The following day saw Jim joggling down the miry way to Balaclava Harbour on a French mule-cacolet. He had said good-bye to the others in camp, and begged his father not to venture down into the inferno again. So the Colonel sent his own servant in charge of him, with full instructions where to find the boat Captain Jolly had promised to have waiting.
The hopeless confusion in the little harbour appalled Jim, and the dank misery of the rows of wounded men awaiting shipment, with ill-bound wounds, cold blue faces, and heavy hopeless eyes, chilled him to the heart.
And suddenly a familiar face caught his eye, and he stopped the mule and sat up.
"Why, Seth, old chap! I'm sorry to see you like this"--for Seth's left leg was gone, and the roughly bandaged stump stuck out forlornly along the ground.
"My fightin's done, Mester Jim. 'Twere a shell took it off in the battery."
"When are you going over?"
"God knows, We bin waiting over a week."
"An' dyin' as quick as we could, just to save 'em trouble," said his neighbour.
"I wish I could take you all," said Jim, and the bleached leather faces turned wistfully on him. "But I can take one, and I must take you, Seth. You understand, boys: he's from my own part, and twice he's saved my life."
"That's right, sir. You take 'im home, and God bless you! Wish there was more like you! We'll die off as quick as we can, just to save 'em trouble," said the jocular one, who had lost both an arm and a leg. "If they ask where 'e is we'll tell 'em 'e's gone on in front to engage us quarters."
"Lift him in," said Jim, and with the assistance of the bystanders Seth was lifted into the other side of the cacolet.
An official came hurrying up with a brusque, "Now then, what's all this?"
"Oh, go and hang yourself!" said Jim, sinking back wearily. "Can't you see I'm saving you trouble by taking him off your hands?"
"Yes--but----"
"Go ahead!" said Jim, and left the other staring after them.
Captain jolly's boat was waiting for them, and presently they were swung up on to the deck of theCarnbrea.
"So you've both come, after all?" said the hearty old fellow to Jim, who came up first.
Jim explained, and the captain said he had done quite right, and they would find a corner for Seth between decks, though they were pretty full already; and then he helped him across to a seat by the wheel, and theCarnbreacrept away out of the noisome harbour at once, and Jim counted no less than six dead horses, washing about in the water or cast up on the rocks, before the sweet salt air outside gave him something better to think about.
They passed the warships, and a multitude of vessels hanging about outside, and the monastery perched up on the cliff, and the white lighthouse at the point, and presently, through a rift in the dull November sky, the sun shone red on Sebastopol, and set it all aglow. Here and there, on its outer edge, there were little cotton-woolly puffs of white smoke, and the plateau behind was dotted with similar ones.
Captain Jolly was as good as his name and Colonel Carron's opinion of him. He made Jim very much at home, got him to tell him all he could about the great charge, and in return gave his own free and unrestrained opinions on men and things in general, with a special excursus on harbour masters and transport officials.
"Too many head cooks--that's what's the matter, and not a man below 'em dare lift his little finger unless he's got permission in writing. Why, sirs, there's things rotting there in that harbour that'd be worth their weight in gold up above, but it's nobody's business to send 'em up, and there they stop. It's a crying shame and--and an infernal sin! What do you say to it all, doctor?"
This was a grave, thin-faced young fellow who had joined them in the cabin for a cup of tea, and Captain Jolly had simply introduced him with a wink as Dr. Subrosa.
"It's heartbreaking," he said, with deepest feeling. "We have lost thousands of good men from sheer want of the simplest necessaries, and almost every one of them might have been saved. For weeks I had not a single drug except alum! Think of it! And to see those poor fellows in torture, and dying like flies, when you knew you could save them if you could only lay your hands on the proper remedies!"
"I'll be bound there's piles of all you wanted stowed away in Balaclava somewhere," said the captain.
"I fear so. I came down, day after day--and it was no easy matter, I can assure you--and begged them to give me any mortal thing they had for my fevers and rheumatisms and diarrhœas; and the reply was always just a parrot-like 'Haven't any--Haven't any--Haven't any,'--till I would willingly have poisoned every man who said it. They're getting calloused to it all, and, as Captain Jolly says, not a man among them dare lift his finger without a written order."
"Take my own case," he said, turning to Jim. "The continuous wear and tear, and the constant sight of nothing but sickness and death and broken men, were beginning to tell on me----"'
"My God, I don't wonder!" jerked Jim.
"My chief on the medical staff told me I must get away for fourteen days or so or I'd break down, and he signed me the proper form for the purpose. I found it had to be countersigned by the quartermaster-general, then by the colonel of the regiment to which I was attached, then by the general of the division, and finally by the adjutant-general. It is probably still going round among them, if it hasn't got lost. I waited six days and could get no word of it, and my chief advised me to take French leave and bring back some drugs if they're to be had. I'm told there is aTimesman come out with money, to help make good some of the shortcomings in the official providence, and I'm hoping he'll help me. I'm actually a deserter, you see. That's why this dear old chap calls me Subrosa. My name is McLean, and I'm attached to the 63rd."
"And a rare good sort he is," said Captain Jolly. "Did I tell you about my load of boots?"
"No; what was it about the boots?"
"Last voyage I came out with nothing but boots--more boots than you ever dreamt of, thousands and thousands of pairs. The whole ship stank of 'em--smelt like a tannery. Well, when they let us into Balaclava Harbour at last, and we were hoping to get rid of the boots----"
"They're going barefoot yet, many of them," said McLean.
"I know. Well, before we could begin to break cargo there came a couple of dandy fine gentlemen, with a peremptory order to take them to Constantinople as fast as we could go, and we were hustled away before you could say 'boots.' We were less than a day's sail from Constantinople, when one of the dandy men mentioned in confidence to me that the men up there were barefoot and they were going to buy boots for them."
"What did you say?" asked Jim expectantly.
"Well, I said more'n I should perhaps. Dandy men or no dandy men, I said, 'Why, you ---- fool, I'm loaded to the hatches with boots and nothing but boots! Why in thunder couldn't you open your mouth sooner?' 'Our instructions,' says he, 'were to buy boots, captain, not to go talking about it, and I'll thank you not to use language unbecoming a gentleman when talking to me.' And he walked away to talk to the other, who was sick in his bunk."
"And what did you do?" asked Jim.
"I shut off steam," said the captain, with a meaning wink, "and presently he came up again and said they'd decided we'd better turn back again and take the boots to the feet that were waiting for them. And I've no doubt they're rotting on Balaclava Quay now with all the other things. Why, if my owners did their business as the Government does its they'd be bankrupt in a year."
After his cup of tea Jim went below to see that Seth was comfortably stowed.
He found him, with a couple of hundred others, lying in long rows in the 'tween decks, which had been adapted to their use as far as it was possible to do so. They lay pretty close, and each man had a couple of blankets to soften the wood and keep out the cold.
At one end were half a dozen wounded officers. Between them and the men had been left a space of a few feet, and that was the only distinction between them. To make room for Seth this space had been encroached upon, and he lay next the officers.
As Jim rose from his knees after a short chat with him, in which he had done his best to put a little heart into the poor fellow, by assuring him that he should be properly provided for when he got home to Carne, he heard his name called weakly from the officers' quarters, and, bidding Seth good night, and promising to see him first thing in the morning, he turned that way.
"Why, Harben!" he said. "I'm sorry to see you here. What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm sick--very sick. Who is that they've put there?" asked Ralph, in a low eager whisper.
"That? Why, it's Seth Rimmer--young Seth, you know, from down along."
"He's a dangerous man that, Jim. Put him somewhere else! Take him away!"
"Nonsense, old man. Seth's as true as they make 'em. Besides, he's lost a leg. And anyway I couldn't ask them to move him now. There's no room anywhere else."
"He's dangerous, I tell you," said Harben, with a shiver. "He thinks . . . he thinks . . . but I haven't, Jim. I swear I haven't. I'd nothing to do with it. I swear I hadn't."
"Don't you worry, old man," said Jim soothingly, for it all sounded to him like the ravings of a disturbed brain. "Can I get you anything, or make you more comfortable?"
"Only take him away," whispered the other insistently.
But that Jim could not do. He and Seth were only there on sufferance, as it were, and he wanted to give as little trouble as possible.
Captain Jolly had insisted on giving up his own bunk to him, but had only prevailed on him to take it by asserting that he would be on deck most of the night. And the clean cold sheets were so delightful, after the threadbare amenities of the camp, that he felt as if he could sleep on for a week.
Very early next morning Jim was wakened by a hand on his shoulder. He jumped up so vehemently--forgetful of the narrowness of his quarters, and with a mazy impression that the Russians were upon them--that his head was sore for days after it.
"Mr. Carron," said a grave quiet voice, "there is trouble on board." And he saw that it was Dr. McLean.
"Trouble? What trouble, doctor?"
"We want you to explain it if you can. Slip on some things and come along." And Jim tumbled wonderingly into his jacket and trousers and followed the doctor--to the 'tween decks--to the officers' quarters.
And there lay the end of a tragedy.
Seth's pallet was empty. Seth himself--what had been Seth--lay partly on the body of Ralph Harben. His rough brown fingers still gripped Harben's throat, with a grip that had started the dead man's eyes almost out of his head and had prevented him uttering a sound.
And Seth lay in a pool of his own blood, for his vehemence had burst his hastily bandaged amputation, and he had bled to death in the act of wreaking his vengeance.
"Good God!" gasped Jim, and felt sick and ill at the sight.
"Are they dead?" he whispered, as though he feared to wake them.
"Both quite dead. Been dead several hours," said McLean, and led him back to the captain's cabin, where the steward brought them hot coffee.
"DO you know what it all means, Mr. Carron?" asked the captain.
"I'm afraid I do, captain, but I'd no idea of it, and it's a terrible shock to me." And he briefly explained as far as was necessary.
"Ay, ay," said the old man soberly; "I can see it all. He came out on purpose to find the other, to pay him out for the wrong he'd done him, and when his chance came he took it . . . I don't hold with murder myself, but . . . well, I'm bound to say I can feel for this poor lad."
There were eight others who had died in the night, and they buried them all at the same time, and Captain Jolly read the service over them, and entered in his log the simple fact that ten died and were buried.
And Jim said no word of it in his letters home, and only told Jack about it when he got back to camp.
The ten days' voyage there and back, in Captain Jolly's bunk and cheerful company, did Jim a world of good. They lay off Scutari six days, and were back in the Cesspool, as Jolly persisted in calling Balaclava Bay, on the twenty-second of November, having just missed the great gale, which tore the camps to pieces and piled the wild Crimean coast with the wreckage of over forty ships and millions of pounds' worth of the goods that were so badly needed on shore.
Nearly every ship they passed, as they drew in, was dismasted and looked half a wreck, and Jim, when he had said good-Lye to the genial Jolly, and had waded through the muddy gorge and climbed the heights, found everything and everybody in the camps in very similar condition.
In spite of his own fitness, and the healthy frame of mind induced by sixteen days of clean salt air and the companionship of Captain Jolly, his spirits sank with every step he took. It was like climbing through a charnel-house--dead horses and mules stuck up out of the mud on every side, just as they had fallen under their loads and been left to die; and Jim's love for every dumb thing that went on four legs was sorely bruised before he got to the plateau.
And when he did get there the sights were more painful still--mud everywhere, and dirty pools and trickling streams, sodden tents, and gaunt, hungry-looking men in rags, trudging to and fro, with bare feet or with boots that only added to the dilapidated looks of their wearers. Truly, he thought, though not perhaps in so many words, this was the seamy side of war, and the glory and glamour were remarkable only by their absence.
He reported himself at Head-quarters, but saw only an aide-de-camp, who was the only clean and wholesome and fairly-fed person he had met since he landed. He learned that his chief, Lord Cardigan, was sick, and that his brigade was to go down to Balaclava as soon as possible, as the horses could not stand the miseries of the heights.
Then he went across to the French camps, and found things in very much better condition there, and Jack getting on famously and eager for all his experiences.
Jim told him of Seth and Ralph Harben, and he was profoundly surprised and saddened by it all.
"And you really think it was Ralph took Kattie away, Jim?" he asked, after a long stare of amazement.
"Seth wouldn't have done a thing like that unless he had good reason," said Jim simply.
"I can't imagine Kattie caring for a fellow like Ralph, you know," said Jack thoughtfully. "He was always such a--well, he's dead, so it's no good saying it, but you know yourself what he was. . . . But it's horrible to think of--four lives gone by reason of it."
And Jim said no more, except that he had thought it best to say nothing about it in his letters home.
There were two letters from Gracie to read, one to himself and one to Jack, both so bright and cheerful and full of hope that they could not by any possibility have imagined what it cost her to write like that, when her heart was so full of fears for them. She told Jim of Paddy's admirable behaviour, and of long delightful rides with Meg and Sir George on the flats. And she told Jack of visits to Sir Denzil, and how the Rimmer cottage was still shut up and empty. But from neither letter could the most discriminating judge have drawn any clue as to the writer's heart tending more to the one of them than to the other.
There were also letters from Charles Eager, with comments on the course of the war and the feeling at home, and fervent hopes for their safety and that of George Herapath--who lay out there in the cemetery on the cold hill-side. And there was also one from Lord Deseret to Jim, which contained, among other things, the somewhat surprising news that Mme Beteta had gone to St. Petersburg to fill an engagement there.
Then Colonel Carron came in and gave him hearty welcome, and wanted all his experiences over again.
"And how's my horse?" asked Jim, as soon as he got the chance. "I was thinking of him all the way up from the harbour. The road is thick with the poor beasts who have died there."
"He's first-rate. I've been riding him myself to keep him in condition, I shall be quite sorry to part with him. Deseret knew what he was about, my boy, when he chose him for you."
He was very pleased with Jim's eulogiums on Captain Jolly, and forthwith decided that Jack must make the next trip with him.
So they had a very pleasant time in the banked-up tent, in spite of the dreariness of things outside. But all too soon it came to an end, and Jim had to go off to his own Spartan quarters, where the heartiness of his greeting almost made up for the lack of everything else.
He settled down into the rut of camp life again, but found it all very slow and dull and dirty.
There was little doing. It was as much as they could do simply to live.
The dull routine of the trenches went on. The batteries spat shot and shell at the town at intervals, and Russian shot and shell came singing back in reply, and sometimes did a little damage.
And at times the camps would be wakened by furious fusillades in the advanced French lines, when the Russians enlivened matters with a sortie. But these alarms were spared the English, on account of the bad ground in their front, which did not lend itself to such matters.
More than once, too, they all turned outen massein the middle of the night--and always on the bitterest nights--to repel attacks in the rear which never came off.
And every day there went down to Balaclava the long slow procession of sick men, and to the cemetery another procession of those who had died in the night.
Jack duly got his leave and went away with Captain Jolly, and Jim busied himself, as well as the authorities would let him, in providing for the reception of the men and horses of the Light Brigade on the hill-side above Balaclava Bay.
A slow, dull time, wearing on body, mind, and spirit--and yet, not the worst time possible.
Jack was back, in the best of health and spirits.
"I'm almost sorry I didn't join the navy," he said, as he trudged with Jim through the mud to the Picket House, to see how things had gone on in his absence. "They do keep things clean, anyway."
"That's the only place where they have any fun nowadays," he said, as they stood looking down on the lines and zigzags, creeping nearer and nearer to the town, and pointed to a deep gully which ran up from the head of the Admiralty Harbour and separated the British position from the French.
"The Ovens," said Jim. "Couldn't we go down some night and see some of it?"
"Any night you like when I'm not on duty."
"Why not to-night? You won't start work till to-morrow, I suppose."
"All right! To-night! The 50th are down there, and there are some capital fellows among them."
And that was how it happened that, for the sake of a little fun, or, in other, words, the chance of a brush with the enemy, the boys found themselves that night stumbling along the deep trench which zigzaged down from Chapman's Battery towards the Green Hills and so into the deep gully which ran up into the plateau from the head of Admiralty Harbour in Sebastopol. The sides of the gully contained numerous caves formed by the decay of the softer strata in the rocks, and these caves had for some time past been the stakes for which small parties on each side played sharp little war-games, and paid at times with their lives.
First they were Russian, then they were British, then again Russian, till the 50th had ousted them and remained in possession.
It was a bitterly cold night, but the boys, In the great fur coats Jim had bought out of the loot at Mackenzie's Farm, had nothing to complain of.
They found a strong picket of the 50th making themselves very much at home in the Ovens, and received a warm welcome from the officers in charge.
"Any chance of any fun to-night?" asked Jack.
"We can never tell what's going to happen. Keeps us on the jig the whole time, but it's better than doing nothing upstairs."
"And it comes off sometimes," said another.
"And when it does, the Ovens get hot," laughed a third, and they squatted on the floor and discussed zigzags and such matters.
"Almost took you for Russians in those big coats," said one enviously. "Did you steal 'em?"
"Somebody else 'stole 'em," laughed Jack. "We're only receivers. Jim bought them that day at Mackenzie's, when Menchikoff bolted and left us his baggage."
"Talking of spies," said another, sliding off on an inference, "did you hear of the one who walked about our lines for half a day as cool as a cucumber? He was dressed in full French uniform, asked heaps of questions in very bad English, and said we were doing wonders, and made himself quite pleasant all round. And then he caught sight of some more Frenchmen, coming down with the Colonel towards the battery to have a look at the Lancasters. As soon as he saw them he began to edge off down the hill, and when he saw his chance he just made a clean bolt of it, with our men blazing away at him as hard as they could, but he got clear away under the Redan there. And now we're a bit suspicious' of men in big fur coats. If you'll take my advice you'll leave 'em behind you here. Save you a heap of trouble maybe."
"Any sentry would be justified in shooting any man he saw in a coat like that," said another.
"All right, my boys! We'll keep our coats and take our chances. What's that?" And they all pricked up their ears to listen.
An order in French came to them from the opposite side of the gully.
"Their sentries and pickets are just over there. This is Tommy Tiddler's Ground, between England, France, and----"
A hoarse shout outside, and shots and yells, and they were all out in a moment and found the gully packed with Russians, and their own men, taken by surprise, falling back in some confusion.
"Brace up there, men!" shouted the officer in charge. "They're only a handful and only Russians."
It was very dark, except where the fires inside the caves sent out a dull glow here and there on the bare space between the combatants. Then the whole place blazed with a Russian volley, and again with the reply to it.
"Bayonets, men! And down with them!" And with a yell the Englishmen plunged down past the dull-glowing Ovens, and Jack and Jim raced with them, revolver in hand, blazing away into the darkness in front as they ran.
But the Russian plans for that night had been well laid. It was a miniature Balaclava charge over again.
A ripping volley met them, not from the front, but from both sides, and then masses of men closed in behind them and swallowed them up, and every man was fighting for his life against unnumbered odds.
Jim, elbow to elbow with Jack, and yelling with excitement, felt him suddenly trip and fall. He stooped to help him up again. But Jack lay still.
He straddled across him to keep him from being trampled on, and men lunged into him and tumbled over Jack, and he hurled them aside. Hand-to-hand fights were going on all round, and the place was full of the clash of steel on steel and pantings and groanings and hearty British curses.
But they were outnumbered twenty to one, and the last dozen were borne to the ground by sheer weight of Russians on their backs. The Ovens changed tenants and were occupied in force, and their late occupants were dragged away down the sloping valley towards the Harbour.
Jim found himself the centre of a raging mob. He had snatched up a rifle, and, swinging it by the muzzle, kept a rough circle clear of Jack's body. But vicious bayonets were jabbing at him all round, and a bullet went singing past his head.
"Cowards Murderers! Do you call this fighting fair?" he shouted savagely.
And of a sudden the mob parted, and an officer was belabouring his men with the flat of his sword and strong words.
"Vous vous rendez?" he cried to Jim.
"Suppose I must," he growled.
"All right!" said the Russian. "Go there! Allez!" and pushed him towards the gorge.
Jim stooped and endeavoured to lift Jack.
"Quoi donc? What?"
"My brother. I must take him."
"Dead?"
"My God!" gasped Jim at the word, as all that would mean to them all flashed upon him. "No, no! I hope not--only wounded."
"We cannot take him,"
"We must."
The Russian used language, then called to one of his men, who sulkily took Jack's limp legs while Jim took him under the arms, and they stumbled away downhill, leaving a strong force in possession of the Ovens.
Skirting a dark sheet of water, they came on a road where some rough carts were waiting. The wounded were bundled into them, and a place found for Jack, and Jim trudged behind with his hand on the tail of the cart, and his heart full of bitterness. Their fun had become, of a sudden, grimmest earnest.
They turned to the right over a bridge, where many lights gleamed on the water in front, and so came at last to a great building which proved to be the hospital.
The first news of trouble reached Carne in a brief letter from Colonel Carron to Sir Denzil.
Gracie and the Rev. Charles were sitting over their tea one afternoon in the quiet, hopeful despondency--if the expression may be permitted--which had become the natural state of all who had dear ones at the war. They were full of fears; they cherished hope; they waited with quiet resignation what each day might bring forth.
When Kennet rapped on the door of the cottage, Gracie's heart jumped and sank, and Eager incongruously thought of the old Latin Grammar tag:Mors æquo pede. . . ("Death with equal foot knocks at the door of rich and poor").
"Sir Denzil begs you will come and see him at once, sir."
"Bad news, Kennet?" asked Eager, as he reached down his hat.
"He didn't say, sir; but he's in a bad-enough humour. Not that that's much to go by, though, these days "--from which one gathers that even Sir Denzil's equanimity was not entirely unaffected by the disturbances of the times.
Gracie had slipped on her cloak and little fur turban. He looked at her doubtfully. But she shook her head with decision.
"I could not possibly wait here, fearing everything," she said; and they went along together.
Sir Denzil expressed no surprise at sight of her.
"I have just received a letter from my son, Colonel Carron," he said, in a voice perhaps a trifle too unnaturally even and unmoved. "The boys, I am sorry to say, have met with a misfortune." Gracie's heart sank, and braced itself as best it could for the worst. "It is not, however, as bad as it might be." Her heart gave a hopeful kick. "They are both prisoners in the hands of the Russians, and one of them is wounded again; but, so far, he has not been able to ascertain which. That is all; but I thought it better to let you know the full extent of the matter. The newspaper accounts are so garbled at times that one is apt to get wrong impressions. When you come across their names among the missing, you will understand. It does not necessarily mean anything more than I have told you. In fact"--with an appreciative pinch of snuff--"it may well be that they are safer inside Sebastopol than outside."
"Prisoners!" jerked Gracie. "Will they be well treated?"
"Oh yes; I should say so. The rank and file of the Russian army are doubtless somewhat boorish, but their officers are civilised--gentlemanly, indeed, I believe, if you don't go too far down. I do not think you need fear any ill-treatment for them, Miss Gracie. It is annoying, of course, not to know which of them is wounded, and to what extent. But the authorities will, no doubt, do their best to ascertain, and we may hear shortly."
"I am inclined to think with you, sir, that they will probably be safer inside than outside," said Eager thoughtfully. "From all accounts, the state of things in the camps is awful."
"Extremely British," said Sir Denzil. "Matters will improve in time. When the Many-headed One awakes to the fact that all this waste and misery are quite unnecessary, it will roar loud enough, I warrant you. Then our men will be properly looked after--that is, if there are any of them left to look after, which seems somewhat doubtful."
"It is shameful!" broke out Gracie, with vehemence. "I wish I could have gone with Miss Nightingale to help them."
"You would have died of atrophy and paralysis, my dear, if you had come in contact with the red-tape of the services. If Miss Nightingale succeeds in her mission she will be the one woman in ten million, and will deserve well of her country."
And so they were left in doubt and much distress of mind as to the welfare of the boys.
Margaret Herapath, in her deep mourning and her own bitter sorrow, came over to share their anxiety and distress. Her father had suddenly become an old and broken man. Charles Eager was much with him, and he was the only person, outside his own household, whom Sir George cared to see. And Eager, with the wisdom of deepest love and sympathy, let the old man's grief run its course, and then strove to build him up anew by diverting his grief from the one to the many.
Bitter sad times were those in the happy homes of England. Sorrow lay on the land like a chill black frost; but below it were simmering all those forces of passionate indignation which presently rose into that inextinguishable roar which swept men from their high positions, and in time carried somewhat of relief to the remnant of the army before Sebastopol.
Jim followed Jack's body with the single-minded persistency of a faithful dog whose master has come to grief.
His original captor would have taken him elsewhere, but he flatly declined to go anywhere but where Jack went. He thrust aside all interfering hands, and to all attempts at coercion in any other direction simply pointed to Jack and himself and said, "My brother!"--but with so grim and determined and dejected a face that at last the other gave way and followed them into the hospital.
It was very full--crammed with broken and dying men--but Jim had no thought save for Jack. Whether he was alive or dead he did not know, but he must stick to him and do what he could.
There was difficulty in finding room for him. A harassed surgeon, to whom the officer spoke, shook red hands at them and poured out a spate of hot words, but, arrested by something the other said, looked worriedly round and at last pointed to a corner; and Jim's captor explained to him, in his peculiar English, that the man who lay there would be dead in a minute or two, and then they could put Jack in his place.
And presently the attendants came along and carried the dead man away, and Jim and the officer lifted Jack on to the pallet, and the worried surgeon came round and knelt down and opened up his things, and examined him with quick, practised hands and a keen eye for causes and effects.
Jim's heart ran slow at sight of a bullet-hole in the white breast, and he watched the surgeon hypnotically as he carefully turned the body over and pointed to the place where it had come out at the back, just under the shoulder, and then spoke hurriedly to the officer.
"He says," said the other, in his broken English, helped out with very good French--which it would be but a hindrance to attempt to reproduce in detail--"he cannot tell. It has gone right through. He may live, he may die. It will take time to tell. Now you come."
"May I come again to see him?"
"I will try. You will give your parole?"
"Yes," said Jim; for Jack was more to him than all the chances of escape.
"Then we will see. Now come!"
"Beg him to do everything he can for him. Couldn't we take him somewhere else?"
"He is better here, for the present. Later we will see. Now come!" And since he could do no more at the moment, Jim went with him.
"For to-night you will come to the guard-room. To-morrow you will go to Head-quarters and be properly paroled, Then we will see."
And Jim spent the rest of the night on three chairs in the guard-room, brooding gloomily most of the time on the disastrous results of "seeing the fun" of the Ovens, and full of fears as to the end of it all.
In the morning his keeper came for him, and Jim, for the first time, took the opportunity of looking at him. He had been too busy with other matters the night before.
He was a young fellow of about his own age, dark-haired, and of a thin sallow face, bright-eyed, pleasant-looking. Under other circumstances Jim thought they might have become friendly. He had certainly, treated him well.
"How is my brother?" asked Jim anxiously.
"We will see as we go. Have you eaten? No?" And he took him away to a mess-room just alongside, where a number of officers were drinking coffee from bowls, and smoking and talking.
They saluted Jim politely, and stared at him without restraint while he ate a chunk of very good white bread and drank his coffee, which was excellent, and meanwhile they plied his friend with questions.
And one, after much observation of Jim's uniform, suddenly made some remark which carried all eyes to him and made him extremely uncomfortable at so much observation.
"He is saying that your regiment was in that mad charge outside Balaclava," said his particular officer.
"Yes; I was in it," said Jim quietly.
And at that, to his immense surprise, every man in the room sprang to his feet and gravely saluted him again.
"And you got through whole?" was the next question.
"No. I had a lance wound and three bullets into me, but I've been a voyage to Constantinople since then, to brace up, you know."
And they crowded round him, and pressed cigars on him, and showed themselves right good fellows.
Then his new friend took him along to the hospital, and they learned that Jack had come to himself and was sleeping, and so they went on across the bridge of boats, and through the public gardens, and past the cathedral, to Head-quarters.
After waiting some time, they were conducted down many long passages to a room where a tall fair man, of high face and autocratic bearing, sat at a table piled with papers and plans. Another stood looking out of the window, with his back turned to them, and a white English terrier, standing by his side on its hind legs, was trying hard to make out what he was looking at.
Jim's keeper saluted deferentially and made his statement to the tall man at the table.
"I understand you are prepared to give your parole not to attempt to escape, or to hold any communication with the outside?" said he, somewhat brusquely, first in French and then in understandable English.
"I am," bowed Jim. And at the sound of his voice the white dog came dancing across to him as though he were an old friend, and accepted his caresses with delight.
"And your brother is also a prisoner, in hospital, and you wish to attend on him."
"I do."
"What is your name and standing?"
"James Denzil Carron--cornet, 8th Hussars!" And at that the man at the window turned suddenly and looked at him, and came and stood by the table.
"You were, then, in the mad charge at Balaclava, perhaps?"
"I was."
"It was a foolish business."
"It was."
"Ah--you agree? How was it?"
"Some mistake. But no one quite knows."
"What are your total forces up there now?"
At which Jim's lip curled in a smile.
"You can hardly expect me to tell you that," he said quietly.
The tall young man who had been standing by the window said a word or two to the other, who seemed surprised, and turning to Jim, said: "Very well, Monsieur Carron. I accept your parole, and Lieutenant Greski will be personally answerable for you."
The lieutenant bowed, and plucked Jim backward by the sleeve, and Jim bowed, and gave the white dog's ear a final friendly pull, and they went out.
"Who is he?" he asked, as soon as they were in the corridor.
"Menchikoff, the one at the table. The other is the Grand Duke Michael. How does he know you?" And he looked at Jim with new curiosity.
"Who--Menchikoff?
"No--the Grand Duke."
"Know me?" jerked Jim. "Some mistake. I never set eyes on him before."
"He told Menchikoff to do what you wanted, and said he knew you, or something about you, or something of the kind. He dropped his voice so that I couldn't catch it all."
"That's odd. I certainly know nothing of him."
"He thinks he knows you, anyway, and so much the better for you. You shall come with me and stop at my house. It is not far."
"You are very good. I shall have a better opinion of Russians in future."
"Russians! I am no Russian. I am a Pole. I hate the Russians, and would love the English if I might."
"I see. But why do you fight for them, then?"
"Because I didn't my kin in Poland would have to pay for it."
"That's jolly hard, to have to risk your life, and maybe give it, for people you hate."
"There are many more like me. But what can we do? If we go against them they visit it on the innocent ones at home. If I could destroy the whole of Russia, Tsar and Grand Dukes and all, at one blow, I would strike it so"--and he dashed his fist into the palm of his other hand--"and then I would die with a glad heart. . . . But one does not talk of these things, you understand, except among one's friends."
He stopped at a house which stood about midway down the slope overlooking the harbour, and led Jim into a room on the ground floor. From the window he could see Fort Constantine, shining white in the sun on the other side of the water, and the bristling line of the masts of the sunken ships, and the harbour itself dotted all over with plying boats.
"One moment," said Greski, and left him there, but came back in an instant with a very beautiful white-haired old lady, whom he must have met in the passage. Her dark eyes were shining like stars at the joy of seeing her boy again.
"My mother," said Greski, and explained matters to her in a torrent of Polish.
She assented without any demur to all her son's proposals, and shook hands very heartily with Jim, giving him what was evidently warm welcome, in a tongue he did not understand.
Then the door opened again, and a girl rushed in and flung her arms round the lieutenant's neck, and kissed him, between broken ejaculations of joy, as one come back from the dead, while two long plaits of black hair gyrated wildly at her back.
When the tails had settled down, Greski laughingly swung her round facing Jim, and introduced her as his sister Tatia, and Tatia blushed charmingly, and said, in very passable English: "You must excuse us, sir. You see, when he goes out we are never quite certain that we shall ever see him again. And when he does return our hearts are joyful. Those terrible pointed shells you send us--ah,mon Dieu!one came through the side of the cathedral this morning when I was there praying for Louis, and we all ran and ran."
"They are not supposed to fire at the cathedral," said Jim.
"Ah, when one plays with monsters you never know what may happen."
Then they all three spoke together for a minute or two in Polish, since madame knew no tongue but that and Russian, and a little French, and then the ladies went off on household duties.
"I hope I shall not put you to any trouble," said Jim, "and--and"--he stumbled--"you will please let me pay my way. I have heaps of money----"
"We can discuss that later. We shall be glad to be of service to you. Our hearts go out to Englishmen."
But it was a little later, when they sat down to breakfast, that a new and very surprising development took place.
Madame Greski's eye suddenly lighted on Jim's ring--the one pressed upon him by the young officer whose life he had saved on the heights of Alma. She stared hard at it, and then said a quick word to the others, and, to Jim's surprise, Greski caught hold of his hand, held it for the others to see, and they all stood up in great excitement, and all spoke at once as they stared down at the ring.
"Where did you get it?" asked Greski quickly.
"It was given me by a Russian officer at the Alma. He was wounded and I gave him a hand, and he made me take this in return."
And madame came round and put her trembling white hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks, and her eyes were full of tears. Tatia looked as if she would have liked to do the same, and Jim would not have minded very much if she had.
"It was my brother John," said Greski. "He wrote to us from Odessa telling us all about it. You saved his life."
"I am very glad I was able to be of service to him."
"And now we will repay you as far as we can," said Tatia joyously. "Oh, I am glad! But the marvel that you should fall into Louis's hands!"
Madame spoke quickly to her son, and he translated.
"My mother says your brother must come here too and they will nurse him."
"I am very grateful. Can we go and see him after breakfast? Are you on duty?"
"Not again all this week,Dieu merci!There are many more of us than are needed for the batteries, you see. If there were any signs of a general assault we should all be called, of course. But that is not likely yet."
So Jim had fallen more than comfortably, and, for Jack's sake especially, he was glad. For if the hospitals inside were anything like those outside, it might make all the difference between life and death to a sick man, to be in such good hands.
They set off at once for the hospital. It was a cold raw day, and up on the hillsides, as they crossed the bridge of boats, the dull boom of the guns sounded now and again at long intervals. In that quarter, however, there were but few results of the bombardment visible, and when Jim remarked on it, Greski said,
"So far you are kind to us: you keep your fire for the forts and batteries and Government buildings. But in time you will lose patience, and then we shall suffer. Why didn't you come straight in when you landed? After Alma you might have done it, I think."
"I don't know why," said Jim. "But I wish we had. It would have saved much loss on both sides. You must have suffered terribly in the last fight--Inkerman."
"Horribly, horribly!" said Greski, with an expressive gesture.
At the hospital they found Jack looking very white and washed out, and visibly in great pain.
His face brightened at sight of Jim, but a bad spasm twisted it as he tried to smile, and the smile faded like a winter sunbeam and left his face hard and set.
"Dear old boy," said Jim, kneeling down by his side and holding his hand, "I've got good news for you. We've found friends, and you're to come to their house and get the best of nursing and attention."
Jack brightened again at the prospect, and Jim told him how it all came about, and introduced Greski, who nodded and smiled encouragingly.
When the doctor came round he made no difficulty about Jack's removal. He was only too glad to get another bed.
He talked with Greski for a few seconds, and then hurried away to his work.
"I will get an ambulance," said Greski, "and we will take him at once. He will be happier there." And Jim had no chance to ask him what the doctor had said, until they were walking slowly behind the litter, which, on second thoughts, Greski had brought as entailing less discomfort.
"He says it is a very bad wound. The bullet went right through the lungs, but we will do everything that is possible for him." And Jim went heavily, and his heart was full fears.
"But you must not look like that," said Tetia reprovingly to him, when they had got Jack stowed away in bed, in such outward comfort as soft clean sheets and a warm pleasant room could afford. "That is not the face of a good nurse, no indeed! I shall not let you in to see him till you look more cheerful." But Jim found a cheerful face no easy matter.
They had, however, still another surprise during the afternoon, which raised his spirits somewhat if it did not at the moment kindle his hopes.
The special doctor attached to the Grand Duke Michael came in, and informed them that the Grand Duke himself had ordered him to take the English officer in hand. He had been to the hospital and had been sent on to Mme Greski's house. So, between them all, no possible chance for Jack would be missed.
He examined his patient most carefully, and when Jim followed him anxiously out of the room he told him plainly, and in excellent English, that the hospital doctor was right--it was a very serious case, and they could only do their best and trust in Providence. If he did pull through it would probably leave him weakly all his days; but ---- and the great man pursed his lips and shook his head doubtfully.