FOOTNOTES:[A]My informant was an English artist.
[A]My informant was an English artist.
[A]My informant was an English artist.
Moods in Paris—The Empress escapes—Taking down Imperial flags—Playing dominoes under fire—Cowards branded—Balloon post—Return of the wounded—French numbed by cold—The lady and the dogs—The nurse who was mighty particular—Castor and Pollux pronounced tough—Stories of suffering.
One who was in Paris on the 3rd of September, 1870, might have heard strange things said in the cafés as evening came on. The French had suffered a great disaster; they had surrendered to the Germans at Sedan! MacMahon was wounded and taken prisoner; the Emperor had given himself up, and was going to Germany as a first-class prisoner; 80,000 men captured, and 200 guns. Was not that news enough to sell every paper in the street?
Shouts were heard of “Déchéance! Vive la République!”
Where was the poor Empress all this time? “Never mind her; it was she who had stirred up the Emperor Napoleon III. to make this horrible war.” So the papers print cruel caricatures of her. On Sunday, the 4th, very early in the morning, a huge crowd thronged the Place de la Concorde; men were pulling down Imperial eagleswhile the mob cheered. The regular soldiers met the National Guard and made friends.
Men said to one another: “What will become of the Empress?” “Will she fall a victim to the new patriots?” And whilst some wondered, a few friends were even then helping her to escape to England.
Everywhere on walls of houses were bills fixed announcing the Republic, and inviting all men to rally to the rescue of “La patrie en danger.”
But the railway-stations were very full of men, women, and children, who were trying to get a little country air. Could it be possible that they feared Paris might before long be besieged?
Drums and bugles incessant, uniforms always, rifles and side-arms very often. Men stood before the black-draped statue of Strasbourg, and waved arms wildly, shouting and screaming, “Revenge!” “Liberty!” and the like.
By the 10th of the month the Prussian forces, 300,000 strong, were about twenty-five miles from the capital. People began to look grave, and the more thoughtful went to the stores, and made secret purchases of coffee, rice, sugar, and other portable provisions. Still, the Parisians have not lost their gaiety yet; comic songs and punchinello evoke hilarious laughter.
Then came the news, “Versailles has honourably capitulated.”
What! so near as that! People are becoming nervous, so that the new authorities proclaim by billposters that the fifteen strong forts beyond the line of ramparts are fully armed and manned by the sailors from the fleet.
A captive balloon goes up from Montmartre to watch the enemy. Then it occurs that obstacles outside the city must be cleared away, so that the chassepot mayhave space to reach the Prussians; and many houses and bridges go down.
“Well, if there is a siege, have we not got a goodly store of food—enough for two months? Are there not plenty of cattle and sheep, fodder and grain collected within the walls? Who cares for the Prussians?”
Yet when they see notices posted on the walls instructing the newly enrolled how to load their muskets, some have a twinge of doubt and anxiety. A few days more, and Paris begins to feel she is being encircled by the enemy. Great movement of troops towards Vincennes. Official notices now state that all men liable to military service must report themselves within twenty-four hours, under penalty of being treated as deserters—and shot.
Yet still many are placidly playing dominoes, or calmly fishing from the bridges in the Seine, quite content if they catch a gudgeon two inches long.
Yet, if some are betraying levity and selfishness, others are filled with a desire to do something for their country. The doctors offer their services in a body, and hospitals for the wounded are being established at various points.
Ladies wearing abrassardon the arm (the Red Cross badge) were almost too numerous; and some of these had more zeal than strength, and failed lamentably when brought face to face with horrible sights.
On the 19th of September some French forces, who occupied the heights of Chatillon, were attacked in force by the Germans, and driven away, and they ran through Paris crying, “We are betrayed!” but the people gloomily replied, “Cowards!”
The next day many of these fugitives were marched along the boulevards, their hands tied behind their backs, and the wordLâche(coward) printed in large letters between their shoulders. Yet still crowds of men in uniformand ladies fashionably dressed crowded the cafés, laughing and full of mirth.
As the bombardment grew, it became the fashion to gather at the Trocadero, and watch the Prussian shells exploding in mid-air.
The village folk who had lived within the lines of investment were brought inside the ramparts, and formed a class ofbouches inutiles, though some of the men were employed to cut down trees and build barricades.
The Palace of St. Cloud was burnt down about this time—some said by the French themselves, either by accident or design.
A post by balloon and by carrier-pigeons had been introduced—par ballon monté—by which letters were sent away, but could not be received.
The Balloon Post used during the Siege of ParisLetters could be sent away by this method, but not received.
The Balloon Post used during the Siege of ParisLetters could be sent away by this method, but not received.
The Balloon Post used during the Siege of Paris
Letters could be sent away by this method, but not received.
In the middle of October Colonel Lloyd Lindsay arrived from England, bringing with him £20,000 as a gift from England to the sick and wounded. He came into Paris in the uniform of his rank. This did not prevent his being captured as a spy, and suffering some indignities at the hands of the great unwashed of Belleville. Some with questionable taste said, “The English send us money—all right!—but why do they not help us with men and guns?”
Trochu, the Governor of Paris, was thought to be rather infirm of purpose; his sympathies were given more to Napoleon than to the Republic, and he evidently distrusted the fighting men within Paris. Indeed, there were many officers quite unfit for work, who used to lounge about the cafés, their hands buried in a warm muff and their noses red with the little glasses they had emptied. Many battalions of Federals elected their own officers, and some men were seen to be soliciting votes, bottle in hand. The National Guard, which was somewhat like our militia, was distinct from the French army, and contained many bad characters; they were apt to desert in time of danger.
On the 21st of October there was a sortie against the Prussians on the west of Paris. They started at noon, as Mont Valérien fired three guns in quick succession. They took with them some new guns, called mitrailleuses, from which great things were expected. In the evening there came back a long procession of sixty-four carriages, all filled with wounded. Crowds of anxious mothers came clustering round, inquiring for friends. The people in the street formed two lines for the carriages to pass between; the men respectfully uncovered their heads.
November came, with snow and bitter frost. Strange skins of animals began to be worn; fuel was scarce, gas was forbidden, and epidemics arose. The very poor received free meals from themairies, while the more respectable poor stayed at home, making no sign, but starving in dumb agony.
On the 30th of November another sortie was attempted. Some villages were taken by the French, Champigny and Brie, the mitrailleuses being found very useful in sweeping the streets; but towards evening the French were repulsed, and the commander of the 4th Zouaves was left by his own men on the ground wounded, a shell having dropped near them. Fortunately, the English ambulance was close by, and rendered such help as was possible. Then they drove the helpless officer in a private brougham back to Paris. What was their indignation when they found great crowds of people of both sexes indulging in noisy games, as if it was a holiday! The poor Chef de Bataillon only lived a few hours after being taken to the hospital.
Next day ambulances were sent out to search for the wounded, but they came upon many stragglers bent on loot. The wounded were in sore plight after spending anight on the frozen ground. Some had been able to make a little fire out of bits of broken wheels, and to roast horse-flesh cut from horses which the shells had killed. The French troops had remained in bivouac all that night, their strength impaired by fatigue and cold; the German troops, on the contrary, were withdrawn from the field of battle, their places being taken by others who had not seen the carnage of the previous day, who were well fed and sheltered, and thus far better fitted to renew the fight. No wonder that the poor benumbed French failed to make a stout resistance. Hundreds of wounded returned to Paris all the following day, and it became evident that no effort to break the circle of besiegers could succeed. Paris awoke at last to the humiliating truth. The day was cold and foggy; the transport of wounded was the only sound heard in the streets; in the evening the streets were dimly lit by oil-lamps, shops all closed at sundown, and the boom of heavy guns seemed to ring the knell of doom. All hope was now fixed on the provinces, but a pigeon-post came in, telling them of a defeat near Orleans.
“The Army of the Loire has been cut in two! Tant mieux! (So much the better!) Now we have two Armies of the Loire.” So the dandy of the pavement dismissed the disaster with an epigram.
The scarcity of meat was felt in various ways; even the rich found it difficult to smuggle a joint into their houses, for it was liable to arrest on its way: some patriots would take it from a cart or the shoulder of the butcher’s boy, saying, “Ciel! this aristocrat is going to have more than his share.” One day a fashionable lady was returning home carrying a parasol and a neat parcel under her shawl. After her came six hungry dogs, who could not be persuaded to go home, though she hissed and scolded and poked them with her gay parasol. On meeting afriend, she first asked him to drive them away, and then confided to him that she had two pounds of mutton in her parcel. And so the poor dogs got none!
Amongst the hungry folk we must not forget that there were nearly 4,000 English in Paris, about 800 of whom were destitute, and would have starved had it not been for the kindness of Dr. Herbert and Mr. Wallace. The wounded were well looked after, for there were 243 ambulances, of which the largest, the International, had its headquarters at the Grand Hotel. In one of the Paris journals it was stated that a lady went to the Mayor’s house of her district to ask to be given a wounded soldier, that she might nurse him back to life. They offered her a Zouave, small and swarthy.
“No, no,” she exclaimed; “I wish for a blonde patient, being a brunette myself.”
It was hardly worth while going to pay a visit to the Zoological Gardens, for most of the animals had been eaten.
Castor and Pollux were amongst the last to render up their bodies for this service. Castor and Pollux were two very popular elephants, on whose backs half the boys and girls in Paris had taken afternoon excursions. Poor fellows! they were pronounced later on by the critical to be tough and oily—to such lengths can human ingratitude go when mutton is abundant.
They were twins and inseparables in life. Their trunks were sold for 45 francs a pound, the residue for about 10 francs a pound. Besides the loss of the animals, all the glass of the conservatories in the Jardin des Plantes was shattered by the concussion of the big guns, and many valuable tropical plants were dying.
The citizens, usually so gay and hopeful, presented a woebegone appearance whenever they saw their soldiers return from unsuccessful sorties. They began to lookabout for traitors. “Nous sommes trahis!” was their cry. There was one private of the 119th Battalion who refused to advance with the others. His Captain remonstrated with him; the private shot his Captain rather than face the Germans. A General who was near ordered the private to be shot at once. A file was drawn up, and fired on him; he fell, and was left for dead. Presently an ambulance stretcher came by, and picked him up, as a wounded man; he was still alive, and had to be dealt with further by other of his comrades. Let us hope that this man’s relations never learnt how Jacques came to be so riddled by bullets.
The houses on the left bank of the Seine were so damaged that the citizens had to be transferred to the right bank. In a few days the terrible battery of Meudon opened fire upon the city. The shells now fell near to the centre of Paris; day and night without rest or stay the pitiless hail fell, and this went on for twelve days and nights. Meanwhile the cold increased and the fuel failed; diseases spread, and discontent with the Government arose. Women waiting in the streets for their rations would fall from exhaustion; others were mangled by shells. The daily ration for which the poor creatures struggled consisted now of 10 ounces of bread, 1 ounce of horse-flesh, and a quarter litre of bad wine.
One more effort the starving Parisians made to break through on the 19th of January. Early that morning people were reading the latest proclamation on the walls: “Citizens, the enemy kills our wives and children, bombards us night and day, covers with shells our hospitals. Those who can shed their life’s blood on the field of battle will march against the enemy—suffer and die, if necessary, but conquer!”
Threecorps d’armée, more than 100,000 men, were taking up their positions under cover of Mont Valérien;but a dense fog prevailed, and several hours were lost in wandering aimlessly about, so that the French became worn out with fatigue, whereas the Germans had passed a quiet night, with good food to sustain their strength. Yet for many hours the French obstinately held their ground; then stragglers began to fall away, and officers tried in vain to rally their companies. Night fell on a beaten army hurrying back through the city gates.
Meanwhile the bombardment went on with increasing violence, until early on the night of the 26th there was a sudden lull; just before midnight a volley of fire came from all points of the circle round Paris, then a weird silence. Then it was known that the terms of surrender had been signed—not too soon, for all were at starvation point, and only six days’ rations remained. Paris had been very patient under great sufferings through the cold winter. It is pleasant to remember that supplies of food sent from England were then waiting admission outside the northern gates.
An English doctor residing in Paris during the siege writes thus:
“One lady to whom I carried a fowl was prostrate in bed, her physical powers reduced by starvation to an extremely low ebb. When I told her that she was simply dying from want of food, her reply was that she really had no appetite; she could not eat anything. Yet when I gave her some savoury morsel to be taken at once, and then the fowl to be cooked later on, her face brightened; she half raised herself in bed, and pressed the little articles I had brought to her as a child presses a doll. I was told also that the nurses in an ambulance which I had aided with the British supplies danced round the tables, and invoked blessings on our heads. As regards myself, what I most craved for was fried fat, bacon, and fruit, and, above all, apples.”
Besides the wild animals of the French Zoological Gardens, most of the domestic pets had been eaten. A story is told of one French lady who carefully guarded her little dog Fido, feeding him from her own plate with great self-sacrifice. One day the family had the rare treat of a hot joint, and in the middle of dinner the lady took up a small bone to carry to Fido in the next room. She returned in trouble, saying:
“Fido is not in the house; he would so have enjoyed this bone. I hope he has not got out. They will kill him—the brutes!—and eat him.”
The members of that starving family exchanged uneasy glances; they were even now engaged upon a salmi, or hash, formed from a portion of the lady’s pet!
“From Memoirs of Dr. Gordon.” By kind permission of Messrs. Swan Sonnenschein and Co.
Metz surrounded—Taken for a spy—Work with an ambulance—Fierce Prussians rob an old woman—Attempt to leave Metz—Refusing an honour—Thecantinière’shorse—The grey pet of the regiment—Deserters abound—A village fired for punishment—Sad scenes at the end.
One Englishman, the Special Correspondent of theManchester Guardian, contrived to enter Metz shortly before it was besieged. But he had not been there long before a disagreeable experience befell him. He was riding quietly outside the city towards the French camps which were pitched all round it, when suddenly a soldier stepped across the road, and cried, “Halt!”
Two men seized his reins, asking, “Have you any papers?”
“Yes; here is my passport,” he replied confidently.
The passport puzzled them; it was taken to a superior officer, who knew that it was English, but looked suspiciously at the German visé which it bears.
The Englishman was taken to a General across the road, who shook his head and remanded him to another officer of the staff, a mile back towards Metz. It begins to look serious; this man may be shot as a spy.
Two gendarmes were called up to guard him; soldiers came up to stare with savage scowls—he was a spy undoubtedly; but cigarettes were offered by the spy, and things began to look less cloudy. Then up came General Bourbaki, and fresh questions were put and answered; then a mounted messenger was sent to Metz to find out if the prisoner’s statements were correct. On his return with a satisfactory account, the prisoner was told to mount and ride with escort to the head-quarters of the Commander-in-Chief, Marshal Bazaine. As he rode soldiers jeered and prophesied a speedy death in a ditch, which made him feel ill at ease.
A ride of a mile brought him to a pretty château, where he was received with courtesy and kindness. At a long common deal table in a wooden pavilion in the garden sat the Marshal and some twenty officers of the staff. Dispatches were being written, signed, and sent off by mounted messengers. In the corner was an electric telegraph, ticking off reports from distant points.
When the conference broke up, Marshal Bazaine motioned the suspect to a seat, and questioned him, made him show on a map where he had been riding, found he understood no German and was a fool at maps (perhaps a little stupidity was put on), then he left him to his secretary.
The latter said, with a sly glance: “We have so many spies that we are bound to be careful, but the arrest in this case is a stupid thing (une bêtise). I will give you alaissez-passerfor the day, monsieur.”
So he went off, relieved at not being shot for a spy, but somewhat mortified.
There was hard fighting going on in the country round Metz. Our countryman managed to get attached to an ambulance, and went on to a battle-field at night.
“We lit our lanterns,” he says, “and went cautiously into the valley. There were Prussian sharpshooters in the wood beyond, and I confess I was very nervous atfirst: the still night, the errand we were on, all awed one. But so soon as we reached the outskirts of the battle-field all personal feelings gave way to others. Here at every turn we found our aid was wanted. Thousands of dead and wounded were around us, and we, a few strangers sent by the International Society of London, were all that were present to help them. Plugging and bandaging such wounds as were hopeful of cure, giving a life-saving drink here and there, moving a broken limb into a more easy position, and speaking a word of encouragement where the heart was failing—this was all we could do. But all that night each worked his utmost, and when our water failed two of us walked back four miles to Gravelotte and brought a bucketful. We can dress, but not remove, the wounded now. Often have I been tempted to put a poor fellow out of his pain; it seems kinder, wiser, and more Christian to blow out the flickering lamp than let it smoulder away in hours of anguish. Daylight begins to dawn, and we seek carriages—that is, jolting unhung carts—to convey some of the wounded. Now, as we raise them up and torture their poor wounds by moving them, for the first time we hear a cry. The groans of the dying, the shrieks of the wounded, are absent from the battle-field, but far more dreadful and awe-inspiring is the awful stillness of that battle-field at night. There is a low, quivering moan floats over it—nothing more; it is a sound almost too deep for utterance, and it thrills through one with a strange horror. Hardly a word is uttered, save only a half-wailed-out cry of ‘Ohé! ma pauvre mère!’ Nothing is more touching, nothing fills one’s eyes with tears more, than this plaintive refrain chanted out as a death-chant by so many sons who never more on this side the grave will see again that longed-for mother—‘Ohé! ma mère, ma pauvre mère!’
“We select sixty or seventy of those whose wounds willbear removal, and turn our faces towards Metz. Slowly and sadly we creep out of the death-valley. The quaint hooded forms of the sentinels who challenge us cut out strangely against the green and gold of the morning sky. Not a walking-stick, not a pipe is left us: they were cut up into tourniquet-keys. I am ashamed to say I regretted my pipe; but it came back to me after many weeks, being brought to me by the man whose life it had saved. Very grateful he was. As we toil upwards, musing on life and death, bang! right in our very faces spits out a cannon. Good heavens! they surely are not going to begin this devil’s work again! Yes; there goes a battery to the crest of the hill. We must take care of ourselves and those we have so far rescued from slaughter. On we tramp, but there is no food, not a crust of bread, not a drop of water for our wounded. It is nine miles more back to Metz, and tired as we are, we must walk it. Very tired and hungry and cross we enter Metz, and there see the French ambulances waiting with waggon-loads of appliances and well-groomed horses. They had stopped to breakfast, and many hundreds have died because they did so. Well, we have earned ours, at any rate.”
It was now the 28th of August. Metz was blockaded. No letters could be sent, for the German hosts were holding the heights all round. Ruthless rough-riders were riding into every French village. In one of these, the story goes, a poor old woman was washing her little store of linen. She was very old, and her grey hair sprouted in silver tufts from her yellow skin. All the rest had fled in panic; she alone was left busy at her tub, when up rode some score of huge Dragoons. They pulled up in front of her, speaking their barbarous tongue. One Dragoon dismounts and draws his sword. Poor old woman! she falls upon her knees and lifts up wrinkled hands and cries feebly for mercy. It is in vain! Neitherage nor ugliness protects her. Raising his sword with one hand, he stretches out the other towards her—the Prussian monster!—and grasps her soap. He quietly cuts it in two, pockets the one half and replaces the other on the well wall, growling out, “Madame, pardon!”
The reaction was too great. When they rode away laughing, the old woman forgot to be thankful that they had not hurt her, and swore at them for hairy thieves.
On the 15th of September there were around Metz 138,000 men fit to take the field, 6,000 cavalry and artillery. The Prussians had not anything like that number. They were dying fast of dysentery and fever, and yet Bazaine did nothing. Yet, though Metz was not strongly held, it was very difficult to get through the lines, and many a man, tempted by the bribe of 1,000 francs, lost his life in the attempt.
The English journalist tried to be his own courier and carry his own letters. He presented himself at the Prussian outposts in daylight, showed his passport, and demanded permission to “pass freely without let or hindrance.” In vain. The German soldiers treated him to beer and cigars, and suggested he should return to Metz. Next time he dressed himself up as a peasant, with blouse, and sabots on his feet, and when it was growing dusk tried to slip through the posts. “Halte là!” rang out, and a sound of a rifle’s click brought him up sharp. He was a prisoner, taken to the guard-house, and questioned severely. He pretended to be very weak-headed, almost an idiot.
“How many soldiers be there in Metz, master? I dunno. Maybe 300. There’s a power of men walking about the streets, sir.”
They smiled a superior smile, and offered the poor idiot some dark rye-bread, cheese, and beer, and some clean straw to lie down upon. Officers came to stare at him,asked him what village he was bound for. One of them knew the village he named, and recognized his description of it, for luckily he had got up this local knowledge from a native in Metz. However, he was not permitted to go to it, for before dawn next morning they led him, shuffling in his wooden sabots, to a distant outpost, turned his face towards Metz, with the curt remark: “Go straight on to Metz, friend, or you will feel a bullet go through your back.”
Grumbling to himself, he drew near the French outposts, who fired at him. He lay down for some time, then, finding he was in a potato-field, he set to work and grubbed up a few potatoes to sell for a sou a piece. So at last he found his way back to Metz, and got well laughed at for his pains.
He then tried his hand at making small balloons to carry his letters away; but the Germans used to fire at them, wing them, and read the contents.
Many spies were shot in Metz, and some who were not spies, but only suspected. It was the only excitement in the city to go out to the fosse and see a spy shot.
There was one man whom all raised their hats to salute when he passed. He was a short, thick-set man, wore a light canvas jacket and leather gaiters. Under one arm hung a large game-bag, and over the other sloped a chassepot rifle. His name was Hitter, and he had made a great name by going out in front of theavant-posteand shooting the Prussian sentinels. One night he encountered some waggons, shot down the escort from his hiding-place, and brought four waggons full of corn into Metz, riding on the box by the driver, pistol in hand. This man organized a body of sharp-shooters for night work, and many a poor sentinel met his death at their hands.
One favourite dodge was to take out with them a tincan fastened to a long string. When they got near the Prussian outposts they made this go tingle tangle along the ground. Then cautious heads would peep out; more tangle tingle from the tin can, until the sentinels jump up and blaze away at the weird thing that startles them in the dark. Their fire has been drawn, and Hitter’s men have the outpost at their mercy. They either shoot them or bring them into Metz as prisoners.
At length Marshal Bazaine heard of Hitter’s prowess, and sent for him, wanting to decorate him; but Hitter was sensitive, and thought he ought to have been decorated weeks ago. He came reluctantly.
“My man, I have heard of your doings—your clever work at night—and in the name of France I give you this decoration to wear.”
“I don’t want it, Marshal. Pray excuse me, if you please.”
“Nonsense, my fine fellow. I insist on your acceptance of the honour.”
“Oh! very well,” said Hitter, “if you insist, I suppose I must; but, by your leave, I shall wear it on my back—and very low down, too.”
The Marshal glared at Hitter, turned red, and ordered him out.
As the siege went on the poor horses got thinner and thinner. Their coats stood out in the wet weather rough and bristly; often they staggered and fell dead in the streets. They were soon set upon, and in a short time flesh, bones, and hide had vanished, and only a little pool of blood remained behind to tell where some hungry citizens had snatched a good dinner.
One day acantinièrehad left her cart full of drinkables just outside the gate while she went to the fort to ask what was wanted. She tarried, and her poor horse felt faint, knelt down, and tried to die. No sooner was thepoor beast on his knees than half a score of soldiers rushed out to save his life by cutting his throat—at least, it made him eat better. They quickly slipped off his skin and cut him up in all haste. So many knives were “e’en at him,” they soon carried off his “meat.” Then, in a merry mood, seeing the gaycantinièrewas too busy flirting to attend to her cart, they carefully set to work and built him up again. They put the bones together neatly, dragged the hide over the carcass, and arranged the harness to look as if the animal had lain down between the shafts. Then they retired to watch the comedy that sprang out of a tragedy. Madame comes bustling out of the fort. Eh! what’s that? Poor Adolfe is down on the ground! The fat woman waddles faster to him, calls him by name, taunts him with want of pluck, scolds, gets out her whip; then is dumb for some seconds, touches him, cries, weeps, wrings her hands in despair. Sounds of laughter come to her ears; then she rises majestically to the occasion, pours out a volley of oaths—oaths of many syllables, oaths that tax a genius in arithmetic:diable! cent diables, mille diables, cent mille diables!and so on, until she loses her breath, puts her fat hand to her heart, and again falls into a pathetic mood, passing later on into hysteria, and being led away between two gendarmes. Poor madame! She had loved Adolfe, and would have eaten him in her own home circle rather than that thosesacréssoldiers should filch him away.
Well, they ate horses, when they could get them; but donkeys were even more delicious, though very rare, for they seldom died, and refused to get fat. Food was growing so scarce in October that when you went out to dinner you were expected to take your own bread with you. Potatoes were sold at fifteen pence a pound; a scraggy fowl might be bought for thirty shillings. The Prussians had spread nets across the river, above andbelow, to prevent the French from catching too many fish. As for sugar, it rose to seven shillings a pound. Salt was almost beyond price. The poor horses looked most woebegone. Many of them were Arabs, their bones nearly through their skin, and they looked at their friends with such a pitiful, appealing eye that it was most touching. You might have gone into a trooper’s tent and wondered to see the big tear rolling slowly down the bronzed cheek of a brave soldier.
“What is it, m’sieur? I have just lost my best friend—my best friend. He was with me in Algeria. Never tumbled, never went lame. And he understood me better than any Christian. He would have done anything for me—in reason! Now he has had to go to the slaughter-house. Oh, it is cruel, m’sieur! I shall never be the same man again, for he loved me and understood me—and I loved him.”
At last there was only one horse left in that camp, and this was how he survived: He had laid himself down to die; his eyes were fogging over, he felt so weak; but one of the sick soldiers happened to pass that way, and being full of pity from his own recent sufferings, he bethought him of a disused mattress which he had seen in the hospital close by. He returned and took out a handful of straws, with which he fed the poor beast, a straw at a time. The flaccid lips mumbled them awhile. At last he managed to moisten the straw and eat a little. Another handful was fetched, and the horse pricked his ears, and tried to lift his head. That was the turning-point; life became almost worth living again. The story rapidly spread, and it became the charitable custom to spare a bit of bread from dinner for the white horse of the Ile Cambière. In time that spoilt child would neigh and trot to meet any trooper who approached, confidently looking for his perquisite of crust.
There were 20,000 horses in Metz at the beginning of the siege; at the time of the surrender a little over 2,000.
We are told by an Englishman who was with the German Army outside Metz that in October a good many Frenchmen deserted from Metz. On the 11th a poor wretch was brought into the German lines. He said that his desertion was a matter of arrangement with his comrades. The man was an Alsatian, and spoke German well. His regiment was supposed to be living under canvas, but the stench in the tents was so strong, by reason of skin diseases, that nearly all slept in the open air. The skin disease was caused by the want of vegetables and salt, and by living wholly on horse-flesh. The deserter reported that the troops had refused to make any more sorties, and they were all suffering from scurvy.
There was one village, Nouilly, which contained secret stores, to which the French used to resort, and which the Germans could not find; so the order was given to burn it. Most of its inhabitants had gone to live in Metz.
“I was sitting at supper with Lieutenant von Hosius and Fischer when an orderly entered with a note. It was read aloud:
“‘Lieutenant von Hosius will parade at nine o’clock with fifteen volunteers of his company, and will proceed to burn the village of Nouilly.’
“Von Hosius was fond of herrings, so he stayed at table to finish them, while Fischer went out for volunteers. In a few minutes von Hosius was putting on his long boots, taking his little dagger, which every officer wore to ward off the vultures of the battle-field in case of being wounded; then, taking his revolver, he sallied out to meet his little band. The service was full of danger, for the French lay very near, and had strong temptations for entering it by night. If he did encounter a French force inside the village, where would his fifteen volunteers be?
“A little group of us watched by the watch-fire as they marched down at the German quick step. For a while we could hear the crashing through the vines, then the hoarse challenge of the German rear sentry; then all became quiet. For a few minutes the officer in command of the outpost and myself were the only persons who enjoyed the genial warmth of the fire; then through the gloom came stalking the Major, who squatted down silently by our side. Presently another form appeared—the Colonel himself—and in half an hour nearly all the officers of the battalion were round that bright wood fire. They all tried to look unconcerned, but everybody was very fidgety.
“Von Hosius was a long time. An hour had gone, and Nouilly was but ten minutes or so distant, and the Colonel’s nervousness was undisguised as he hacked at the burning log with his naked sword. Suddenly the vigilant Lieutenant gave a smothered shout, and we all sprang to our feet. Flame-coloured smoke at last, and plenty of it. But, bah! it was too far away—a false alarm.
“The Colonel sat down moodily, and the Major muttered something like a swear. One thing was good: there was no sound of musketry firing.
“Another half-hour of suspense, and then a loud “Ha!” from both Lieutenant and sentry. This time it was Nouilly, and no mistake. Not from one isolated house, but in six places at once, belched out the long streaks of flame against the black darkness, and the separate fires made haste to connect themselves. In ten minutes the whole place was in one grand blaze, the church steeple standing up in the midst of the sea of flame until a firework of sparks burst from its top and it reeled to its fall.
“Presently they came back, von Hosius panting withthe exertion (he was of a portly figure). The duty had been done without firing a single shot, and they brought with them a respectable old horse which they had found in a village stable.”
One evening, when the German officers were discussing the causes of the French defeats, a First Lieutenant told this story to illustrate it:
The Chief Rabbi of the Dantzic Jews had taken a new house, and his flock determined to stock his wine-butt for him. On a stated evening his friends went down one after another into the Rabbi’s cellar, and emptied each his bottle into the big vat. When the Rabbi came next day to draw off his dinner wine he found the cask was full of pure water. Each Jew had said to himself that one bottle of water could never be noticed in so great a quantity of wine, and so the poor Rabbi had not got a drop of wine in his butt.
Now, it was just the same with the French army. One soldier said to himself that it would not matter a copper if he sneaked away; but the bother was that one and all took the same line of reasoning, and the result was that nobody was left to look the enemy in the face.
In order to bring about the fall of Metz a little sooner, the Prussians drove out all the peasants from the neighbouring villages, and forced them down to Metz. The Mayor of Metz ordered them back; then the Prussians fired over their heads, and tried to frighten them down again. Meanwhile, the women and children were worn out and hungry, and sat down to cry and wish for death. These are some of the glories of war. Sometimes, when they returned to their village home after a week’s absence, they found a remarkable change. They had left a pretty villa, trim gardens, and tiny pond and summer-house. This is what an Englishman saw one day:
“I came on a little group, the extreme pathos of whichmade my heart swell. It was a family, and they sat in front of what had once been their home. That home was now roofless. The stones of the walls were all that was left. The garden was a wreck, and the whole scene was concentrated desolation. The husband leaned against the wall, his arms folded, his head on his chest. The wife sat on the wet ground, weeping over the babe at her breast. Two elder children stared around them with wonder and unconcern—too young to realize their misfortune. No home, no food, a waggon and a field with four graves in it—a sight enough to melt the hardest heart.”
But there were so many similar scenes, and some much more terrible to witness.
On the 29th of October, in torrents of rain, the French soldiers went out of Metz, casting down their rifles and swords in heaps at the gate, many glad enough to become prisoners of war and have a full stomach. The Germans came in very cautiously, examining fort and bastion and bridge, to prevent any mine explosions, and in a few hours “Metz la Pucelle” had become a German city. Marshal Bazaine, who had done so little to help them, was the object of every citizen’s curses. The women pelted him with mud and called him “Coward!” as he set off for the Prussian headquarters.
From “The Siege of Metz,” by Mr. G. T. Robinson, by kind permission of Messrs. Bradbury and Evans.
An English boy as Turkish Lieutenant—A mêlée—Wounded by a horseman—Takes letter to Russian camp—The Czar watches the guns—Skobeleff’s charge—The great Todleben arrives—Skobeleff deals with cowards—Pasting labels—The last sortie—Osman surrenders—Prisoners in the snow—Bukarest ladies very kind.
After Turkey had put down the insurrection in Bulgaria (1876) and had beaten Servia (October, 1876), Russia made her tenth attempt to seize Constantinople. The Czar, Alexander II., declared war against the Sultan, Abdul Hamid II., and the result was a war which in cruelty and horrors has had no equal since the first Napoleon retired to St. Helena.
There were a few young Englishmen fighting on the side of the Turks, one of whom, Lieutenant Herbert, has left us a full account of the siege of Plevna. He says in his preface:
“I have witnessed much that was heroic, much that was grand, soul-stirring, sublime, but infinitely more of what was hideous and terrible. If you have too firm a belief in the glories of soldiering, try a war.”
Herbert was soon made Mulazim, or Lieutenant, and his friend Jack Seymour was in the same company. The first successes of the Russians were checked when Osman Pasha stood at bay at Plevna, and the Turks literallydug themselves into the hills around the city, while the Russians lost thousands of men in vain assaults upon the earthworks.
It was in the second battle of Plevna that a Bimbashi, or Major, came up to Herbert and said:
“The General has sent for reinforcements. Take your company; an orderly will show the way. Do your best, Mulazim. You are but a boy, in a position which might unnerve a man twice your age. Rise to the occasion, as Englishmen are wont to do. The soldiers love you. You and your compatriot have but to lead, and they will follow. Remember the Czar Nicholas’ furious cry in the Crimean War: ‘We have been beaten by a handful of savages led by British boys!’”
As they climbed to a distant hill they suddenly overlooked a battle-field of twenty square miles in area—terrible to see, terrible to hear. The thunder of 240 guns seemed like the crash of so many volcanoes; the earth trembled like a living thing. It was like standing in the centre of a raging fire. Presently the Russian troops drew near. The Turks began a quick fire of three minutes’ duration. Deep gaps showed in their lines, but they were soon filled up, and still they drew nearer. The Russian “Hurrah!” and the wild Turkish cry of “Allah!” mingled together. Now there were only 100 paces between the charging lines, the Russians coming up hill, the Turks rushing down. Then came a chaos of stabbing, clubbing, hacking, shouting, cursing men: knots of two or three on the ground, clinging to each other in a deadlier Rugby football; butt-ends of rifles rising and falling like the cranks of many engines; horses charging into solid bodies of men; frantic faces streaming with blood. All the mad-houses of the world might be discharging their contents into this seething caldron of human passion.
“I remember nothing; all I know is that I dischargedthe six chambers of my revolver, but at whom I have no notion; that my sabre was stained with blood, but with whose I cannot tell; that suddenly we looked at one another in blank surprise, for the Russians had gone, save those left on the ground, and we were among friends, all frantic, breathless, perspiring, many bleeding, the lines broken, all of us jabbering, laughing, dancing about like maniacs. Fifteen minutes after the first charge the Russians returned. Of this charge I remember one item too well. A giant on a big horse—a Colonel, I think—galloped up to me and dealt me a terrific blow from above. I parried as well as I could, but his sword cut across my upturned face, across nose and chin, where the mark is visible to this day. I felt the hot blood trickle down my throat. He passed on. Sergeant Bakal, my friend and counsellor, spoke to me, pointing to my face. Jack said something in a compassionate voice. I fainted. When I came to myself, my head had been bandaged, the nose plastered all over. Water was given me. How grateful I was for that delicious drink! Then I was supported by friends to the outskirts of Plevna. As we went along I noticed a Russian Lieutenant who, after creeping along for a space, had sat down by the side of the track, leaning against the belly of a dead horse. He was calmly awaiting death in awful forsakenness. He counted barely twenty summers, poor boy! He looked at me, oh! so wistfully and sadly, with the sweet, divine light of deliverance shining in his tearful eyes. He said faintly: ‘De l’eau, monsieur?’
“I had some cold coffee left in my flask, which I got my companion to pour down his throat. He bowed his poor bruised head gratefully, and we left him to die. The ground was strewn with haversacks, rifles, swords, wounded men; riderless horses, neighing vehemently, trotted about in search of food. These sights were revealedto me by the peaceful, dying golden light of a summer sunset. Even war, that hell-born product of the iniquity of monarchs and statesmen, receives its quota of sunshine.”
A few weeks later Herbert was summoned to the Ferik, or General of Division, and asked if he could speak French well enough to take a letter into the Russian camp. He said “Yes,” made himself smart in new tunic and boots, and flattered himself that his tanned, smooth, youthful face looked well below the bright red fez with its jaunty tassel, in spite of his chin being still under repair. A corporal carrying a white flag and a bugler well mounted rode with him. They were handsome, strapping fellows, in the highest of spirits. After a ride of six miles they came in sight of a detachment of Cossacks. A young Russian Lieutenant rode to meet them, waving his handkerchief. Herbert stated his business in French, was asked to dismount while awaiting instructions. The Russians crowded round out of curiosity; the horses were fed and watered, cigarettes were exchanged, and friendly talk ensued. In half an hour a horseman rode up, and Herbert was bidden to mount. His eyes were bandaged, his horse was led. After a sharp trot of twenty minutes they halted, the handkerchief was taken off, and he found himself in a battery. An officer came up and took the letter, then handed Herbert over to an infantry Colonel, who took him into a small tent. Here, with some other officers, they had a cosy meal—wine, bread, and soup—a pleasant chat and smiles all round. It was a fortnight since the last battle, and the Russians were still lost in admiration of the bravery with which the Turks had defended their positions.
“Vos hommes, mon camarade, sont des diables. Jamais je n’ai vu pareille chose.”
That was just a glimpse of the enemy, and proved that,though men may fight by order, they may yet be friends at heart.
The Czar Alexander had been present, watching the varied issues of every fight and assault. The sappers had built for him a kind of outlook on a little hill beyond the line of fire, where he could see far away on all sides. A large tent was standing behind, supplied with food and wine, where his suite made merry; but the poor, worn, anxious Czar could not eat, could not bide in his safe tower, but would go wandering round among the gunners and the guns. It was his fête-day when the great September battle was being fought. There he stood alone on his little balcony, under the lowering sky of an autumn day, gazing through his glass at the efforts of his soldiers to storm the Gravitza redoubt. All the afternoon assault had followed assault in vain, and now the last desperate effort, the forlorn hope, was being pushed to the front. The pale, drawn face on the balcony was now quivering with agonized sorrow; the tall figure was bent and bowed, and seemed to wince under the lash of some destroying angel. With awful losses the Russian battalions staggered and struggled up the slopes slippery with their comrades’ blood.
“See, sire, they have entered the redoubt; it is carried at last!”
Hardly has the Czar time to smile and breathe a prayer of gratitude when from a second redoubt higher up a terrible fire is turned on the Russians, and they are swept out of the place they had so hardly won.
There was one Russian officer who seemed to have a charmed life. He was the bravest of the brave, was beloved by his men, and did marvels of heroic feats—Skobeleff. On a day of battle Skobeleff always wore a white frock-coat, with all his decorations. Seeing the battalions coming back from the Gravitza in disorderlyroute, the tall white figure on the white horse dashed at full speed down the slope, passed the linesmen, who gave their loved chief a great cheer as he galloped by, caught up the riflemen who were advancing in support, and swept them on at the double. Men sprang to their feet and rapturously cheered the white-clad leader. He reached the wavering beaten mass, pointed upwards with his sword, and imparted to daunted hearts some of his own courage and enthusiasm. They turned with him and tried yet once more. Then the white horse went down. The glass trembled in the hands of Alexander.
“He is down!”
“No, sire; he rises—he mounts again! See, they are over and into the Turkish entrenchments!”
What a medley of sights and sounds—flame and smoke and shouts and screams! But the Russians were for the present masters of the redoubt.
In the evening Skobeleff rode back without a scratch on him, though his white coat was covered with blood and froth and mud. His horse—his last white charger—was shot dead on the edge of the ditch; his blade was broken off short by the hilt. Every man of his staff was killed or wounded, except Kuropatkin.
“General Skobeleff,” wrote MacGahan to theDaily News, “was in a fearful state of excitement and fury. His cross of St. George twisted over his shoulder, his face black with powder and smoke, his eyes haggard and bloodshot, his voice quite gone. I never saw such a picture of battle as he presented.”
But a few hours later the General was calm and collected. He said in a low, quiet voice:
“I have done my best; I could do no more. My detachment is half destroyed; my regiments no longer exist; I have no officers left. They sent me no reinforcements. I have lost three guns!”
“Why did they send you no help? Who was to blame?”
“I blame nobody,” said Skobeleff; then solemnly crossing himself, he added: “It was the will of God—the will of God!”
Skobeleff’s heroism was magnificent, and did much to nerve the common soldier to face the Turkish batteries; but success came not that way. Men and officers began to ask one another why the Czar did not send them the help of the great Todleben, who had defended Sebastopol so brilliantly. It seems that the Grand Duke Nicholas had nourished a grudge against Russia’s most eminent engineer, and had kept him out of all honourable employment. But Alexander had sent for Todleben, and this was the turn of the tide. Todleben came in such haste from Russia that he had brought no horses with him. Now he was at last in the Russian camp—a handsome, tall, dignified man of sixty, straight and active, and very affable to all. The attack was to be changed. No more deadly assaults in front, but a complete investment, and wait till famine steps in to make Osman submit.
But Skobeleff had not yet finished with daring assaults. One day the “Green Hill,” which the Russians had taken under his command, was being endangered by Turkish sharp-shooters. Russian recruits who were posted near had fallen back in a scare, thrown down their rifles, and simply run like hares. Skobeleff met them in full flight, and in grim humour shouted: “Good health, my fine fellows—my fine, brave fellows!”
The men halted and gave the customary salute, being very shamefaced withal.
“You are all noble fellows; perfect heroes you are. I am proud to command you!”
Silent and confounded, they shambled from one leg to another.
“By the way,” said Skobeleff, still blandly smiling, “I do not see your rifles!”
The men cast their eyes down and said not a word.
“Where are your rifles, I ask you?” in a sterner tone.
There was a painful silence, which Skobeleff broke with a voice of thunder. His face changed to an awful frown, his glance made the men cower.
“So you have thrown away your weapons! You are cowards! You run away from Turks! You are a disgrace to your country! My God! Right about face! My children, follow me!”
The General marched them up to the spot where they had left their rifles, and ordered them to take them up and follow him. Then he led them out into the space in front of the trench, right in the line of the Turkish fire, and there he put them through their exercises, standing with his back to the Turks, while the bullets could be heard whistling over and around them. Only two of them were hit during this strange drill. Then he let them go back to their trenches, saying: “The next time any one of you runs away, he will be shot!”
The investment of Plevna went on relentlessly through October, November, and part of December. By the 9th almost all their food was exhausted, and Osman determined to try one last sortie before surrendering. Herbert had charge of a train of a battalion outside the town. He made up a fire, saw his men installed for the night, and then walked to the town. A snowfall was coming down lazily; bivouac fires lit up the gaunt figures of men and beasts. The men, talking of to-morrow’s fight in a subdued tone, were yet excited and eager. Many Turkish residents, with their carts and vehicles, were spending the night on the snow-covered plain, the men brooding and gloomy, the veiled women sobbing, the children playing hide-and-seek around the fires and among the carts. Itwas a weird sight—all these thousands eager to go out after the army when the last struggle should have carved them an open road through the surrounding foe.
At head-quarters an officer met Herbert, and asked him to post some labels at the ambulance doors of a certain street. He says:
“Armed with a brush and paste-pot, I turned bill-sticker, and affixed a notice on some twenty house doors which were showing the ambulance flag. Anything more dismal than that deserted town, abandoned by all but dying and helpless men and some 400 starving Bulgarian families, cannot be imagined. Desolate, dead, God-forsaken Plevna during the night of the 9th and 10th of December was no more like the thriving and pretty Plevna of July than the decaying corpse of an old hag is like the living body of a blooming girl. The streets, unlighted and empty, save for a slouching outcast here and there bent on rapine, echoed to the metallic ring of my solitary steps; while occasional groans or curses proceeding from the interior of the ambulances haunted me long afterwards as sounding unearthly in the dark. Twice I stumbled over corpses which had been thrust into the gutter as the quickest way of getting rid of them.
“As I walked I had to shake myself and pinch my flesh, so much like the phantasy of an ugly dream was the scene to my mind. As I plied my brush on the door-panels, I felt like one alive in a gigantic graveyard.
“At one of the ambulances I was bidden to enter, and found, by the feeble light of a reeking oil-lamp, some invalids fighting for a remnant of half-rotten food which they had just discovered in a forgotten cupboard. Men without legs, hands, or feet were clutching, scratching, kicking, struggling for morsels that no respectable dog or cat would look at twice. I pacified them, and distributed the unsavoury bits of meat. As I turned to go a man without legs caught hold of me from his mattress, begging me to carry him to the train bivouac, that he might follow the army. Happily an attendant turned up, and I wrenched myself away.”
Herbert was returning by a narrow dark lane when someone sprang upon him and tore the paste-pot away from him. He had doubtless seen it by the light of the Lieutenant’s lantern, and thought the vessel contained food.
He belaboured the fellow’s face with his brush, making it ghastly white, and setting him off to splutter and croak and swear, and finally he rammed the bristles hard down his throat. At this moment two other Bulgarians came up; but, taking time by the forelock, Herbert pasted their mouths and eyes before they could speak, then shouted out, “Good-night, gentlemen, and I wish you a very hearty appetite.” He then turned and ran for all he was worth to the officers’ mess-room. It was about ten o’clock p.m. when Osman Pasha and his staff rode up, preceded by a mounted torch-bearer, and escorted by a body of Saloniki cavalry.
When he came out again, the light from the torch fell full upon his face. His features were drawn and care-worn, the cheeks hollow; there were deep lines on the forehead, and blue rings under his eyes. Their expression was one of angry determination. He responded to the salute with that peculiar nod which was more a frown than a greeting. They all rose and went after him into the street to see him mount his fine Arab horse. He and his staff spent that last night in one of the farm-houses on the western outskirts of Plevna.
After a supper of gruel and bread, Herbert and the others walked in a body to the train bivouac. The night was intensely dark; a few snowflakes were flying about; itwas freezing a little. They did not talk, for each was saying to himself, “It is all over with us now.” Hardly any expected to see the next nightfall.
Herbert and two other Lieutenants slept in a hut by the river’s brink; they could hear the water murmuring, and every now and then a lump of ice made music against the piles. A little after five in the morning he moved on, crossed with the first division the shaky pontoon bridge, and rejoined his company. Twenty-four crack battalions of the First Division were marching on to face the ring of Russian guns; the dark hoods of the great-coats drawn over the fez and pointing upwards gave an element of grotesqueness to the men. They were marching to certain death, with hope in their hearts.
In front the Russian entrenchments rose out of the vapours and fog in threatening silence; once beyond them, and they were free! The country and military honour called for this supreme sacrifice, and they offered it full willingly.
At 9.30 a.m. the bugles sounded “Advance,” and the whole line, two miles long, began to move in one grand column. The Turks went at the quick, hurling a hail of lead before them. The troops kept repeating the Arabic phrase, “Bismillah rahmin!” (In the name of the merciful God!), but the fire became so deadly that they came to a dead-stop. The men in the front line lay down on their stomachs. After an interval of ten minutes, the bugles of the First Division sounded “Storm.”
The men jumped to their feet and rushed at the nearest trench. A murderous discharge of rifle fire greeted them; many bit the dust.
But very soon the Turks had the first trench in their possession, then a second and third; and before they knew what they were about, they were in the midst of the Russian guns, hacking, clubbing, stabbing, shooting,whilst overhead flew countless shells, hissing and leaving a white trail in their track.
Then they waited for the support of the second line, which never came; but at noon the Russians came down upon them in force. Herbert was ordered to ride and report that they could not hold out longer without reinforcements. He says:
“As I rode towards the centre, I was drawn into the vortex of a most awful panic—a wild flight for safety to the right bank of the river.
“I had never been in a general retreat. It is far more terrible than the most desperate encounter. I was simply drawn along in a mad stream of men, horses, and carts. Officers, their faces streaming with perspiration in spite of the cold, were trying to restore order; the train got mixed with the infantry and the batteries, and the confusion baffles description. My horse slipped into a ditch, and I continued on foot. I heard that Osman had been wounded and carted across the river; the pitiless shells followed us even to the other side of the river. The screams of the women in the carts unnerved many a sturdy man. I came to a sort of barn, where two Saloniki horsemen stood sentry. Being dead-beat and hungry to starving-point, I sat down on a stone. Whilst I crunched a biscuit a cart drove up, and a man badly wounded in the leg was assisted into the building. So sallow and pain-drawn was his face that at first I failed to recognize Osman. There were tears in his eyes—tears of grief and rage rather than of physical pain—and in their expression lay that awful thought, ‘The game is up, the end is come,’ which we see in Meissonier’s picture of Napoleon in the retreat from Waterloo.”
The last sortie from Plevna was witnessed by Skobeleff from the heights above. The Turkish infantry were deploying with great smartness, taking advantage of thecover afforded by the ground. The skirmishers were already out in the open, driving before them the Russian outposts.
Skobeleff was very excited.
“Were there ever more skilful tactics?” he said. “They are born soldiers, those Turks—already half-way to Ganetzky’s front, hidden first by the darkness and now by the long bank under which they are forming in perfect safety. Beautiful indeed! Never was a sortie more skilfully prepared. How I should like to be in command of it!”
Skobeleff then turned his glass on the Russian defence line. He seldom swore, but now a torrent of oaths burst from his lips.
“Oh, that ass—that consummate ass—Ganetzky!” he shouted, striking his thigh with his clenched fist. “What fool’s work! He had his orders; he was warned of the intended sortie; he might have had any number of reinforcements. And what preparation has he made? None. He is confronting Osman’s army with six battalions when he might have had twenty-four. Mark my words: the Turks will carry our first line with a rush. We shall retrieve it, but to have lost it for ever so short a time will be our disgrace for ever.” Then Skobeleff spat angrily and rode off at a gallop. How true those words were we have seen already.
At 2 p.m. Osman had been obliged to surrender, and shortly after he met the Russian Grand Duke Nicholas—Osman in a carriage, Nicholas on horseback. They looked one another long in the face, then Nicholas offered his hand heartily, and said:
“General, I honour you for your noble defence of Plevna. It has been among the most splendid examples of skill and heroism in modern history!”
Osman’s face winced a little—perhaps a twitch of paincrossed it—as, in spite of his wound, he struggled to his feet and uttered a few broken words in a low tone. The Russian officers saluted with great demonstration of respect, and shouts of “Bravo!” rang out again and again.
Poor victorious Osman! conquered at last by King Famine. He had lived in a common green tent during the whole period of the investment; his last night at Plevna was the first he spent under a roof.
Lieutenant Herbert says concerning the surrender: “As the Roumanian soldiers seized our weapons I became possessed of an uncontrollable fury. I broke my sword, thrust carbine, revolvers, and ammunition into the waggon. A private with Semitic features perceived my Circassian dagger, but I managed to spoil it by breaking the point before handing it over. Another man annexed my field-glass. I never saw my valise again, which had been stored on one of the battalion’s carts. I had saved a portion of my notes and manuscripts by carrying them like a breast cuirass between uniform and vest. Having given vent to rage, I fell into the opposite mood, and, sitting down on a stone, I hid my face in my hands, and abandoned myself to the bitterest half-hour of reflection I have ever endured.”
Luckily Herbert fell in with a Roumanian Lieutenant whom he knew, who took him to the Russian camp, and gave him hot grog, bread, and cold meat. “How we devoured the food!” he says. “We actually licked the mugs out.”
As they walked away in the dark to their night quarters, they happened to pass the spot where Herbert’s battalion was encamped, without fires or tents, in an open, snow-covered field, exposed to the north wind. Cries of distress and rage greeted them, and they found that the drunken Russian soldiers were robbing their Turkishprisoners, not only of watches, money, etc., but also of their biscuits—their only food.
Herbert stopped for a minute, and gave away all he had left; but some Russians jumped upon him and rifled his pockets, before he could recall his companions to his aid. Everybody in camp seemed to be drunk. Herbert went to sleep in a mud hut, and slept for twelve hours without awaking, being very kindly treated by a Russian Major.
But the Turks suffered terribly. They spent the night of the 10th on the same cold spot. Their arms had been taken from them, also their money, biscuits, and even their great-coats. It froze and snowed, and they were allowed no fires.
It was a fortnight before all the prisoners had left the neighbourhood; during this time from 3,000 to 4,000 men had succumbed to their privations. The defence of Plevna had lasted 143 days. As the Grand Duke Nicholas told Osman, it was one of the finest things done in military history. But it cost the Russians 55,000 men, the Roumanians 10,000, and the Turks 30,000.
There is a Turkish proverb, “Though your enemy be as small as an ant, yet act as if he were as big as an elephant.” Had the Russians been guided by this, they might have saved many losses.
“One bitterly cold morning, with two feet of snow on the ground, I joined a detachment of prisoners, escorted by Roumanians. We travelled viâ Sistoon to Bukarest, crossing the Danube by the Russian pontoon bridge. This journey, which lasted eight days, was the most dreadful part of my experience, lying as it did through snow-clad country, with storms and bitter winds. I and fifty others had seats on carts; the bulk of the prisoners had to tramp. I saw at least 400 men drop, to be taken as little notice of as if they were so much offal, to die ofstarvation, or be devoured by the wolves which prowled around our column.
“Over each man who fell a hideous crowd of crows, ravens, vultures, hovered until he was exhausted enough to be attacked with impunity.
“Some of the soldiers of the escort were extremely brutal; others displayed a touching kindness; most were as stolid and apathetic as their captives. Of Osman’s army of 48,000 men, only 15,000 reached Russian soil; only 12,000 returned to their homes.
“In Bukarest our sufferings were at an end. In the streets ladies distributed coffee, broth, bread, tobacco, cigarettes, spirit. Our quarters in the barracks appeared to us like Paradise.”
Then by train to Kharkoff, where Herbert got a cheque from his father, and was allowed much freedom on parole; he made many friends, was lionized and feasted and fattened “like a show beast.” “I was treated,” he says, “with all the chivalrous kindness and open-handed hospitality which are the characteristics of the educated Russians. The effects of the brutal propensities developed in warfare wore off speedily, and I am now a mild and inoffensive being, whose conscience does not allow the killing of a flea or the plucking of a flower!”
From “The Defence of Plevna,” by W. V. Herbert, 1895, by kind permission of Messrs. Longmans, Green and Co.