Nothing could exceed the kindness of their new friends to the strangers cast so curiously on their care.
Brother John's ring had been an Open Sesame to their hearts, and they vied with one another in the repayment in kind for all that the absent one had received at Jim's hands.
Madame Greski and Tatia devoted themselves to Jack as if he had been brother John himself. No single thing that could make for his comfort and well-being was lacking on their part. Never was wounded man tended with more loving and unremitting attention.
And when Jim thought of the bleak miseries of the camps up there on the hill-sides, and the long-drawn horrors of the passages on the hospital ships, he thanked God in his heart that Jack was where he was.
For himself, although the rôle of prisoner of war was little to his taste, it was still mighty interesting to be inside Sebastopol after gazing at it so long from the outside. There was so little doing outside that it seemed to him that he was not missing much; in due course they would probably be exchanged; and meanwhile the difference between the mud-and-canvas life of the camps and this warm and cheerful home in the town was somewhat in the ratio of hell and heaven.
In view of the abounding comforts with which they were surrounded, it was indeed difficult at times to realise the actual and astounding fact that they were undergoing a siege that would rank as one of the great sieges of the world's history; that this comfortable town was an almost impregnable fortress; and that England and France, outside there, were bending all their energies to its reduction.
For they lacked nothing. Supplies were abundant. They were warm and well-fed, and, beyond the dull boom of the distant guns, they heard nothing of the siege. Through that unclosable northern door, by night and by day, long strings of carts brought in to them everything that was necessary, and much besides. Contrary to custom, it was the besiegers who suffered, not the besieged.
And Jim, when Tatia drove him away from Jack's bedside, to seek exercise and fresh air lest she should have another patient on their hands, quietly observing everything--the rude strength of the defences, the unlimited, even wastefully profuse stores of guns and ammunition, the teeming barracks full of men, and that ever-open door though which the limitless supplies could still be drawn upon--said to himself that the siege might go on for ever.
Jack, however, was in most distressing condition. The slightest exertion, any movement almost, brought on painful fits of coughing which seemed to shake his wounded chest to pieces. Speaking was out of the question, for even breathing was difficult to him; and all Jim could do, to show him what he felt about it all, was to sit by his bedside, holding his hand at times, and at times forcing himself to unnaturally cheerful talk lest the dreadful silence should bring him to foolishness in other ways. For he felt certain, from Jack's appearance and the doctor's manner, that his case was hopeless and the end not far off, and the thought of it was terrible to him.
Of the consequences--of the results to himself, at Carne and Wyvveloe--not one thought. The fluttering of the shadowy wings put all other considerations to rout. This that lay so still on the bed was dear old Jack, and the fear that he was going filled all his heart and mind.
But Tatia, pretty as she was, and of a most vivacious disposition, possessed so much common-sense.
Again and again she insisted on Jim quitting the room and the house, and threatened him with penalties if he came back under a couple of hours. And when her brother was available she would send them off together, begging them only to beware above all things of pointed shells and to turn up again in due course whole and undamaged.
"I would nurse you with enjoyment," she said, her soft dark eyes dwelling appreciatively on Jim's sorrowful long face, in which they seemed to find something that appealed to her strongly. "But, for yourself, you will be better to keep well. If you come back in less than two hours you shall have only half a dinner. Louis, you will see to it."
And Greski would march him away to the harbour front where walking was safe, since the shells rarely topped the hill, and they would discuss matters from both sides as they went.
On that side of the town there was little sign of the siege beyond the activities of the quays, and an occasional roar from the man-of-war moored under Fort Nicholas. But when they strolled along the front, and came round the hill, and up by St. Michael's church and the tower whose clock bore on its face the name of "Barraud, London," then all the grim actualities met them full face.
Up there, across the Admiralty Harbour--whose head ran up into the gorge wherein lay the fatal Ovens out of which they had come into captivity--beyond the great barracks and the hospital, up there on the hill-side lay the huge works which Jim knew as the Malakof and the Redan, but which Greski spoke of as the Korniloff and No. 3--very different in the rear from what they were in front, grim and forbidding, but crude and rough and unfinished-looking. And those little zigzag piles of earth just beyond them were the British trenches, and up on the plateau beyond were the tents, which shone so white in the morning sun, but were so horribly thin and cold of a night, and so dirty when you got close to them.
He could see the Picket House, and knew just what the usual crowd about it would look like; and he could see the gunners moving about the platforms inside the Russian works, and now and again white clouds of smoke rolled over them and the angry roar came bellowing across the quiet waters of the harbour, and the mole-heaps on the hill-side spurtled out in reply.
Now and again a shell came hurtling into the town from the Lancasters or the French batteries, but did little damage on that side, since there was little damage left to be done.
Up there to the right, as they went on past the Admiralty buildings and the cathedral, the houses were mostly in ruins, the streets were already barricaded in anticipation of assault, and the whole scene was one of dismal desolation.
And at times they would meet stretchers carrying broken men, and again, strings of carts carrying rough red coffins up to the cemetery.
But Jim deemed it wise, from every point of view, to keep, as a rule, away from the actual scene of operations. It was slow work watching at a distance the very leisurely operations, and it gave him little to report. But he had an idea that if he showed too great an interest in their concerns the authorities might perhaps tighten his tether, and that might mean separation from Jack. Now and again, however, the desire to see for himself how things were going on got the better of him, and he would creep into some deserted corner of the hot side of the town and endeavour to estimate the possibilities.
And from such observations he always came away downcast and disheartened, for, as far as he could see, the besiegers made no progress whatever, while the besieged toiled unremittingly at the strengthening of their defences, and blocked every possibility of entrance with their mighty earthworks. Up that side of the town went an unceasing stream of men and carts carrying fascines and gabions and shot and shell, and strings of straining horses dragging big guns from the arsenal; and new works, fully equipped, sprang up like mushrooms in a night.
But there were dark days also, when Greski was on duty in the bastions, or nominated for a sortie. And then madame and Tatia went about very quietly and nervously, and started at any unusual sound, and showed their fears in their faces.
But he was very fortunate, and came home each time to their joyful welcome with his tale of catastrophe to others whom they knew, but himself escaped unhurt, and they all breathed freely till his turn came round again.
Christmas slipped by almost unnoticed. When he did, by accident, awake to the fact that it really was Christmas Day, the difference between this and other Christmas Days gave Jim an unusual fit of the blues.
He thought of them all at Wyvveloe, and wondered if Gracie had decked the church with holly. He knew they would all be thinking about them, probably in great distress of mind. What news concerning them had reached home he could not tell. After much discussion with Greski, who assured him it would be useless, he had requested permission from the authorities to write home, subject to their inspection. But his request was returned to him with a brief inscription in Russian, which Greski translated as "out of the question."
So he could only hope that Colonel Carron would have been able to make inquiries under one of the occasional flags of truce, and had sent word home. But operations were slow at the moment; there had been neither assaults nor sorties of any consequence, and so flags of truce and opportunities of communication were of rare occurrence.
Yes, he knew it must be a bitter, sad Christmas for them all at home--for the many who had already got their fatal news, and for the more who awaited theirs in fear and trembling. And he knew too well what a shockingly thin and sore one it must be for the gaunt, shoeless, half-starved and ill-clad men in the thin white tents on the heights over there.
And when, through the weight of their colouring, his dismal thoughts plumbed deeper depths than was his wont, the grim irony of this most unchristian Christmas sat heavily on him. Christmas!--bristling with raw yellow earthworks, shattered with bursting shells, ghastly with crawling processions of broken men and more peaceful red coffins! Christmas!--peace on earth and goodwill----! And yet, after eighteen hundred years, here were so-called Christian nations at one another's throats, tearing and rending the image of God into raw red fragments, and with no thought but for destruction.
They were, many of them, very good fellows, these Russians. They would stop him in the street--those whom he had met that first morning, those who were left--and greet him cordially, and ask after his brother, and express their regrets, and he had no more desire to kill them than he had to kill Lord Raglan himself. And yet, set him on the hill-side up there, and all his thought would be towards their destruction.
Truly it was a queer world, and there must be something wrong somewhere! But it was all beyond him, and he could only brood and wonder.
Their New Year was ushered in on the night of the twelfth with great illuminations, much ringing of church bells, and a solemn service in the cathedral--by a terrific bombardment of their fellow Christians on the hill-side, and two furious sorties, which effected nothing beyond an increase in the tally of broken men and in the cart-loads of red coffins creaking away to the cemetery.
"Absolutely useless," acknowledged Greski, when his mother and Tatia released him from their warm embraces on his return. "But the Chief thinks it does the men good to go out occasionally after all their dirty work on the new bastions."
"Nothing yet," said Sir Denzil to Eager, on his twentieth anxious call after further news of the boys. "I am surprised Denzil has not written. But so many things may happen out there. His letter may have gone astray. There may be difficulty in communicating with Sebastopol. He may be wounded himself. He may be dead. We can do nothing but wait. I will send you word the moment I have any news. Miss Gracie well?"
"Quite well, sir, but sorely troubled about the boys."
"Ay, ay! That is the woman's part--to sit at home and nurse her fears."
"No news, Charlie?" asked the Little Lady hopelessly, from her chair by the fire.
"No news yet, dear. Sir Denzil promises to send round the moment he gets anything."
"I'm beginning to fear they're all lying dead in that horrible Crimea. This waiting, waiting, waiting, is terrible."
"Yes, it's hard work, the hardest work in the world. But we can only wait and hope, dear. Whatever is is best, and we cannot alter it."
It was a weary time for all of them, and all over Britain and France and Russia the same black cloud lay heavily. The only ones who were happy were those whose warriors had come home maimed, so long as the maiming was not absolute and irretrievable. For such were at all events safe from further harm.
So the slow dark days dragged on until at length one night, when Eager had just got in from his rounds and the usual fruitless call at Carne, there came the long-expected knock on the door, and Gracie ran to answer it.
"Is it you, Kennet?"
"Me, miss. Sir Denzil would like to see Mr. Eager."
"He has got some news at last?"
"Ay, some papers just come in. But I don't know what it is. Bad, I should say, from the looks of him--he was so mortal quiet."
"We will come at once. Let me go alone, Charlie. You're tired out."
"Not a bit of it, my dear. I feel like a hound on the scent at the word 'news.' Don't you think you'd better wait here till I bring you word?"
"I can't wait," she said breathlessly. And they went along together.
Sir Denzil met them with ominous impassivity.
"I trust Kennet did not raise your hopes," he said, with the corners of his mouth drawn down somewhat more even than usual, and a glance that never wavered for a moment. "This arrived just after you left, Mr. Eager. It explains, of course, to some extent----"
It was a letter from General Canrobert, informing Sir Denzil, with many complimentary phrases as palliatives to the blow, that Colonel Carron had met his death while gallantly repelling a sortie on the night of the 12th January. He had left instructions, in case of need, for word to be sent to Sir Denzil and it was in pursuance thereat etc. etc.
"That, of course, explains why he has been unable to pursue his inquiries after the boys," said Sir Denzil, in an absolutely unmoved voice.
"I need not say our deepest sympathies are yours, sir----"
"It is the boys I am concerned for," said Sir Denzil, with an impatient double wave of the hand, whose finger and thumb held his pinch of snuff. "Denzil put himself out of the running twenty years ago. This is only an incident. But"--and he snuffed very deliberately--"it may not be without its consequences in the other matter. There is no one out there now who has any special interest in them, you see. And, under present circumstances, they may quite easily be overlooked and lost track of. Personally, I should not be in the least surprised to learn that they are both dead. This war seems to me to be carried on in quite unusually wasteful fashion."
Gracie never said a word. The callousness of the old heathen chilled her heart, though it was boiling with many emotions. If she opened her mouth she feared it' would all come out in a torrent that would astonish him for the rest of his life.
"We can only go on hoping for the best," said Eager quietly. "Sir George is making inquiries for us----"
"He is quite outside things," said Sir Denzil brusquely, and gazed at Eager with thoughtful intensity for a moment, as though on the point of offering some other suggestion. "However," he said abruptly, at last, "at the moment, as you say, we can only wait, and see what comes of it all. If I hear anything I will send you word at once." And they left him and went soberly home, feeling death still a little nearer their dear ones in this new loss.
"What a terrible old man he is!" said Gracie. "I think he must have been born without a heart."
"It is mostly assumed, I think. Inside, I have no doubt he is feeling his loss bitterly, but he prides himself on not letting it be seen. It is the old fashion. Thank God, we have come to recognise the fact that a man may be a strong man and yet have a heart! It makes for a better world."
And as the slow weeks dragged on, and still brought them no news of the missing ones, their hearts were heavy with fears.
The great heart of the nation at home had been wrung with pity and indignation at the altogether unnecessary sufferings of the men who had gone out to fight her battles in the East, and who, through miscalculation, muddle, and incapacity, had died like flies, of sickness and want.
The roar of anger with which the news was greeted shook the mighty in their seats and hurled Ministers and Cabinets into the dust. Still more to the purpose, the sympathy aroused set itself promptly to the cure of official abuses by the administration of private charity; which word is used in its high apostolic sense, for private munificence and public subscription provided the miserable, gallant remnant of our army only with those things which were theirs by right, and of which they had been defrauded by sheerest stupidity and the inexorcisabie demon of Red-tape.
TheTimesfund was a mighty help; Florence Nightingale a still mightier, in that noblest attribute of personal service and sacrifice which touches all hearts to higher things.
But there were also many private benefactors, who set to work at once on their own account to do what they could, and among them was Sir George Herapath.
When the dreadful disclosures of the camps and hospitals came home, he was still bending, almost broken, under the weight of his own loss. His son's death had beaten him to the ground and shortened his span by years.
But the thought of the miseries of those other brave fellows, out on the bleak hill-sides above Sebastopol, stirred him out of the depths of his sorrow. He sent for Charles Eager.
"Eager," he said, "I can't get any sleep for thinking of it all."
"He died as a gallant man should die, Sir George."
"It's the others I'm thinking of--the poor fellows who are mouldering away out there for want of everything that has been forgotten or sent astray."
And a spark came into Eager's eye, for here was sign of grace and hope after his own mind--a sorely stricken heart rising superior to its own loss in helpful thought for others.
"Yes, they're having dreadful times. What were you thinking of?"
"Helping, if you'll take a hand."
"I'm your man, sir, and God be thanked for your good thought! I'll thank you in my own way."
"Help me to make a list of the most necessary things, and I'll charter a ship to take them straight out. Will you go with her and see to it all?"
"Will I?" blazed Eager. "Will I not? It's almost too good to be true. I want to find out what's become of those boys too."
"I wouldn't like it all to go astray like the rest, you see."
"I'll see to that. It may be the saving of hundreds. God bless you, sir! George's death will be a blessing to many through you. It is just what he would have done himself."
Sir George shook his head sadly. The wound was too raw yet. "Let's get to work!" he said; for in work, and especially in such work, there was something of healing.
So they formed themselves into a committee of four, and Sir George insisted on Eager and Gracie coming to stay with them at Knoyle so that the work might go on without interruption.
He went down to Liverpool, and with difficulty secured a steamship--theBakclutha, 1,000 tons burden, James Leale, master, at a very high price, for Government charters had made a tight market.
He went over all their lists carefully, knew just where to lay his hand on everything, and the work went forward rapidly.
Eager had secured a locum and was keen to be off, for every day's delay meant so many wasted lives. Gracie was to stay on at Knoyle with Margaret. And so the very last night came, and found them sitting round the fire in Sir George's study after dinner.
"You must all give an eye to my people while I'm away," said Eager. "Breton is a good sort, I think, but it'll take some time for him to get to know them; and the vicar----"
"The vicar is resigning as soon as you come back," said Sir George quietly. "The South of France is the only place where he can live, Yool says. I want you to take it when you get home."
"That is very good of you, sir. I want you to give me something else too"--and he slipped his hand inside Margaret's arm.
"I know," said Sir George. "Meg has told me, and I could not wish her better."
Gracie flung her arms round Margaret and kissed her heartily.
"Oh, I am so glad!" she cried. "That is what I have been wanting all the time."
"So have I," laughed Eager. And then more soberly, as he lifted Margaret's hand to his lips--"And truly I am grateful. My cup is full--almost to the brim----"
"I wish I could go with you," said Margaret.
"So do I," said Gracie eagerly.
"Yes, I know, but----"
And they knew too that the "but" must keep them at home.
"You'll find out all about the boys, Charlie," ordered Gracie.
"I'll do my best, dear, you may be sure. It all depends on what there is to find out and what an outsider can do. The possibilities are so tremendous. All we can do is to hope for the best and keep our hearts up. I have letters from Lord Deseret to Lord Raglan and several others, and I have no doubt they will give me all the help they can."
And next day he sailed, very happy in his mission, happier still in what lay behind and before him; troubled only on account of the boys who had disappeared into the smoke-cloud, and of whom for many weeks they had been able to obtain no tidings whatever.
The master, the supercargo, and the crew of theBalcluthawere all of one mind in the matter, and so she made a record passage, was through the Straits fourteen days after she hauled out of the Mersey, and two days later lay off Balaclava Bay awaiting official permit to enter.
The Bay was crowded, but a corner was found at last, and Eager's wondering eyes travelled over the amazing activities and manifold nastinesses of that historic port, though these last were nothing now to what they had been.
He landed at once, introduced himself and his business to Admiral Boxer and Captain Powell, found favour in their sight, and made arrangements for the unloading and forwarding of his cargo.
Sir George had furnished him with ample funds and the best of advice. He organised his own transport, saw to it himself; with the hearty assistance of Leale and his two mates and some picked men of the crew, and drove things forward at such astonishing speed that the harbour-master broke out one time.
"Man! Was it a parson you said you were, Mr. Eager? It's head of the Transport you ought to have been. You get more out of those lazy scamps than any man we've had here yet."
It was the same wherever he went. His strenuous cheerfulness, his masterful energy, his unfailing good-humour--in a word, his Eagerness infused itself into all with whom he came in contact and carried him royally through all difficulties. He was an object-lesson in what might be done when Officialism and Red-tape had no fingers in the pie.
To tell all he did, and saw, and thought, during those days, would take a volume. He cheered and comforted, and lifted from misery and death many a stricken soul, both in the hospitals and in the camps.
He came across old Harrow and Oxford friends, who welcomed him with open arms and tendered him advice enough to sink a ship. And when he had finished his distributions, and so eased the ways of all the needy ones within the range of his powers, he turned with keen anxiety to that other quest which lay so near his heart.
He paid a visit to British Head-quarters, in the low white houses on the road leading from Balaclava to Sebastopol, delivered Lord Deseret's letter to an aide-de-camp, and intimated his intention of waiting there till he could see Lord Raglan in person.
When at last he was admitted, he found the Chief sitting at a huge table heaped with papers, and two secretaries writing for dear life at tables alongside.
Lord Raglan had already seen him about the camps and hospitals, and had heard of his good works, and received him with courteous kindness. Eager was struck with his thin, worn face--the face of a brave man wrestling with unwonted problems and innumerable difficulties.
"I don't know what we can do to help you in your quest, Mr. Eager," said his lordship, with Lord Deseret's letter in his hand, "but anything we can do we will. I am sure you will understand that it has been through no intentional neglect that these young friends of yours have slipped out of our sight. The demands upon one's time from the people at home"--with an expressive glance at the mountainous heaps of forms and papers before him--"have afforded one small chance of attending to individual cases. The last we know was that they were prisoners in Sebastopol."
"I thank your lordship, and I am very loth to trouble you," said Eager; "but there is so much dependent on these two boys that I must do all I possibly can to learn what has become of them. One could not ask by letter, I suppose?"
"Did I not write to Menchikoff, Calverly, soon after they were taken? I seem to remember----"
"You did, sir," replied one of the overwrought secretaries, without stopping his work for a moment. "And we got no answer."
"Would it be possible for me to get in under a flag of truce?" asked Eager.
"Quite possible," said his lordship, with a faint smile; "but decidedly risky, and you certainly would not come out again."
"There are occasional truces for picking up the wounded, are there not?"
"We have never asked for one, As a rule the Russians request it after one of their big sorties. If you wait a while--one never knows what night they will come out. What was your idea?"
"Simply to inquire among the Russian officers. There could be no objection to that, I presume?"
"Not the slightest. You might learn something. It is just a chance."
"Then I will wait for that chance, with your lordship's permission."
"By all means, Mr. Eager, and I wish you all success; also please convey to Sir George Herapath our thanks for all he has done for the men here, and accept the same yourself. They have suffered grievously. His son's death was a great loss to us. He was a fine young fellow."
And Eager bowed himself out.
Eager's lean and lively face became well known in the camps and trenches. He was keen to see all he could, and was everywhere welcomed with acclaim, but perhaps the greetings he most enjoyed were the rough grateful words of men whom he had helped and heartened in the field hospitals, and who had recovered sufficiently to get back to their work. These would do anything for him, and from morning till night he was all over the place, seeing everything, mightily interested in it all, and leaving, wherever he went, a trail of uplifting cheerfulness which was a moral tonic.
He watched the perpetual fierce little fights over the rifle-pits, and went down into them and tended the wounded when chance offered. He mingled with the frequenters of the Picket House, and watched the effect of the somewhat desultory pounding of the batteries by the big guns. He crept cautiously through untold miles of muddy trenches, both French and British, and viewed with wonder the gigantic tasks which prepared the way for the second bombardment. And in the hospitals he soothed many a sufferer's passage to more peaceful quarters, and put fresh heart into those whose lot it was to go back to the front.
In the officers' tents and huts he was hail-fellow-well-met everywhere, and the only fault found with him was that he could not be in many places at the same time.
He heard matters discussed there with an outspoken freedom which would have set ears tingling at home; and when he asked how soon it was going to end, was told, "Never, my boy. It's going on for ever and ever." And an irreverent one added, "As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, amen!"
"End, my dear fellow? Why should it end?" said still another, waving an old briar at him, with the smoke curling like a flag of truce from the stem. "They've got unlimited supplies to draw upon, and an open road to get 'em in. As fast as we kill 'em they bring in fresh ones. As fast as we knock down their earthworks they build 'em up again----"
"Faster!" growled another.
"Yes, faster. I don't see why it should not go on till the year 2000--going on as we are. It's not a siege; it's a discipline--a chastisement for our sins: I only wish----"
"Hear, hear!" grunted another, who had heard that wish many times before.
"What do you wish?" asked Eager.
"I wish all the Red-tape and Routine people at home could be driven into the trenches here and kept there for a month. They'd learn a thing or two."
"Die . . . never learn," growled the other.
"If we'd gone right in when first we got here, it would have been a most enormous saving, even if the cost had been heavy. For some reason we lost the chance, and it's never going to come back. We're like a prize-fighter pummelling away at the other fellow's leg and hoping to break him in time that way. We may tire him out, of course, but its a deuced slow business."
"Do they never exchange prisoners?" asked Eager.
"We never take any worth exchanging. It's only the ruck we get, and they're mostly dead."
"Their boots are the best part of 'em," said the other. "Our men are always better shod after a sortie. Gad! sir, it would have made you blaze to see our fellows--Guardsmen and all--tramping about in mud and snow with no soles to their rotten boots! I hope the man who made 'em will spend his eternity in a snowy hell with raw bare feet!"
But one night they were all out in haste, at the sound of heavy and continuous musketry down in the trenches on the left attack; and Eager, tumbling out and rushing on with the rest, found himself where a noncombatant had no right to be.
He had gone plunging downwards with the others, in order to see all he could, till he fell bodily into a trench. He picked himself up and joined the stream of men hastening towards the firing, and found himself suddenly in the thick of things--bullets humming venomously past his head, men falling with groans and curses by his side, and a big man, standing just above him on the rough parapet of the trench, shouting to his men to "give it 'em hot with the steel," and meanwhile picking up the biggest stones he could find and hurling them at the oncoming Russians in front.
The men clambered up and swept away into the darkness with shouts and cheers and clash of steel, and Eager was left alone in the trench with the fallen ones. Up from below rose an awful turmoil, lit now and again by receding flashes, then a final British cheer, and one more sortie was repulsed.
It was only next morning that he learned the size of it.
"They say there were about fifteen thousand of them out last night," said one of his friends. "One lot went for the French over by the Mamelon, and the rest came up here."
"Gordon's men say he was on top of the trench chucking stones at the beggars as they came up----"
"I saw him," said Eager. "He was standing just above me, shouting to his men and flinging stones as hard as he could. Then they fixed bayonets and went downhill like an avalanche."
"You'd no right to be there, my boy."
"I suppose not. I went to see what was up, and fell into a trench, and ran on with the rest. Was the Colonel hit?"
"Couple of bullets in him, but not deadly."
"It's amazing to me that any one comes through alive."
"Yes, it feels like that at first, but you get used to it."
"Did we lose many?"
"Pretty heavy; but there are four or five Russkis to each of ours. Ground's thick with 'em. They'll want an armistice to clean up, I expect--generally do."
And, sure enough, the Russians presently requested a truce to pick up their men; and before long the white flags were flying on the batteries, and the men of both sides streamed out into the open, picked up their dead and wounded, and took stock of one another.
This was the chance Eager had been waiting for, and he went down to the debatable ground between the lines with the rest.
It was a horrible enough sight--a couple of thousand dead and wounded men strewn thick in that narrow space; but the stretchers were busily at work, and he had his own inquiries to make.
A number of Russian officers were strolling about, dressed in their best and smoking their best cigars, and quite ready for a talk.
He approached one, lifted his hat, and asked in French:
"I wonder if monsieur could afford me some information?"
At which the Russian smiled, and his blue eyes twinkled.
"With pleasure, monsieur. We have at this moment one hundred thousand men in there and five thousand guns, and provisions for fifteen years, and when they are used up we have five times as many more to come."
"If you could give me a satisfactory word about two young officers, prisoners in your hands, you would ease some very sore hearts at home, monsieur. That is all I ask. I have come all the way from England to get news of them."
"If I can, monsieur. What are their names?"
"Carron; two brothers--one in the Engineers, the other in the Hussars."
"Tiens!Yes--Carron! I know them. Some of our guns have the same name. They are well, monsieur. I saw them only yesterday."
"Thank God for that! And I thank you, monsieur, most gratefully."
"It is nothing. One of them was sorely wounded, but the Grand Duke sent his own doctor, and he is recovered. They were walking together yesterday, and we spoke. I shall tell them of your inquiry. What name, monsieur?"
"Eager--Charles Eager. Will you tell them all are well at home and very desirous of seeing them. If only this terrible war would come to an end!"
"Yes, indeed;le Malheur!But I assure you, monsieur, we will stop fighting at once if only you will all go home."
"I wish I could make them," said Eager. "It is terrible work." And he looked round at the broken men lying so thickly all about.
"It is rough play. Whether the omelets are worth all the broken eggs, I cannot say. Have you any idea what we're fighting about, monsieur?"
"General principles, I suppose."
"Ah, he is a costly leader, this General Principles," said the other, with a twinkle. "Permit me to offer you a cigar."
"We will exchange," said Eager, producing some of Sir George's extra specials. "Let us smoke to a speedy peace."
"With all my heart." And they parted friends, and both went their ways wondering why such things must be. And if the Russian never delivered Eager's message it was not his fault, for he was killed by a shell that same afternoon in Bastion No. 4.
The ground was cleared at last. There was a moment's pause. Then the white flags came fluttering down, and a gun from the Redan sent a shot hurling up the trenches, to show that playtime was over.
Eager was much comforted in mind by his interview with the Russian. He had seemed a good fellow, and could have no object in deceiving him. He wrote long letters home, and resolved to wait on and see if the great bombardment, to which all efforts were now directed, would bring the end any nearer.
And so it came about that he stood with the rest on Cathcart's Hill, in the misty drizzle of that bleak Easter Monday morning, and watched the opening of the second bombardment of Sebastopol.
They could hear enough up there. All round the vast semicircle more guns were crashing than had ever roared in concert before. But they could see very little. The gunners themselves could not see. They knew Sebastopol lay over there and they were bound to hit something.
And Eager strained his eyes into the chill white mist to see all he could, and felt sick at heart at thought of the destruction any one of those wildly flying shot and shell might wreak.
It was the most trying time Jim had ever spent. He had had no experience whatever of sick-beds, beyond his own short spell after Balaclava, and even that was as different from this deadly monotony as well could be. But he stuck to it valiantly, and was only saved from physical and mental collapse himself by Tatia's arbitrary oversight.
If there had been anything going on outside he might have found the change from the sick-room bracing, but both besieged and besiegers were too busy girding their loins for another struggle to waste time or powder on useless display.
The Allies had found the nut too hard to crack, and were working hard on preparation for the next blow; and those inside, fully informed of everything that went on in the camps, were straining every nerve to resist it.
So big guns and mortars went toiling up to the heights from Balaclava Bay, and mountains of gabions and fascines and more big guns went toiling up the heights inside to face them, and for days hardly a shot would be fired on either side.
It was towards the end of February that Greski said to Jim, one day when Tatia had turned them out-of-doors--"Come, and I will show you something new." And they went round to the eastern slope, looking out towards the Karabelnaia suburb and the Malakoff and Redan--all of which Jim knew by heart.
And at the first glance Jim saw a change in the look of things.
A new fort had sprung up in the night between the Malakoff, which till now had been the foremost Russian work on that side, and the French trenches--a fort of size too, all a-bristle with gabions and fascines round the crown of the flat hill. The thousands of men still working at it made it look like a great ant-heap.
"French!" said Jim, after his first quick glance, with a feeling of exultation, for the new work must seriously menace, if not command, the Malakoff.
"French?--no, my friend!--Russian! Truly your people are not very wideawake. Todleben has been expecting them to seize that hill ever since they crept so close, and it would have been bad for the Korniloff Bastion, you see. So, as they did not, and it seemed a pity no one should use it, he occupied it last night, and ten thousand men have been busy on it ever since."
"Hang it! What fools we were to let it slip!"
"Undoubtedly! And without doubt you will now try to recover it, and it will cost you many men, and us also, and so the game goes on."
And that very same night, when Jack had at last fallen asleep, Greski said to Jim, as though he were inviting him to a theatre party:
"At midnight we will take a little walk, and you will see your friends attempt to recover the new fort, the Mamelon.
"You seem to know all about it," said Jim incredulously.
"Of course. That again is where we beat you. We know all your plans. We have plans of every trench you cut with every gun you place in it."
"Not from any of our men," said Jim, with heat, for underhand work such as that struck him offensively.
"Oh no. But your men talk too much among themselves, and our spies are through your camps night and day. They all speak French, you see, and uniforms are easy to get, whereas none of your people speak Russian well enough to pass muster for a moment. I can even tell you that the attack will be all French--Zouaves, Marines, and Chasseurs, under three thousand in all, and the General Monet will be in command. They will walk right up into the trap and will all be killed or captured."
"It is sheer murder."
"What would you? It is war; and after all, though I hate Russia, one cannot help remembering that she did not invite you to come here. We will wait here. It is not yet time."
"Why aren't you up there yourself?"
"I was in the last sortie and it is not my turn,Dieu merci!for it will be hot up there to-night. There are plenty of us, you see, and we take fair turns."
All was dark and still up along the distant hill-side, so void of offence that Jim began to wonder if Greski had not made a mistake. But after several impatient glances at his watch by the glow of his cigar, he said at last:
"Now--it is time! Watch!--over there!"
But the minutes passed--long, long minutes, almost the longest Jim had ever lived through.
"Doesn't seem coming off," he jerked.
"Wait!" jerked Greski, at tension also. "They were to start at midnight. They have a quarter-mile to cover, and they will go cautiously because the ground behind there is bad. We are to let them come right up and--ah--voilà!" as the darkness behind the new fort blazed and roared and became an inferno of deadly strife; terrific volleys of musketry and the hoarse shouting of men--no big guns, and presently even the firing became desultory, but the turmoil waxed louder and louder.
Greski danced with excitement.
"Mon Dieu!but they are fighting!--hand to hand! They are devils to fight, those Zouaves. I wish--I wish--but it is not safe here to wish."
The turmoil came rolling round this side of the hill; the Russians were falling back. Then flaming volleys broke out on each side of the turmoil.
"Ah--ah--ah! Supports from Korniloff," jerked Greski.
And then suddenly the Malakoff and Redan big guns blazed out, and poured an avalanche of shot and shell and rockets on the gallant attack, and it withered and melted away.
"Two--three thousand men in pieces, and as you were!" was Greski's summing up.
"Infernal butchery," growled Jim, much worked up.
"What would you, my friend? It is war." And they went soberly home, thinking of the horrors of the red hill-side and all the broken men who lay there, while all the church bells in the town clashed pæans of victory overhead as they went.
The one bright ray to Jim, in this time of gloom, was the fact that Jack was without doubt slowly improving, to the great satisfaction and greater surprise of his wearied but unwearying nurses and the Grand Duke's doctor.
"He has no right to live," said the latter, "and yet he lives, and may live. It is marvellous." But then he had not known how the open-air life on the flats prepared a man for contingencies such as this.
It was long before Jack could speak above a whisper without suffering, and then at last he was able to sit propped up with pillows and to take an interest in things in general, But the gardens were full of hyacinths and crocuses, and there were even patches of them on the troubled hill-sides, among the white tents and muddy trenches, before he tasted fresh air again.
Then Jim would lead him on his strong arm, very slowly and with many a rest, to a sheltered place whence he could see what was going on, and so keen was his interest that it was no easy matter to get him home again. And the officers they met on the road would stop them, and politely inquire after Jack's health, and express their pleasure at his recovery, and discuss matters with them, and gallantly express their conviction that the siege would go on for ever, but admit all the same that if it could honourably end they would not be sorry.
They had another ray of hope when the news came of the death of the Tsar. Would it mean an end of the terrible struggle, and release, and home? Their hearts--and not theirs only--beat high with hope, and fell the lower when the word came that the fight was to go on to the bitter end.