl's Hall across the deserted moor.
When they had reached the house the girl went upstairs to remove her hat and jacket, leaving her two companions together in the library. This was a good-sized room, with a broad old-fashioned bow-window, of which even the panes of glass were curved, while all round it there was a low window-seat softly cushioned. In the broad fireplace some logs of driftwood burnt slowly and silently, with a steady glow of heat, as only driftwood burns.
Trist went straight to the window and stood in the centre of it, with his strong lean hands hanging idly. His eyes were soft and meek and dreamy as ever, while his limbs seemed full of strength and energy. The old incongruity was still apparent.
Mrs. Wylie followed him, and seated herself by the window at the end of the bow, so that the man's profile was visible to her. Thus they remained for some seconds; then he turned with grave deliberation and met her steady gaze.
'Well...?' she inquired.
'Well...?' he reiterated.
'How long are you going to stay?'
'Till Monday.'
'This being Friday...'
He signified assent and turned away again.
'Why have you come?' asked Mrs. Wylie abruptly, after a short pause.
This time he avoided meeting her eyes by the simple expedient of staring out of the window.
'I do not know...' he replied, with some hesitation.
'Yes ... you do!'
He wheeled round upon his heels and looked down at her with an aggravatingly gentle smile.
'Yes, Theo, you do! Why have you come?'
'May I not be allowed,' he asked lightly, 'a certain desire to see you and ... Brenda?'
'You may,' she replied; 'but that is not the reason of your coming.'
She settled herself more comfortably on the window-seat, laid aside her muff, loosened her jacket, and composed herself to a long wait with a cheery determination eminently characteristic.
'In the spring ...' he began, in a patient voice which seemed to contain the promise of a long story.
'The young man's fancy...' continued Mrs. Wylie.
'Lightly turns,' he said gravely, taking up the thread, 'to thoughts of ... war.'
At the last word he lowered his voice suddenly, and turned upon her as if to see its effect. She merely raised her eyebrows and looked at him speculatively. At last she gave a little nod of the head, signifying comprehension.
'Then you have come to say—good-bye?'
Here her voice failed a little. With care she could have prevented such an occurrence; but perhaps she spoke a trifle recklessly—perhaps she did not care to conceal the feeling which was betrayed by that passing break in her mellow sympathetic tones. When it was too late, she closed her lips with a small snap of determination, and looked up at him smiling defiantly.
'Not necessarily,' he replied coolly. 'It may mean that; or, at least, it may mean that I am summoned away at such short notice that there will be no opportunity of coming again. Personally, I should prefer it to be so. The pastime of saying good-bye may possess a certain sentimental value, but it is a weakness which is best avoided.'
Mrs. Wylie continued to watch the young man's face with speculative criticism. It is just possible that she suspected him of talking nonsense, as it were, against time or against himself.
'Is your information of a general description, or have you certain advice that war is imminent?'
Trist smiled almost apologetically as he replied, with caution:
'I have reason to believe that there will be a big war before the summer.'
'Turkey and Russia, of course?'
'Yes.'
'And you go with Turkey, I suppose?'
'Yes.'
'The losing side again?' inquired Mrs. Wylie diplomatically.
'Probably; but not without a good fight for it. It will not be such an easy matter as the Russians imagine.'
'Where will you be?' asked the persistent lady. 'At Constantinople or...'
'At the front!' said Trist.
The widow turned aside and looked out of the window. Across the moor, on the edge of the cliff, a coastguardsman was pacing backwards and forwards with a measured tread acquired at sea, and from the window they watched him in a mechanical, semi-interested way.
'Do you know,' said Mrs. Wylie at length, in a half-shamefaced way, 'I believe I am beginning to lose my nerve. Is it a foretaste of approaching old age? I really believe I am going to be anxious about you.'
Her semi-bantering tone justified Trist's easy laugh. He took it for granted that Mrs. Wylie was not speaking seriously.
'You must not allow yourself,' he expostulated, 'to get into bad habits of that sort.'
'Still,' argued the widow in the same tone, 'I do not see why you should be free from the restraining and salutary feeling that there is someone waiting for you at home.'
It was hard to tell whether Mrs. Wylie meant more than the mere words conveyed or no. Trist seemed to hesitate before replying.
'I am never free from that—but it is not necessary; my foolhardy days are over.'
'And this is to be the last time?' said Mrs. Wylie, consoling herself.
'Yes. The last time!'
There was a strange, hard ring in the young wanderer's tone as he echoed the foreboding words and turned gravely away. The sound seemed to strike some sympathetic chord in the good lady's heart, for she, too, looked almost mournful.
'I would give a good deal to have you safe back again,' murmured Mrs. Wylie in an undertone. The remark was hardly addressed to him, and he allowed it to pass unnoticed. Presently, however, he turned and looked into her face with some anxiety depicted on his calm features. Then he took a step or two nearer to her.
'This will never do,' he said gravely, standing in front of her with his strong hands clenched.
She gave rather a lame little laugh, and looked up with a deprecating glance.
'Theo, I am afraid I am not so plucky as I used to be. My nerve is gone. I think I left it ... at Fjaerholm.'
He made no reply, but merely stood by her in his silent manliness, and from his presence she somehow gathered comfort, as women do—from your presence and mine sometimes. Although we be of coarser fibre, failing to grasp the hidden pathos of everyday life—the little trials, the petty sorrows; failing often to divine the motives that grow out of a finer, truer, nobler nature than ours, and always failing to appreciate the unselfishness of woman's love—despite all these, our presence is at times a comfort because of the greater strength that does or should lie within us.
No reference had hitherto been made between Mrs. Wylie and Trist to the events attending the last voyage of theHermione. A year had not yet elapsed, and the Admiral's name was still avoided. Trist was of a singularly sympathetic nature, although he evinced some contempt for death itself, which was a mere matter of familiarity; and it was his creed that things and names which cause a pang of sorrow are best left in oblivion. Mrs. Wylie was outwardly little changed, but he knew that the wound was by no means healed, and he had, therefore, allowed all recollection of theHermione'ssorrowful voyage to die from his memory. No doubt the great healer Time would do for Mrs. Wylie what he has done for us all since the days of Adam—but it was too soon yet. In the annals of sorrow a year is no long period. It has often struck me that we have to lament over one singular trait in the mechanism of the human mind. It is a pity that the effect of joy is so short-lived, while sorrow holds its own so long. There are so many varieties of sorrow that by the time we have tasted most of them and have become accustomed to the flavour, life itself is at an end, and lo! we have had no time to enjoy its pleasures by reason of the years spent in wrestling with woe.
Theo Trist held his peace sympathetically and yet without encouragement. Mrs. Wylie no doubt understood his motive, for they possessed in common that desire of concealing the seamy side which Brenda had characterized as cowardly. In her strong young courage (self-assertive as all young virtues are) she seemed to take a pride in facing untoward things—indeed, she sought them; while these two, in their greater experience, slurred them over as a clever painter slurs over certain accessories in his picture, in order that the brighter objects may stand more firmly on the face of the canvas.
'Nevertheless,' he said more cheerily, returning to the original question, 'you are the pluckiest woman I have ever met! You must not give way to this habit of anxiety, for it is nothing but a habit—a sort of moral cowardice. It serves no purpose. An over-anxious man misses his opportunities by moving too soon; an over-anxious woman has no peace in life, because she can do nothing but watch.'
Mrs. Wylie laughed pleasantly.
'No!' she exclaimed, with determination. 'It is all right, Theo; I will not give way to it. My anxiety is only anticipatory; when the moment comes I am generally up to the mark.'
With a brave smile she nodded to him and moved towards the door, carrying her gloves and muff. He followed in order to open the door, for he had some strange, old-fashioned notions of politeness which promise to become fossilized before the end of the century.
'Will it be a long war?' she asked, before passing out of the room.
He answered without deliberation, as if he had already pondered over the question at leisure with a decisive result.
'I think so. It will go on all through the summer and autumn. As things get worse, Turkey will probably pull herself together. It is a way she has. It may even continue actively right on into the winter. The Turks will be on the defensive, which suits them exactly. Put a Turk into a trench with a packet of cigarettes, a little food, a rifle, and a sackful of cartridges, and it will take a considerable number of Russians to get him out.'
'I hope it will not extend into the winter,' said Mrs. Wylie, as she left the room.
'So do I.'
He closed the door and walked slowly back towards the bow-window. There he stood staring out with eyes that saw but understood not, for many minutes.
'I am notquitesure,' he muttered at last, 'that I have done a wise thing in coming to Wyl's Hall!'
In the course of a few hours Theodore Trist was quite at home at Wyl's Hall. These three people had lived together before, and knew each other's little ways. Mrs. Wylie, the personification of comfort—Theo Trist, possessing no real comprehension of the word—Brenda, midway between them, with a youthful faculty for adapting herself to either. The narrow limits of a ship soon break down the smaller social barriers, and the memory of life on board theHermioneknitted the inmates of Wyl's Hall in a close and pleasant familiarity. At times, indeed, the union of the three around the fireside or at table seemed to emphasize the absence of the fourth, to suggest the vacancy caused by the stillness of a pleasant voice, the absence of a fine old face. But this slight shadow was not unpleasant, because it had no great contrast to show it up. None of the three was hilarious, but there was a pleasant sociability, which for every-day use is superior to the most brilliant flashes of wit.
Very soon the old, semi-serious style of conversation found place again. Brenda fell into her former habit of listening (too silently, perhaps) to Mrs. Wylie and Theo, accusing them at times of cynicism and worldliness. Old questions came to life again—unfinished discussions were renewed. Everything seemed to suggest theHermione.
Again and again Mrs. Wylie found herself watching the two young people thus thrown together, and on each occasion she remembered how she had watched them before to no purpose. Since the pleasant summer days spent in the Heimdalfjord many incidents had come with their petty influences, and yet these two were in no way altered towards each other. One great difference was ever before her eyes, and yet she could not detect its result. Alice Huston was now a free woman, and if Trist loved her, there was no reason why he should not win her in the end; indeed, there was great cause to suppose that the matter should be easy to him. And yet there was no change in his manner towards the girl who, in all human probability, was destined to be his sister-in-law. The old half-chivalrous, half-brotherly way of addressing her and listening to her reply was still noticeable; and it puzzled the widow greatly. But Brenda seemed to take it as a matter of course. This man was different to all other men in her estimation; it was only natural that his manner towards her should be unlike that of others. And now a subtle change took place in Mrs. Wylie's mind. On board theHermioneshe had been convinced that if any woman possessed an influence over Theo Trist, that woman was Alice Huston. (The widow was too experienced, too practical, too farsighted to attempt a definition of this fascination exercised by a woman of inferior intellect over a man infinitely her superior in every way.) Now she was equally sure that Trist was moved by no warmth of love towards the beautiful young widow who had so openly thrown herself in his path.
One trifling alteration seemed to present itself occasionally to the good lady's watchful eyes, and this was a well-hidden fear of being left alone together. Whether this emanated from Theo or Brenda it was impossible to say, but its presence was unmistakable, and, moreover, whatever its origin may have been it was now mutual. At one time they had possessed a thousand topics of common interest, and found in each other's conversation an unfailing pleasure. Now they both talked to her, using her almost as an intermediary.
On the Saturday morning, while dressing, the widow meditated over these things, and in the afternoon she deliberately sent her two guests out for a walk together. About three miles down the coast, in the very centre of the marsh lying to the south of Mizzen Heath Moor, was a ruined lighthouse, long since superseded by a lightship riding on the newly-formed sandbank four miles off the shore. In this ruin lived an old marshman, in whose welfare Mrs. Wylie appeared suddenly to have taken a great interest. For him, accordingly, a parcel was made up, and the two young people were despatched immediately after lunch.
Mention has already been made of Mrs. Wylie's nervous abhorrence of any interference in what she was pleased to consider other people's affairs. In this matter she had at last made up her mind to act, because she loved these two as her own children, and there was in her kindly heart a haunting fear that they were about to make a muddle of their lives.
A slight haze lay over the land as the two young people made their way across the moor towards the coastguard-path—a narrow footway forever changing its devious course before the encroaching sea. Before their eyes lay a vast plain, intersected here and there with watercourse or sluice; while away to the southward rose a blue barrier of distant hill. Inland, the meadows were green and lush; while nearer to the sea the grass grew sparsely, and there were small plots of sand and shingle nourishing nought but unsightly thistles.
Already the clouds were freeing themselves from winter heaviness, and in their manifold combinations there was that suggestion of still distance which is characteristic of our English summer days, and has its equal in no other land, over no other sea.
The yellow sun was high in the heavens, with nothing more formidable to obstruct its rays than a slight shimmering haze. The air was light and balmy—indeed, in earth and air and sea there was a subtle buoyancy which tells of coming spring, and creates in men's hearts a braver contemplation of life.
It was, I think, a dangerous hour to send two young people away across the lonesome marshland alone together. Nevertheless, Mrs. Wylie watched them depart without a pang of remorse or a sting of conscience. Indeed, she calculated the risk with equanimity.
'I think,' she reflected, 'that this walk to the old lighthouse will be one of those trifling incidents which seem to remain engraved in our hearts long after the memory of greater events has passed away. They are both self-contained and resolute, but no human being is quite beyond the influence of outward things.'
For some time the two young people spoke in a scrappy way, of indifferent topics. The narrow path only allowed one to pass at a time, and the moor was so broken that progression at the side of the path was almost impossible. After, however, the Mizzen Heath Coastguard Station had been left behind, and the precipitous slope descended, the sea-wall afforded better walking, and the conversation assumed a more personal vein.
'Tell me,' said Brenda pleasantly, 'your plans in case of war! We know absolutely nothing of your proposed movements.'
'I know nothing myself, except in a very general way. Of course, we shall be guided by circumstances.'
'We...?'
'Yes; I take two men with me. The campaign will be on too large a scale for one man to watch unaided. These two fellows act as my lieutenants. I have chosen them myself. One is a future baronet with a taste for sport and literature, which is a rare combination. The other is a soldier, twenty-five years older than myself. We shall be a funny trio; but I think it will be a success, for we mean to make it one. The two men are full of energy and as hard as nails. Our plans are almost as voluminous and as comprehensive as Moltke's. It will be a great war, and we intend our history of it to be the only one worth reading. The old soldier is a Frenchman, so we shall tell our story in two languages simultaneously.'
'And where will it be—where will the battles be fought?'
'It is hard to say, because so much depends upon the apathy of the Turks. They will probably allow them to cross the Danube before making an effort to stop them, and the thick of it may be in Bulgaria again. I shall be at the Danube to see the Russians cross—probably at Galatz. There are small towns south of the Danube of which the names will be historical by this time next year, and in all probability there are men who will have immortalized themselves before then, although they are quite unknown now. War is the path by which the world progresses.'
'I suppose the younger Skobeleff will do something wonderful. I know your admiration for him.'
'Yes. If he does not get killed before he is across the Danube. As a leader I admire him, but not as a strategist. There are other men I know of also who will come to the front, but in the Turkish army individuality is more important than in the Russian. The lower the standard of discipline the higher is the power of personal influence over an army. The Turks depend entirely upon the individual capabilities of a few men—Suleiman, Osman, Tefik, and a few others.'
Brenda was not listening with the attention she usually accorded to Theodore Trist, whatever the subject of his discourse might happen to be, and he knew it. She had a strange trick of lapsing into a stony silence at odd moments, and he rarely failed to detect the slight difference. Such fits of absorption were usually followed by the raising of some deep abstract question, or an opinion of personal bearing. It may have been mere chance that caused him to cease somewhat abruptly, and continue walking by her side in silence; or it is possible that he knew her humours as few people knew them. The question of a Russo-Turkish War had suddenly lost all interest, and he might as well have told his opinion to the winds as to this girl, who had, a moment earlier, been a most intelligent listener.
For some time they walked on without speaking. The soft turf of the so-called sea-wall, which was nothing else than an embankment, gave forth no sound beneath their feet. The tide was out, and the day being still, there came to their ears only a soft, murmuring, continuous song from the little waves.
At last Brenda turned a little and looked at him in her thoughtful, analytical way, as if to read on his features an answer to some question which had arisen in her mind.
'Yes,' said Trist, smiling at her gently. 'Go on. You are about to propound one of those very deep theories which invariably suggest themselves to you in the middle of my most interesting observations.'
She laughed rather guiltily as she shook her head in denial.
'No.... I was only ... wondering.'
'Wondering—?' he repeated interrogatively, but she omitted to answer his implied question, and he did not press it.
'Do you know, Theo,' she said, after a little pause, 'that you are the greatest puzzle I have ever come across?'
'I am sorry,' he murmured, with mock humility.
'Oh, don't apologize! I dare say it is entirely unintentional. What I cannot understand is your nonchalant way of talking of certain things. For instance, nothing seems to be farther from your thoughts at this moment than the possibility of your being ... killed.'
He chipped off the head of a withered thistle with his stick before replying in a low, steady voice, very deliberately:
'And yet nothing is nearer to them.'
'That is what I cannot understand. I think women look farther ahead. They seem to have the power of realizing at the beginning what the end may be—realizing it more fully than men, I mean.'
'I doubt it!' he answered. 'I have to make two sets of arrangements, two sets of plans. One takes it for granted that I shall come through it all safely, the other goes upon the theory that I shall be killed. Each is complete in itself, independent of its companion. When I say that I will do something at a certain time, or be in a certain place, there is a "D.V." understood, hidden between the lines. Everything is of course "Deo volente," but you would not have me drag it in obtrusively.'
'No ... naturally not. But what I cannot understand is your power of facing the two possibilities—or, at the least, the latter—with apparent indifference. Is that the difference that exists between the courage of a man and that of a woman?'
'No,' he replied, looking at her very gravely, and speaking in a tone which gave weight to words of apparently small importance; 'I think not, for women face possibilities and even certainties with equal pluck. It requires as much courage to remain at home and wait as it does to go out and face the danger, for danger is never so unpleasant as the anticipation of it.'
She remembered these words afterwards, and recognised then the fuller sense he had intended them to convey. In the meantime, however, she held to her point.
'It is not exactly in that way that I mean,' she murmured slowly. 'Not from a question of personal bravery at all. I meant...'
She hesitated in embarrassment, and he hastened to remove it.
'Yes—go on.'
'I was wondering whether you ever looked at it from a religious point of view.'
He did not reply at once, and in some way the pause gave a greater gravity to his words.
'Yes, Brenda. You must not think that. Every man has his religion, and I have mine. It may consist in faith more than in works, perhaps, but it is there, nevertheless.'
'But you are half a fatalist.'
'In some degree I am, but I do not go so far as to say that nothing matters. Everything matters! We are intended to do our best, to make the best of our lives; but there is undoubtedly a scheme which is beyond our reach and far above our petty influence or endeavour.'
Brenda was no mean theologist, and she now set to work to demolish Trist's system of fatalism, while half leaning towards it herself. Somewhat to her surprise she found that his knowledge upon certain points was equal to her own, and in some cases superior; his acquaintance with Eastern lore and Oriental creeds was quite beyond her depth.
In this manner they reached the lighthouse, passed a few minutes with its solitary inmate, and set off homewards again across the marsh. Mrs. Wylie would, perhaps, have been surprised could she have overheard their conversation, which was upon very different topics to what she had expected.
Before they reached the rising ground at the edge of the moor, the sun was low over the western plain. A faint mauve-coloured haze rose from the damp earth and hovered weirdly among the pollarded oaks and rank marsh grasses. The whole scene was terribly dismal, and the distant note of a jack-snipe seemed only to add to the lifelessness of the land.
As they passed through one of the swing-gates on the sea-wall, Brenda turned her head, and in a moment the characteristic beauty of the sunset caught her attention.
'Look!' she exclaimed in little more than a whisper.
He obeyed, closing the gate, and resting his arms upon it. Thus they stood, side by side, without speaking. She in her pure upright maidenhood, with the sunset glow warming her refined face with a hue of great beauty, for her eyes were deep and pensive as woman's eyes rarely are, while her sweet lips were parted with a simple faithful wonderment which was almost childlike. He rested his arms upon the gray, moss-grown oak of the gate, and looked upon the hopeless scene with meekly contemplative eyes. His square chin was thrust forward, and the indescribable incongruity of his face was absurdly prominent. There was a great strength and a wondrous softness, a mighty courage and a meek resignation, an indefatigable energy and a philosophic calm. All these were suggested at once in this strange Napoleonic face. So may the great Buonaparte have leant his arms upon yon low wall at Saint Helena, and wondered over the utter incomprehensibility of human existence.
It was Brenda who at last broke the silence, without moving limb or muscle.
'So you are going on Monday?'
'Yes ... I must.'
Something in his voice caused her breath to come quickly.
'But you will come back?' she whispered almost pleadingly.
He moved, and laid his strong bare hand over the small gloved fingers resting on the gate.
'Yes, Brenda. I will come back!'
Then they turned and walked home in silence.
That was their farewell. They never spoke together again in confidence before he left on the Monday morning. There was, indeed, a pressure of the hand and a cheery word of parting on the little platform of Wyvenwich Station; but their two souls went out unto each other, and stood face to face in one long agonized ecstasy of parting by that old oaken gate upon the sea-wall.
I have often wondered why blasphemy is excusable when it is spoken from a throne. It seems to me that many crimes have been deliberately set forth upon paper under the exculpating heading of, 'In the name of God—Amen. We,' etc., etc. This thought cannot well escape suggestion while perusing a declaration of war. It is a subterfuge—a mean attempt to assign the responsibility to One who is mightier than princes or potentates. God does not declare war—it is man.
On the twenty-fourth day of April, eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, the Czar of all the Russias gave forth to his people that, bowing his head to the evident desire of the Almighty, he reluctantly declared war against the Ottoman Empire. There was much rhetoric about Christian nations suffering beneath the lash of Mohammedan hatred; stories were told of shocking cruelties practised upon an oppressed people, coldly worded statements were made of misgovernment, misappropriation, theft. And the remedy to all these was, if it may please you, war! From the formal declaration, with its pharisaical self-laudation, its rolling periods and mock reluctance, fourteen letters might have been selected, and set in order so as to spell a single word in which lay the explanation of it all. That word was—'Constantinople.'
Before the official opening of hostilities, Russia was prepared, and Turkey (despite a long warning) but half ready, as usual. The Russian troops entered Roumania and Turkish Armenia at once, the inhabitants of both countries, with Oriental readiness, receiving them as deliverers. The day following the declaration of war saw the occupation of the town of Galatz.
Theodore Trist had, as he told Brenda he intended, taken up his quarters in this small town upon the Danube, and actually passed through its streets in the midst of the Northern troops unsuspected. When the conquerors had shaken down into their new quarters, and military discipline was beginning to make itself felt throughout the city, he discreetly vanished, and, crossing the Danube in a small boat, made his way South. At this time England began to receive the benefit of a brilliantly conceived and steadily executed plan of transmitting news. Trist and his two lieutenants appeared to haunt the entirety of the Ottoman Empire. One of them appeared to find himself invariably within reach of any spot where events of interest might be occurring. And from this time until the end of the great war this ceaseless flow of carefully-sifted information continued to set eastward to Paris and London. The first official notice taken was an imperial decree, forbidding the admittance into Russia of the French and English journals to which Trist was attached as war-correspondent. This heavy punishment in no way affected the equanimity of these mistaken organs, of which the circulation in the Northern empire had never attained a height worth consideration or even mention. A sackful of copies under private addresses had been the utmost limit, and out of these the majority were usually lost in transmission with that patient, bland persistency by means of which the Russian Government usually succeeds in quelling any private and individual attempt to learn what the world is saying. It is remarkable how little is known in England of the method of procedure in a country so near at hand as Russia. I verily believe that Hong Kong is better known than Moscow, Valparaiso than Tver. It is, for instance, a matter of surprise to many intelligent English men and women to learn that our newspapers are, with one or two exceptions, forbidden entrance into the Czar's dominions. And in the case of those exceptions there is no circulation—each copy comes under a private cover, with the probability of being opened several times on the way. Moreover, objectionable paragraphs, or, in the case of illustrated journals, sketches in any way connected with the seamy side of Slavonic life, are ruthlessly obliterated with a black pad. The transmission of news is virtually in the hands of the Government, with the natural result that all untoward events are hushed up, while pleasant things are glorified to the infinite profit of those in office. Respecting the progress of humanity, the events of the outer world, and the march of civilization, the whole of the vast continent of Russia is kept in the dark. Even withourmarvellous facilities, the transmission of news over such vast tracts of land, across such stupendous plains, would be a matter of some difficulty; it is, therefore, easy to arrest the progress of thought, and force back men's brains into the apathetic, voiceless endurance of brutes.
Under these circumstances it will be readily understood that the views of the great English critic were looked upon with fear and dislike; additionally so, perhaps, because no one could accuse him of partiality or political bias. He studied war as an art, whereas the Russian staff had in most cases taken it up as a profession.
During the months that followed many brave men came to the front; but few reputations were made, whereas a number were lost. Gourko and Skobeleff proved that their personal courage, their calm assumption of a terrible responsibility, was something almost super-human; but as strategists they came within measurable distance of failure. The one has the stain of three thousand lives lost in one bold march upon his military reputation—namely, the crossing of the Balkans; while the other, the wild, half-mad Skobeleff, will have it remembered against him that two thousand of his 'children' fell in the storming of one redoubt, and three thousand more perished in attempting to hold it.
But in fairness to these reckless soldiers, it must be kept in mind that the Russians played, in a literal as well as metaphorical sense, an uphill game. They had to storm heights, 'rush' redoubts, and advance on trenches against the Berdan rifle in the hands of the Turk. Just as each man knows his own business best, so have we all our special way of fighting. The Russians are not brilliant at the attack, because they are too reckless of life, and in the excitement of the moment expose themselves with criminal prodigality; whereas there is no finer defender of a fortified position than the Turk.
Again, Skobeleff and Gourko were hampered by being in too constant and frequent communication with the royal amateur soldiers in their comfortable quarters on the Danube.
At first the Russians seemed to carry all before them, and the chronic unreadiness of the enemy was a matter for laughter. Having successfully crossed the Danube towards the end of June, driving the Turks before them step by step to Matchin, the campaign was looked upon as a mere parade. But Theodore Trist, retreating slowly from the Danube before the advance of the Northern army, held a different opinion.
'At present,' he wrote in the second week in July, 'everything seems to be against us. But the time is coming when some good men will force their way to the fore; and the power of individual influence over an ill-disciplined but well-armed horde like this is incalculable. Sulieman Pasha is said to be coming with his hardened troops, and from him great things may be expected. He is a good soldier, with an energy which is rendered more striking by its rarity in this country. When last I saw him he was spare in figure, much browned by exposure, singularly active, and as hard as nails. In appearance he is unlike a Turk, being fair, with ruddy hair and quick eyes. His men are more like a band of hill-robbers than a trained army, for they possess no distinct uniform; but they are full of fight. His staff is ludicrously informal, possessing no fine titles, and being entirely destitute of gold braid. The Turks are a strange mixture of impassibility and stubbornness. At times their fatalism gives way to an overwhelming strength of purpose, almost defying fate, and it is quite within the bounds of possibility that a trifling error on the part of the Russians may turn the tide suddenly upon them, and a disastrous retreat to the Danube will follow.'
By the time that the letter from which the above is extracted arrived in England, the far-seeing correspondent's prophecy had in part fallen true. The tide of fortune had set in in favour of the Moslem, and although a retreat was not as yet whispered of, it was held certain by experts that more men were absolutely required by the Russians in order to continue the campaign.
At this time the name of a hitherto unknown town in the north of Bulgaria was constantly on men's tongues. Until now no one had ever heard of Plevna, which, nevertheless, was destined to be the chief topic of conversation throughout all the civilized world for many months to come. The genius of one man raised this small city from its obscurity to a proud place in the annals of warfare, and the defence of Plevna will ever stand forth as a proof of the influence of one strong individuality over a whole army; and, one might almost say, upon the march of events.
Of course it is easy to state that much depended upon chance, but it is not only in warfare that we all have to wait upon chance. Those who step in quickly when fortune leaves the gate ajar are the winners in the war we are engaged in here below. Had Krüdener occupied Plevna when he received the order to do so, Osman Pasha might have died without leaving his mark upon the sands of time. But the Russian delayed, and the Turk stepped in. Osman saw at once the great strategetic value of Plevna, and Krüdener, the man of many mistakes, was outwitted.
'I see,' wrote Trist at this time in a private letter to his editor, which was not published until later, 'a subtle change in the atmosphere of events. It seems to me that the tide is turning. I will now attach myself definitely to the fortunes of Plevna. The time has come for me to give up my ubiquitous endeavours; to watch one spot only. My colleagues are splendid fellows, full of dash and energy; on them you must now depend for the other movements of the campaign. Osman is here, and Skobeleff is in this part of the country as far as I can learn—there is a feverish restlessness among the Russians, which suggests his presence. With these two men face to face Plevna will become historical, if it is not so already, for it will mark, firstly, the greatest military bungle of the age (Krüdener's neglect); secondly ... who knows? Osman is a wonderful fellow—that is all I can tell you now. I remain here, and if we are surrounded I will stick to Plevnauntil the end.'
The recipient of this letter, sitting in his quiet little room in Fleet Street, looked at the last words again. They were underlined with a firm dash, and immediately below followed the simple signature. About the entire letter there was a straightforward sense of purpose—a feeling, as it were, that this man knew what he was doing, and was ready to face the consequence of every action. The editor shook his vast head from side to side with a quiet and tolerant smile.
'The fever is upon him,' he said. 'It is a thousand pities that he is not a soldier.'
Then he leant forward and took an envelope from the stationery case upon the table in front of him. Into this he slipped the folded letter, addressing it subsequently to Mrs. Wylie, at Wyl's Hall, Wyvenwich.
On the last day of July, Prince Schahofsky and Baron Krüdener attacked Plevna. A combination had been intended, but Krüdener was again in fault. He was not ready at the hour appointed, and Schahofsky was led into the fatal error of attacking a superior force of Turks in a fortified position. The result of this was the loss of almost the whole of his fine army corps. The Russian soldiers charged gallantly but foolishly upon a literal wall of fire, for there is no man steadier in a trench than the fatalist. In some years, when the quick-firing rifle is perfected, there will be no such thing as carrying a breastwork at the point of the bayonet, for no man will live to stand up within forty yards of the position held. Even at Plevna, against an imperfect rifle in the hands of a half-trained, badly fed, poorly-accoutred soldier, the slaughter was terrible, and the result small. Only Skobeleff succeeded in really and literally carrying an intrenchment by the bayonet; and had he not been half mad with excitement and wholly carried away by the wild lust of battle, he would never have attempted it, for the men literally crawled over heaps of their slain comrades. The terrible work of the quick-firing rifle was only too apparent.
After the first assault upon Plevna the Russians settled down to a long siege, and heavy artillery was brought to bear upon the ill-fated town from every point of vantage on the surrounding hills. Step by step the northern foe crept up towards the town, until the sombre-clad figures within the redoubts were almost recognisable from the Russian lines.
Finally, it was one day announced that the last communication had been cut off and Plevna was surrounded. Like some sullen prisoner in the hands of a ruthless enemy, the fortress stood grimly silent, and all the world wondered pitifully what terrible tragedy might be working out its latest chapters within that small circle of blood-stained steel.
Vague reports reached England that there could not now be any food in Plevna. The garrison must be starving. Women and children were—thank God!—but few; for Osman had sent them away. Day by day the fall of this unforeseen, unsuspected stronghold was predicted, but day after day the dingy Crescent hung in the morning breeze, and every point was guarded.
The editor of the great English newspaper sat in his little room in Fleet Street and watched events from afar. No word reached him, for Plevna was silent, but he displayed no anxiety.
'Wait!' he said to all inquirers. 'Wait a bit. Trist is in there, and when the time comes he will astonish us all. One can always rely implicitly on Trist!'
There is in one of the minor streets of Plevna a small baker's shop, with no other sign indicating that bread may be bought within than the painted semblance of a curiously twisted cake upon the yellow wall between the window and the low door.
On the seventh of September, eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, this painted cake was the nearest approach to bread that could be seen in the neighbourhood. For many weeks there had been no pleasant odour of browning loaves, no warm air from the oven at the back of the shop. Curious irony of fate! The baker had died of starvation. I almost hesitate to tell that the foul heap of clothing lying in the ditch a few yards down the hill was all the earthly remnant of the late owner of this useless establishment. Useless because there was nothing in Plevna now to bake. He had been dead many days, but there seemed to be no question of burying him. There were too many wounded, too many sick, dying, and festering men, for the living to have time to think of the dead. The heavy pestilential air was full of the groans of these poor wretches.
Within the little shop were three men—one seated at a rough table, a second standing before him, the third perched nonchalantly on the window-sill smoking a cigarette. The last-mentioned had the advantage of his companions in the matter of years, but of the three his gravity of demeanour was most noticeable. Amidst such squalid surroundings—by the side, as it were, of death—his personal appearance was somewhat remarkable, for he was neat and clean in dress. His fresh rosy cheek had that cleanly appearance which denotes the recent passage of the razor, the light moustache was brushed aside with a rakish upward flourish. The nose was small and straight, the eyes blue. A bright red fez tilted rather forward completed the smart appearance of the smoker, who manipulated his cigarette daintily, and, while listening to the conversation of his two companions, made no attempt to join in it. This man was Tefik Bey, Osman Pasha's chief of staff, one of the defenders of Plevna. I confess that Tefik is a puzzle to me. I cannot tell what sort of man he is. He is indescribable. Taciturn to a degree, he was barely thirty years of age, and looked younger. A dark, sombre, silent man is more or less a straight-forward production of Nature; but Tefik had the appearance of a light-hearted talker, and belied it.
The man standing in the middle of the small, low-roofed chamber was his wonderful chief, Osman Pasha. Tall, strongly built, and handsome, he formed a striking contrast to his young colleague. A loose, dark-blue cloak hung from his shoulders, and the inevitable fez surmounted his powerful brow. A short black beard concealed a chin of unusual firmness, and from time to time a nervous movement of a somewhat dusky hand brushed the hair aside with a rustling sound. The nose was large and inclined downwards with a heavy curve, while beneath bushy brows a pair of steadfast black eyes looked sorrowfully forth upon the world. There was determination and a great energy in those eyes, despite their wan thoughtfulness.
He who sat at the table we know. It was Theodore Trist. Clean and carefully shaven, he was literally clad in rags; but his face had lost its old dreaminess, its vague meekness of demeanour. A clear light in his eyes, the set of his lips, conveyed in some indefinite way that this man was in his element. Despite his hollow cheeks and sunken temples, in the midst of that heavy reek of death and blood, this Englishman was visibly happy.
'Do you want,' Osman was saying, 'to see what we can do with our triple ranks of Berdans?'
'Yes.'
'To-morrow Skobeleff will attack the redoubt again. He has positive orders to take it at any cost.'
'Willhe take it?' asked Trist.
Osman turned with a smile towards Tefik, who was lighting a second cigarette. The chief of staff shrugged his shoulders, and threw away the end of the last cigarette with a sideward movement of his lips.
Osman shrugged his shoulders in precisely the same way.
'Who knows?' he said quietly. 'If they value the redoubt at four thousand lives, they might do it.'
Trist set his two elbows on the table and looked up at the speaker's face with calm speculative scrutiny. He did not offer him a chair, because he knew that Osman rarely sat down. The great soldier had no time for rest.
'Skobeleff,' said the Englishman, 'is a great man, but Napoleon would have been in here some time ago.'
Tefik moved slightly, and looked towards his two companions with a vague smile. He knew nothing of Napoleon the Great and his method of making war. Moreover, he did not care to know.
It was the chief of staff who finally broke a silence of some duration.
'Listen, Osman,' he said in a soft, dreamy voice. 'I hear the sound of a new gun. The Russians have mounted another big one. We are going to get it very hot.'
All three raised their heads and listened. After the lapse of a minute a dull thud broke upon their ears. The Russians had mounted a new siege gun, and Plevna was beginning its career as a target for a steadily increasing army of artillery. There was no indecent haste in loading or sponging. It was excellent practice for the gunners, and through the next three months the sound of heavy firing never quite ceased night or day. At times, by way of variety, the whole of the artillery combined in directing its fire upon a spot previously selected. But the grim game was not all on one side, for Plevna pluckily returned blow for blow.
'There is,' said an expert at Russian headquarters, 'a European directing those guns—probably a German.'
But Trist never sighted a single shot, although he did not withhold his advice.
'I know where it is,' said Tefik at last. 'Perhaps we can get at it.'
And he left the room quietly.
The two men remaining there did not speak for some time. Trist was occupied with a large sheet of paper covered with a fine writing, and showing columns of figures. Osman had brought this to him, and was now evidently waiting for it. The Englishman skimmed up the columns with the celerity of a banker's clerk, muttering the additions in his native language. The hand that held the pen was brown and scarred with manual labour, for Trist had worked in the trenches day and night.
'Yes,' he said at length, looking up in a business-like, curt way, which showed that between these men there was some bond of comradeship. 'Those figures are all right. At an extremity you could even reduce the allowance of soup, could you not?'
The soldier shook his head with a wan and momentary smile.
'Scarcely,' he replied. 'It is getting colder every day. If we want to hold out we must keep up the hearts of the men, and if there is nothing to press them upwards all our hearts drop into our stomachs, my friend.'
'There is more clothing to be had. We get a fresh supply day by day,' said Trist, with an uneasy sigh.
Osman winced. The meaning was only too clear, for the time had long since gone by for men to scruple over stripping the dead for the benefit of the living.
'Yes. You are right.'
With these words the commander of Plevna turned to go.
'What news have you?' inquired Trist indifferently, as he set in order the papers lying upon his table. He spoke in a loud voice, as all men did in Plevna, because of the roar of artillery and the rolling echo among the hills.
'Oh—nothing of importance!'
'Are you quite without communications from outside?'
Osman turned upon the threshold, and looked back with a smile of assumed density. Then he disappeared through the low doorway.
Trist turned to his papers again, but he had not begun writing when the Turkish commander appeared once more.
'Trist,' he said, coming forward with long, heavy strides.
'Yes.'
'I can get you out to-night. Had you not better go?'
'I would rather stay,' replied the Englishman. 'I am neither a woman nor a child.'
'But why run the risk?'
'It is my duty.'
'What we are enduring now,' said Osman, in a dull, painful voice, 'is nothing to what I foresee. At present we make some small attempt to collect bodies and ... and limbs, and bury them. Soon that will be impossible, for we shall want all our men at the guns and in the redoubts. The winter is coming on—food is already scarce—the wounded cannot be cared for. They and the dead will lie about the streets rotting in their own blood. My friend! this place will be a hell on earth!'
'Nevertheless, I stay.'
'Disease will take the town before the Russians break through—few of us will live to see Christmas!' pleaded Osman.
The Englishman looked up, pen in hand. There was actually a smile hovering upon his firm lips.
'It is useless,' he said very gently. 'I stay till the end.'
'As you like,' murmured the soldier, leaving the room.
Trist did not begin work again for some time. The pile of papers around was of sufficient dimensions to alarm a less methodical labourer, but in the apparent disorder there was really a perfect system. Darkness closed in soon, and the war-correspondent lighted a small lamp. Then he laid aside the larger mass of paper, and selected a sheet which he doubled carefully into the form of a letter.
'It is better,' he said, 'to face all probabilities. I shall write to her now, in case we are starved to death in here like rats.'
Far into the night this strange, restless Englishman sat at the little table writing. Heedless of the roar of artillery, the merry call of the bugle, and the groan of the dying, he wrote on at a great speed, for above all he was a writer. His pen sped over the paper with that precision which only comes from long practice—line after line, page after page of the small paper, perfect in punctuation, ready for the press in true journalistic form.
He folded the letter, and enclosed it in an envelope, which he addressed carefully in a legible roundhand.
'There,' he murmured, 'let that be the last line I write to-night. It seems to me that we are on the verge of a crisis. Osman has something on his mind ... I wonder if he means to cut his way out.'
Before lying down to rest on the heap of straw which served him as a bed, he collected all his papers and placed them securely in a large leather despatch-case, upon which was painted in black letters the address of the newspaper which he served. This was his nightly custom; for he was out all day upon the walls among the devoted children of Islam, and where bullets are flying no man has a right to ignore the chances of death. There was no bravado in the action, but a mere simple method. The chances were much in favour of the little baker's shop being left empty one night; but that was no reason why the British public should be defrauded of its rightful sensation in the matter of words written by a hand that is still, for nothing is so safe to draw as the last words of one who has died in battle or mishap.
People who live peaceably at home are accustomed to receive great odds in the game of life and death. They, therefore, cannot understand why others—wanderers, sailors at all times, soldiers in time of war—are content with the lighter favour, and have the power of living happily in close proximity to death.
For five days and five nights there was little sleep to be had in Plevna. The Russians did not attack, as had been generally expected within the town, but commenced a terrible bombardment. Day and night the heavy guns were served by continual relays of men, and life in the redoubts was such as to reconcile the most philosophic to death. Within the town the scene was simply hellish. Osman has been accused of neglecting his wounded, but no man who crouched in the little town he so gloriously defended during those days would have the courage to aver that he could have done more than he did.
Tuesday, the eleventh of September, dawned, gray and hopeless. The smoke of a million rifles, a thousand cannon, hung heavily over the low hills. The continuous roar of the last few days seemed to have benumbed the very air, even as it had paralyzed men's senses.
In the Russian camp upon the Loftcha road there were signs of extra activity. The artillery fire was somewhat slacker.
'They will attack the redoubts to-day,' Theodore Trist said to himself, as he surveyed the position of affairs in the gray morning light. There was not much to be seen, owing to the density of the fog hanging low in the vales, but the five days' bombardment followed by audible activity in camp had some meaning.
Osman knew his weak point as well as it was known by Skobeleff; but the Russian general—foolhardy, reckless, wild as he was—hesitated to attack.
But there is no man who can boast that he is free from the trammels of duty. 'Duty is a certainty,' says one of our great living preachers, and I think we often lose sight of that fact. Skobeleff had received orders to take the redoubt in the curve of the Loftcha road, and on the eleventh of September he made ready to obey. Whether it was a criminal blunder or a deliberate sacrifice of human life, it is not for us to say; nor must we blame the young general who, much against his will, sent his men forward to a certain death.
It was afternoon before the advance was made, and in many places the fog had lifted.
Theodore Trist, with that instinct of warfare which was his curse, had selected a spot on the hill behind the doomed fortification, and thence, or from near at hand, he witnessed that terrible day's work.
Failure was Skobeleff'sbête noir. Success in this case was an absolute necessity. There was only one way of gaining it in face of the horrible fire which was waiting within the fortification. Like the waves of ocean the Russian general swept his men up at carefully selected intervals. No troops in the world could have advanced under such galling volleys—they were bound to waver and fall back. But at the moment of hesitation a fresh regiment came on at the charge with a wild shout, bearing on the others in front of them. Four regiments rushed on thus to their death—three thousand men in three hundred yards. In the redoubt the Turks fought with that calm, desperate fatalism which makes such grand soldiers of the followers of Mahomed.
Theodore Trist, standing on the scarp of a second redoubt two hundred and fifty yards to the rear, wrote rapidly in his book, his mouth quivering with excitement. At last he could stand it no longer.
'By God!' he exclaimed hoarsely, 'I have never seen anything like this!'
And shouting incoherently, he ran down the slope towards the redoubt.
At this moment Skobeleff came charging up at the head of his last reserve, a mere handful of sharpshooters. Trist saw the general fall and roll over with his stricken horse. A great throb seemed to choke him, and he barely realized that Skobeleff was on his feet again leading on his men, waving his sword and shrieking like a madman. A moment later the Englishman was borne uphill before a rushing mass of Turks, black with powder, voiceless, inhuman in their fury. The redoubt was lost!
But Trist did not give way to the general panic. The instinct of journalism was too strong in him, and he stood for a moment between the two redoubts looking on with practised eyes. He knew exactly how many men had been defending the position now lost, and was busy counting roughly the small number of fugitives. In certain corners of the redoubt the fight was still going on, but the Turks in there were no better than dead men.
While he was still there a Russian non-commissioned officer picked up the rifle of a Turk, and took aim at the solitary figure standing upon the slope, but Skobeleff knocked away the barrel with his sword.
'Not that man, my child!' he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with shouting. 'I know him. Let the story of this fight be told!'
The artillery fire had ceased all round, and for a moment there was a great silence in the valley, only broken by the moan of the dying and an occasional rifle-shot here and there. It was almost as if the living stood aghast—ashamed and cowering before their Maker, by the side of their grim handiwork. And so darkness came over the land, covering the hideousness of it with a merciful veil.
'They cannot possibly hold it!' Trist said to an officer who accosted him as he made his way—dazed and stupefied—back into the town. 'It is untenable.'
This was no idle attempt at consolation. The Russian general had obeyed orders, but now he knew that his gallant work had been all in vain. By itself the redoubt was useless, for it was fully exposed to the Turkish fire, and there was no material at hand to reconstruct it, had his weary men been equal to the task, which they were not. During the night he sent, again and again, for reinforcements, which were persistently withheld, and at dawn he pluckily prepared to defend the position as best he might with the remainder of his own army-corps.
Trist had said that when Osman and Skobeleff met there would be war indeed, and the result proved with terrible reality that he had spoken naught else but the truth.
At daybreak the fight began again. The restless Turkish leader had made all his arrangements during the night. Exposed as it was to a galling fire from all sides, it seemed impossible that the redoubt could be held. But Skobeleff was there, and under Skobeleff the Russians have fought as they never did before.
At Turkish headquarters there was little or no anxiety, for the enemy could not afford to take another redoubt at such a cost, and so skilfully had the fortifications been planned, that there was no reason to suppose that further advances could be made more easily.
'To-morrow,' Osman had said to his chief of staff, 'it must be retaken!' and the young officer merely nodded his head. Then with the pencil that he carried stuck into his fez above his eye, the Turkish commander proceeded to write out his instructions.
At daybreak the fight began again, and the sun had not yet lost its matutinal ruddiness when the first organized attack was made. This was repulsed, and the same fate attended four subsequent attempts. No man but Skobeleff could have held that position for so long. As usual, there was something unique and original in his style of defence. He waited until the attacking force was almost within forty yards before firing, and then met them with one crashing volley, the sound of which rose to the firmament like the crack of doom. After that the roll of fire swept from side to side, from end to end, with a continuous grating rattle like the sweep of a scythe in hay.
The short day was almost drawing to a close, when the remnant of the fifth attacking corps returned, baffled and disheartened. The sun had already disappeared behind a bank of purple cloud, through which gleamed bars of lurid gold low down upon the rounded hills. Overhead there was a shimmering haze of Indian red. It almost seemed as if the sky had caught the reflection of the blood-stained earth.
To the ears of the Turks came the distant sound of voices hoarsely cheering. The sound was of no great strength, for Skobeleff himself had been voiceless all day, and the remainder—a mere handful of black-faced, wild madmen—were dry and parched.
'They must be nearly worn out,' said Osman quietly, upon receiving the latest report. 'We will attack again, and take the redoubt before nightfall.'
Tefik merely acquiesced without comment, as was his wont, and turned away to give his orders with a close precision which inspired great confidence in his subordinates.
Presently he returned to where his chief was standing, not far removed from Theodore Trist, who was writing hard upon a gun-carriage.
'They want somebody to lead them,' said Tefik significantly. His contempt for the usual run of portly, comfortable Turkish line-officers was well known.
Trist looked up and saw that the commander was looking at his subordinate with calmly questioning eyes.
'I,' said the Englishman, closing his note-book as he came forward, 'will go for one.'
'And I, and I, and I!' came from all sides. Some were staff-officers, some civilians, some old men and some mere boys.
'An Englishman,' said Tefik, with the faintest suggestion of a smile, 'is too valuable to be refused! It would make all the difference.'
'I have been idle long enough,' answered Trist, in a voice laden with suppressed excitement. 'I cannot stand it any longer.'
He closed his note-book, drew the elastic carefully over it, and raised his eyes to the strange, dishevelled group of men before him. The chief of this wonderful staff, Osman himself, held out his hand without a word, took the book, and dropped it into the pocket of his long blue cloak.
Already the call of the bugle told that preparations were in course—that the commander's orders were being executed.
* * * *
Before darkness lowered over the land the redoubt was again in the hands of the Turks. This is a matter of history—as also the fact that the flower of the Russian army lay all round Plevna for three months afterwards, and never gained an advantage equal to that which they had held for twenty-four hours. Osman was impregnable—Plevna unassailable, except by the slower weapon of bodily hunger—grim starvation.
It was nearly seven o'clock on the evening of the twelfth of September, before Tefik Bey, the grave young chief of staff, found time to visit the great double redoubt which had cost the Russian army over five thousand lives.
Accompanied by an orderly bearing a simple paraffin hurricane-lamp, he made his laborious way over the heaps of dead. Upon the hill above the redoubt the Turks lay in thousands. There were rows of them, shoulder to shoulder as they had charged, marking the effect of Skobeleff's terrible volleys. Below the defence, upon the lower slope, the Russians covered the earth, and in the redoubt itself Moslem and Christian lay entangled in the throes of death. They were literally piled on the top of each other—a very storehouse of the dead—for the Russians had fought all day standing upon the bodies of the slain. Now the ready Turks trampled countryman and foe alike beneath their feet, for it was by no means certain that an attempt might not be made at once to regain the coveted position.
While crossing a ditch, that had been hastily cut by the Russians, Tefik stopped suddenly.
'Give me the lantern!' he said, in a peculiar short way.
Then he stooped over the body of a man who lay face downwards upon the blood-soaked turf.
'Turn him over!'
The flame of the hurricane-lamp flickered ruddily, and lighted up a calm, bland face. The firm lips were slightly parted in a smile, which seemed to be, in some subtle way, interrogative in its tendency. The eyes were wide open, but not unpleasantly so, and their expression was one of meek, gentle surprise. The whole incongruous face as it reposed there, looking upwards to its Creator, seemed to say, 'Why?'
Tefik rose to his full height.
'Le philosophic,' he murmured, with a little shake of the head. 'Ah! but that is a pity—a thousand pities!'
He stood with the lamp in his hand, gazing upwards at the stars, now peeping out in the rifts of heavy cloud. Unconsciously he had turned his grave young eyes to the West—towards civilization and England.
After a moment he turned and went on his way, stumbling in the dark over the dead and wounded.