The spy, whatever his nationality, and however questionable his antecedents, was right in the intelligence he had communicated. A large Russian force was even then on the march from Tchorgorum, pointing straight for the Balaclava plain. The enemy had regained heart; emboldened by the constant influx of reinforcements, and the inactivity of the allies, he had grown audacious, and was ready to try a vigorous offensive. A blow well aimed at our communications and delivered with intention might drive us back on our ships, perhaps into the sea.
McKay had passed the night at Balaclava. The transport with the knapsacks was not yet in port, and he was loth to return to camp empty-handed. But next morning, soon after daylight, news came back tothe little seaside town that another battle was imminent, on the plains outside.
The handful of Royal Picts were promptly mustered by their young commander, and marched in the direction of the firing, which was already heard, hot and heavy, towards the east.
As they left Balaclava, they encountered a crowd of Turkish soldiers in full flight, making madly for the haven, and shouting, "Ship! ship!" as they ran. McKay, gathering from this stampede that already some serious conflict had begun, hurried forward to where he found a line of red-coats drawn up behind a narrow ridge which barred the approaches to Balaclava.
This was the famous 93rd, in its now historic formation—another "Thin Red Line," which received undaunted, and only two deep, the onslaught of the Russian horse.
The regiment was under the personal control of its brigadier, stout old Sir Colin, who, with his staff, stood a little withdrawn, but closely observing all that passed. He recognised McKay, and called out abruptly—
"Halloa! where have you dropped from?"
"I heard the firing, sir, met the Turks retreating, and brought up my party to reinforce and act as might be ordered."
"It was well done, man. But, enough; get yourselves up into line there on the left, and take the word from the colonel of the 93rd."
"We have our work cut out for us, sir," said one of his staff to Sir Colin.
"We have, but we'll do it. This gorge must be held to the death. You understand that, Colonel Ainslie—to the death?"
"You can trust us, Sir Colin."
"I think so; but I'll say just one word to the men," and, while the enemy's cavalry were still some distance off, the general rode slowly down the line, speaking his last solemn injunction—
"Remember, men, there is no retreat from here. You must die where you stand."
One and the same answer rose readily to every lip—
"Ay! ay! Sir Colin; we'll do that!" shouted the gallant Scots.[1]
[1]Historical.cf.Kinglake's "Crimea," v. 80.
[1]Historical.cf.Kinglake's "Crimea," v. 80.
Their veteran leader's head was clear; his temper cool and self-possessed. He held these brave hearts in hand like the rider of a high-couraged horse, and knew well when to restrain, when to let go.
As the Russians approached, a few eager spirits would have rushed forward from their ranks to encounter their foe in the open plain; but Sir Colin's trumpet voice checked them with a fierce—
"Ninety-third! Ninety-third! None of that eagerness!"
And then a minute or two later came the signal forthe whole line to advance. The Highlanders, and those with them, swiftly mounted to the crest of the ridge, and met the charging cavalry with a withering volley. A second followed. The enemy had no stomach for more; reining in their horses, they wheeled round and fell back as they had come.
This, however, was only the beginning of the action. Heavy columns of the enemy now appeared in sight, cavalry and infantry, with numerous artillery crowning the eastern hills. A portion occupied the redoubts abandoned by the Turks, and the attitude of the Russians was so menacing that it seemed unlikely we could stay their onward progress.
For the moment no troops could be interposed but the British cavalry—the two brigades, Light and Heavy—which had their encampment in the plain, and had been under arms, commanded by Lord Lucan, since daybreak.
"We must have up the First and Fourth Divisions," Lord Raglan had said, when he arrived on the battle-field soon after eight in the morning; at first he had treated the news of the Russian advance lightly. Many such moves had been reported on previous days, and all had ended in nothing. "Let the Duke of Cambridge and Sir George Cathcart have their orders at once. We must trust to the cavalry till the infantry come up. Tell Scarlett to support the Turks."
But the Turks had given way before General Scarlett could stiffen their courage, and as his brigade, that ofheavy cavalry, trotted towards the redoubts, other and more stirring work offered itself. The head of a great column of Russian horse, three thousand sabres, came over the crest of the hill and invited attack.
Scarlett saw his opportunity, and, with true soldierly promptitude, seized it. He wheeled his squadrons into line and charged. Three went against the front, five against the right flank, one against the left.
The intrepid "Heavies," outnumbered fivefold, dashed forward at a hand gallop, and were soon swallowed up in the solid mass. But it could not digest the terrible dose. Just eight minutes more and the Russian column wavered, broke, and turned.
It was a fine feat of arms, richly meriting its meed of praise.
"Well done! well done!" was the message that came direct from Lord Raglan, on the hills above.
"Greys! Gallant Greys!" cried Sir Colin Campbell, galloping up to one of the regiments that had made this charge. "I am sixty-one years old, but if I were young I should be proud to be in your ranks!"
"What luck those Heavies have!" shouted another and a bitterly discontented spectator of their prowess.
It was Lord Cardigan who, at the head of the Light Brigade, sat still in his saddle, looking on.
Yet it was no one's fault but his own that he had not been also engaged. His men were within striking distance; they were bound, moreover, by the clearestcanons of the military art to throw their weight upon the exposed flank of the discomfited foe.
But Lord Cardigan had strangely—obstinately, indeed—misunderstood his orders, and, although chafing angrily at inaction, conceived that it was his bounden but distasteful duty to halt where he was.
"Why don't he let us loose at them? Was there ever such a chance?" muttered Hugo Wilders, audibly, and within earshot of his chief. He was again riding as extra aide to Lord Cardigan, who turned fiercely on the speaker.
"How dare you, sir, question my conduct? You shall answer for your insubordination—"
"Let me implore you, my lord, to advance," said another voice, entreating earnestly, that of Captain Morris, a cavalry officer who knew war well, and who was, for the moment, in command of a magnificent regiment of Lancers.
"It is not your business to give me advice," replied the general, haughtily. "Wait till I ask for it."
"But, my lord, see! the Russians are reeling from the charge of the Heavies. Now if ever—"
"Enough, Captain Morris. My orders were to defend this position; and here I shall stay. I was told to attack nothing unless they came within reach. The enemy has not yet done that."
So the chance of annihilating the Russian cavalry was lost, and the Light Brigade thought that its chances ofdistinction were also gone for the day. Alas! the hour of its trial was very close at hand.
Lord Raglan had waited anxiously for the infantry divisions he had ordered up. The first, under the Duke of Cambridge, was now close at hand, and the fourth, led by Sir George Cathcart, had arrived at a point whence it might easily have reached out a hand to recover the redoubts. But Cathcart's advance was so leisurely that Lord Raglan feared he would be too late to prevent the Russians from carrying off the guns they had captured from the Turks. The enemy, it must be understood, were showing manifest signs of despondency: their shattered cavalry had gone rapidly to the rear, and their infantry had halted irresolute, inclined also to retreat.
"This is the moment to strike them," decided Lord Raglan. "They are evidently losing heart, and we ought to get back the redoubts easily. I will send the cavalry. They are almost on the spot, and at any rate can get quickly over the ground. Ride, sir," to an aide-de-camp, "and tell Lord Lucan to recover the heights. Tell him he will have infantry, two whole divisions, in support."
They watched the aide-de-camp deliver his message; but still Lord Lucan, who was in supreme command of the cavalry, made no move.
"What is he at?" cried Lord Raglan, testily. "He is very long about it."
"There is no time to lose, my lord," interposed the quartermaster-general, who had been intently watching the redoubts with his field-glasses. "I can see them bringing teams of horses into the redoubts. They evidently mean to carry off our guns."
The necessity for action was more than ever urgent and immediate.
"Lord Lucan must be made to move. Here, Airey! send him a peremptory order in writing."
The quartermaster-general produced pencil and paper from his sabretash, and wrote as follows:—
"Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front, and try to prevent the enemy from carrying away the guns. Immediate."
"That will do," said Lord Raglan. "Let your own aide-de-camp carry the order. He is a cavalry officer, and can explain, if required."
It was Nolan, the enthusiastic, ardent, devoted cavalry soldier, heart and soul, and overflowing now with joy at his mission, and the chances of distinction it offered the cavalry. A fine, fearless horseman, he galloped at a breakneck pace down the steep and rocky sides of the plateau, and quickly reached Lord Lucan's side.
The general read his orders, with lips compressed and lowering brow.
"You come straight from Lord Raglan? But, surely, you are General Airey's aide-de-camp?"
"Lord Raglan himself entrusted me with the message."
"I can't believe it. It is utterly impracticable: for any useful purpose. Quite unequal, quite inadequate, to the risks and frightful loss it must entail."
The impetuous aide-de-camp showed visible signs of impatience. While the general debated and discussed his orders, instead of executing them with instant, unquestioning despatch, a great opportunity was flitting quickly by.
"Lord Raglan's orders are"—Nolan spoke with an irritation that was disrespectful, almost insubordinate—"his lordship's orders are that the cavalry should attack immediately."
"Attack, sir!" replied Lord Lucan, petulantly; "attack what? What guns?"
"There, my lord, is your enemy," replied Nolan, with an excited wave of his arm; "there are your guns!"
The exact meaning of the gesture no man survived to tell, but its direction was unhappily towards a formidable Russian battery which closed the gorge of the north valley, and not to the heights crowned by the captured redoubts.
Lord Lucan, heated by the irritating language of his junior officer, must have lost his power of discrimination, for although his first instructions clearly indicated the guns in the redoubt, and his second, brought byNolan, obviously referred to the same guns, the cavalry general was misled—by his own rage, or Nolan's sweeping gesture, who shall say?—misled into a terrible error.
He conceived it to be his duty to send a portion of his cavalry against a formidable battery of Russian guns, well posted as they were, and already sweeping the valley with a well-directed, murderous fire.
Of the two cavalry brigades, the Light was still fresh and untouched by the events of the day. The Heavy Brigade, as we have seen, had already done splendid service in routing the Russian cavalry. The turn of the Light Brigade had come, although, unhappily, the task entrusted to it was hopeless, foredoomed to failure from the first.
It stood close by, proudly impatient, its brigadier, Lord Cardigan, at its head.
To him the divisional general imparted Lord Raglan's order.
"You are to advance, Lord Cardigan, along the valley, and attack the Russians at the far end," was the order he gave.
"Certainly, sir," replied Lord Cardigan, without hesitation. "But allow me to point out to you that the Russians have a battery in the valley in our front, and batteries and riflemen on each flank."
"I can't help that," said Lord Lucan; "Lord Raglan will have it so. You have no choice but to obey."
Lord Cardigan saluted with his sword; then, rising in his stirrups, he turned to his men, and cried aloud in a full, firm voice—
"The brigade will advance!"—to certain death, he might have added, for he knew it, although he never quailed. But, settling himself in his saddle, as though starting on a promising run with hounds, and not on a journey from which there was no return, he said, with splendid resignation, as he prepared to lead the charge—
"Here goes for the last of the Brudenells!"[2]
[2]The family name of the Earls of Cardigan was Brudenell.
[2]The family name of the Earls of Cardigan was Brudenell.
All this had passed in a few minutes, and then three lines of dauntless horsemen—in the first line, Dragoons and Lancers; in the second, Hussars; in the third, Hussars and more Dragoons—galloped down the north valley on their perilous and mistaken errand.
They were already going at full speed, when a single horseman, with uplifted arm and excited gesture, as though addressing the brigade, crossed their front. It was Nolan, who thus seemed to be braving the anger of Lord Cardigan by interfering with the leadership of his men.
What brought Nolan there? The inference is only fair and reasonable that at the very outset he had recognised the misinterpretation of Lord Raglan's orders, and was seeking to change the direction of the charging horsemen, diverting them from the Russian battery towards the redoubts, their proper goal.
Fate decreed that this last chance of correcting the terrible error should be denied to the Light Brigade. A Russian shell struck Nolan full in the chest, and "tore a way to his heart." By his untimely death the doom of the light cavalry was sealed.
As the devoted band galloped forward to destruction, all who observed them stood horror-stricken at the amazing folly of this mad, mistaken charge.
"Great heavens!" cried Lord Raglan. "Why, they will be destroyed! Go down, Calthorpe, and you, Burghersh, and find out who is responsible for this frightful mistake!"
"Magnificent!" was the verdict of Bosquet, a friendly but experienced French critic. "But it is not war."
Not war—murder, rather, and sudden death.
The ceaseless fire of the guns they faced wrought fearful havoc in the ranks of the horsemen as they galloped on. Still the survivors went forward, unappalled; but it was with sadly diminished numbers that they reached the object of their attack. The few that got to the guns did splendid service with their swords. The gunners were cut down as they stood, and for the moment the battery was ours. But it was impossible to hold it; the Light Brigade had almost ceased to exist. Presently its shattered remnants fell slowly back, covered by the Heavies against the pursuit of the once more audacious Russian cavalry.
Barely half an hour had sufficed for the annihilation of nearly six hundred soldiers, the flower of the BritishLight Horse. The northern valley was like a shambles, strewn with the dead and dying, while all about galloped riderless horses, and dismounted troopers seeking to regain their lines on foot. Quite half of the whole force had been struck down, among the rest Hugo Wilders, whose forehead a grape-shot had pierced.
The muster of regiments after such a fight was but a mournful ceremony. When at length the now decimated line was re-formed, the horror of the action was plainly seen.
"It was a mad-brained trick," said Lord Cardigan, who had marvellously escaped—"a monstrous blunder, but it was no fault of mine."
"Never mind, my lord!" cried many gallant spirits. "We are ready to charge again!"
"No, no, men," replied Lord Cardigan, hastily; "you have done enough."
It was at this moment that Lord Raglan rode up, and angrily called Lord Cardigan to account.
"What did you mean, sir, by attacking guns in front with cavalry, contrary to the usages of war?"
"You must not blame me, my lord," replied Lord Cardigan. "I only obeyed the orders of my superior officer," and he pointed to Lord Lucan, whom Lord Raglan then addressed with the severe reproof—
"You have sacrificed the Light Brigade, Lord Lucan. You should have used more discretion."
"I never approved of the charge," protested Lord Lucan.
"Then you should not have allowed it to be made."
The battle of Balaclava was practically over, and, although they had suffered no reverse, its results were decidedly disadvantageous to the allies. The massacre of the Light Brigade encouraged the Russian general to advance again; his columns once more crossed the Woronzoff road, and re-occupied the redoubts in force. The immediate result was the narrowing of the communications between the front and the base. The use of a great length of this Woronzoff road was forbidden, and the British were restricted to the insufficient tracks through Kadikoi. A principal cause this of the difficulties of supply during the dread winter now close at hand.
Another lesser result of the Russian advance was that McKay and his men that afternoon were unable to rejoin their regiment by the road they had travelled the day before. He returned to camp by a long and circuitous route, through Kadikoi, instead of by the direct Woronzoff road.
It was late in the day, therefore, when he was once more at his headquarters. He had much to tell of his strange adventures on these two eventful days, and the colonel, who had at once sent for him, kept him in close colloquy, plying him with questions about the battle, for more than an hour. It was not till he had heard everything that Colonel Blythe handed the sergeant-major a bundle of letters and papers, arrived that morning by the English mail.
"There is good news for you, McKay," said he. "I was so interested in your description that I had forgotten to tell you. Let me congratulate you; your name is in theGazette," and the Colonel, taking McKay's hand, shook it warmly.
McKay carried off his precious bundle to his tent, and, first untying the newspaper, hunted out theGazette.
There it was—
"The Royal Picts—Sergeant-Major Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay to be Ensign,viceArrowsmith, killed in action."
They had lost no time; the reward had followed quickly upon the gallant deed that deserved it. Barely a month had elapsed since the Alma, yet already he was an officer, bearing the Queen's commission, which he had won with his own right arm.
His letters were from home—from his darling mother, who, in simple, loving language, poured forth her joy and pride.
"My dearest, bravest boy," she said, "how nobly you have justified the choice you made; you were right, and we were wrong in opposing your earnest wish to follow in your poor father's footsteps—would that he had lived to see this day! It was his spirit that moved you when, in spite of us all, of your uncles' protests and my tears, you persisted in your resolve to enlist. They said you had disgraced yourself and us. It was cruel of them; but now they are the first to come round. I have heard from both your uncles;they are, of course, delighted, and beg me to give you their heartiest good wishes. Uncle Ralph said perhaps he would write himself; but he is so overwhelmed with work at the Munitions Office he may not have time. Uncle Barto you will, perhaps, see out in the Crimea; he has got command of theBurlington Castle, one of the steamers chartered from his Company, and is going at once to Balaclava.
"Oh, my sweet son be careful of yourself!" went on the fond mother, her deep anxiety welling forth. "You are my only, only joy. I pray God hourly that He may spare your precious life. May He have you in His safe keeping!"
The reading of these pleasant letters occupied Stanislas till nightfall. Then, utterly wearied, but with a thankful, contented heart, he threw himself upon the ground, and slept till morning.
When he issued forth from his tent it was to receive the cordial congratulations of his brother officers. Sergeant Hyde came up, too, a little doubtfully, but McKay seized his hand, saying—
"You do not grudge me my good luck, I hope, old friend?"
"I, sir?"—the address was formal, but the tone was full of heartfelt emotion. "You have no heartier well-wisher than Colour-Sergeant Hyde. Our relative positions have changed—"
"Nothing can change them, or me, Hyde. Youhave always been my best and staunchest friend. It is to your advice and teachings that I owe all this."
"Go on as you have begun, my boy; the road is open before you. Who knows? That field-marshal's baton may have been in your pack after all!"
While they still talked a message was brought to McKay from General Wilders; the brigadier wished to see him at once.
"How is this, Mr. McKay?" said the general. "So you pretend to be a cousin of mine? Sir Colin Campbell has told me of his meeting with you, and now I find your name in full in theGazette."
"It is no pretence, sir," replied Stanislas, with dignity.
"What! You call yourself a Wilders! By what right?"
"My mother is first cousin to the present Lord Essendine."
"Through whom?"
"Her father, Anastasius Wilders."
"I know—my father's brother. Then you belong to the elder branch. But I never heard that he married."
"He married Priscilla Coxon in 1805."
"Privately?"
"I believe not. But it was much against his father's wish, and his wife was never recognised by the family. His widow—you know my grandfather died early--married a second time, and thus increased the breach between the families."
"It's a strange story. I don't know what to think of it. These statements of yours—can they be substantiated?"
"Most certainly, sir, by the fullest proof. Besides, the present Lord Essendine is quite aware of my existence, and has acknowledged my relationship."
"Never openly: you must admit that."
"No, we were simple people; not grand enough, I suppose, for his lordship. At any rate, we were too proud to be patronised, and preferred to go our own way."
"I acknowledge you, Mr. McKay, without hesitation, and am proud to own so gallant a young man as my relative. You have indeed maintained the soldierly reputation of our family. Shake hands!"
"You are very kind, sir; I hope to continue to deserve your good opinion," and McKay rose to take his leave.
"Stay, Cousin McKay, I have more to say to you. What is this Sir Colin tells me about your speaking Russian?"
Stanislas explained.
"It may prove extremely useful; we have not too many interpreters in the army. I shall write to headquarters and report your qualifications. Do you speak any other languages?"
"French, Spanish, and a little Turkish."
"By Jove! you ought to be on the staff; they want such men as you. Can you sit on a horse?"
"I have ridden bare-backed many a dozen miles across the moors at home."
"Faith! I will take you myself. I want an extra aide-de-camp, and my cousin shall have the preference. I will send to Colonel Blythe at once; be ready to join me. But how about your kit? You will want horses, uniform, and—Forgive me, my young cousin: but how are you off for cash? You must let me be your banker."
McKay shook his head, gratefully.
"Thank you, sir; but I have been supplied from home. One of my uncles—my mother's half-brother—is well-to-do, and he sent me a remittance on hearing of my promotion."
"Well, well, as you please; but mind you come to me if you want anything. I shall expect you to take up your duties to-morrow." They were interrupted by all the bugles in the brigade sounding the assembly. "What is it? The alarm?"
"I can hear file-firing, sir, from the front."
"An attack, evidently. Hurry back to your camp; the regiment will be turned out by the time you get there!"
As McKay left the general's tent he met Captain Powys.
"The outposts have been driven in on Shell Hill and the enemy is advancing in force," said the aide-decamp. "We shall have another battle, I expect. It is our turn to-day."
This was Colonel Fedeoroff's forlorn hope against our extreme right: the sequel to Balaclava, the prelude of Inkerman—a sharp fight while it lasted, but promptly repulsed by our men.
Since the English and French armies had established themselves in the Crimea and the magnitude of their undertaking grew more and more apparent, they had found their true base of operations at Constantinople. Here were collected vast masses of supplies and stores, waiting to be forwarded to the front; here the reinforcements—horse, foot, and guns—paused ere they joined their respective armies; here hospitals, extensive, but still ill-organised and incomplete, received the sick and wounded sent back from the Crimea; here also lingered, crowding the tortuous streets of Mussulman Stamboul and filling to overflowing the French-like suburb of Pera, a strange medley of people, a motley crew of various faiths and many nationalities, polyglot in tongue and curiously different in attire, drawntogether by such various motives as duty, mere curiosity, self-interest, and greed. Jews, infidels, and Turks were met at every corner: the first engaged in every occupation that could help them to make money, from touting at the bazaars to undertaking large contracts and selling bottled beer; the second, representatives going or coming from the forces now devoted to upholding the Crescent; the third, mostly apathetic, self-indulgent, corpulent old Mussulmans riding in state, accompanied by their pipe-bearers, or sitting half-asleep in coffee-houses or at the doors of their shops. Now and again a bevy of Turkish ladies glided by: mere peripatetic bundles of white linen, closely-veiled and yellow-slippered; or a Greek in his white petticoat, fierce in aspect and armed to the teeth; or an Armenian merchant, Arnauts, Bashi-Bazouks, French Spahis, the Bedouins of the desert, but half-disguised as civilised troops, while occasionally there appeared, amidst the heterogeneous throng, the plain suit of grey dittoes worn by the travelling Englishman, or the more or less simple female costumes that hailed from London or Paris.
Misseri's hotel did a roaring trade. It was crowded from roof-tree to cellar. Rooms cost a fabulous price. Mrs. Wilders managed to be very comfortably lodged there notwithstanding.
She still lingered in Constantinople. Her anxiety for her husband forbade her to leave the East, although she told her friends it was misery for her to beseparated from her infant boy. She might have had a passage home in a dozen different steamers returning empty, all of them in search of fresh freights of men or material; or there was Lord Lydstone's yacht still lying in the Golden Horn and ready to take her anywhere if only she said the word. But that, of course, was out of the question, as she had laughingly told her husband's cousin more than once when he had placed theArcadiaat her disposal.
They met sometimes, but never on board the yacht, for that would have outraged Mrs. Wilders's nice sense of propriety. It was generally at Scutari, where poor young Anastasius Wilders lay hovering between life and death, for Mrs. Wilders, with cousinly kindliness, came frequently to the wounded lad's bedside.
She was bound for the other side of the Bosphorus as she went downstairs one fine morning towards the end of October, dressed, as usual, to perfection.
A man met her as she crossed the threshold, a man dressed like, and with the air of, an Englishman—a pale-faced, sandy-haired man, with white eyebrows, rather prominent cheek-bones, and a retreating chin.
"Good morning, my dear madam." He spoke with just the faintest accent, betraying that English was not his native tongue. "Like a good Sister, going to the hospital again?"
Mrs. Wilders bowed, and, with heightened colour, sought to pass hastily on.
"What! not one word for so old a friend?" He spoke now in French—perfect Parisian French.
"I wish you would not address me in public: you know you promised me that," replied Mrs. Wilders, in a tone of much vexation, tinged with the respect that is born of fear.
"Forgive me, madam, if I have presumed. But I thought you would wish to hear the news."
"News! Of what?"
"Another battle, a fierce, terrible fight, in which, thank Heaven! the English have suffered defeat!" He spoke with an exultation that proved him to be a traitor, or no Englishman.
"A battle? The English defeated?"
"Yes; thank Heaven, beaten, massacred, disastrously defeated! It is only the beginning of the end. We shall hear soon of far worse. The Czar is gathering together all his strength; what can the puny forces of the allies do against him? They will be outnumbered thousands to one—annihilated before they can escape to their ships."
"Pshaw! What do I care! Whether they are driven away from the Crimea, or remain, is much the same to me. But, after all, this is mere talk; you can't terrify me by such vapourings."
"I tell you I know this for a fact. The Russian forces in the Crimea have been continually reinforced for weeks past. I know it; I saw them. I was there,in their midst, not many days ago. Besides, I am behind the scenes, deep in their counsels. Rely upon it, the allies are in imminent danger. You will hear soon of another and far greater fight, after which it will be all over with your friends!"
"Well, well! my friends, as you call them, must look to themselves. Still, this is mere talk of what may be. Tell me what has actually occurred. There has been a battle: are many slain? General Wilders—is he safe?"
"You need have no apprehensions for your dear husband, madam; his command was not engaged. The chief brunt of the fight fell upon the cavalry, who were cut to pieces."
"What of young Wilders? Hugo Wilders, I mean—Lord Lydstone's brother."
"His name is returned amongst the killed. It will be a blow for the noble house of Essendine, and not the only one."
"What do you mean?"
"The other brother, young Anastasius, whom you are going to see, cannot survive, I hear."
"Poor young fellows!" said Mrs. Wilders, with a well-assumed show of feeling.
"You pity them? I honour your sentiments, madam; but, nevertheless, they can be spared, especially by you."
"What do you mean?" she asked, quickly.
"I mean that after they are gone only one obstacle intervenes between you and all the Essendine wealth. If Lord Lydstone were out of the way, the title and its possession would come, perhaps, to your husband, certainly to your son."
"Silence! Do not put thoughts into my head. You must be the very fiend, I think."
"I know you, Cyprienne, and every move of your mind. We are such old friends, you see," he said, with a sneering, cynical smile. "And now, as before, I offer you my help."
"Devil! Do not tempt me!"
He laughed—a cold, cruel, truculent laugh.
"I know you, I repeat, and am ready to serve you as before. Come, or send, if you want me. I am living here in this hotel; Mr. Hobson they call me—Mr. Joseph Hobson, of London. My number is 73. Shall I hear from you?"
"No, no! I will not listen to you. Let me go!" And Mrs. Wilders, breaking away from him, hurried down the street.
It was not a long walk to the waterside. There she took a caique, or local boat, with two rowers in red fezzes, and was conveyed across the Bosphorus to the Asiatic side.
Landing at Scutari, Mrs. Wilders went straight to the great palace, which was now a hospital, and treading its long passages with the facility of one who hadtravelled the road before, she presently found herself in a spacious, lofty chamber filled with truckle-beds, and converted now into a hospital-ward.
"How is he?" she asked, going up at once to a sergeant who acted as superintendent and head nurse.
"Mr. Wilders, ma'am?" replied the sergeant, with a shake of the head.
"No improvement?"
"Far worse, ma'am, poor young chap! He died this morning, soon after daylight."
"And my lord—was his brother present?"
"Lord Lydstone watched with him through the night, and was here by the bedside when he died."
"Where is he now? Lord Lydstone, I mean."
"He went back on board his yacht, ma'am, I think. He said he should like a little sleep. But he is to be here again this afternoon, for the funeral."
"So soon?"
"Oh, yes! ma'am. It must take place at once, the doctors say."
Mrs. Wilders left the hospital, hesitating greatly what she should do. She would have liked to see and speak with Lydstone, but she had enough good feeling not to intrude by following him on board the yacht.
Then she resolved to attend the funeral too. It would show her sympathy, and Lord Lydstone would be bound to notice her.
He did see her, and came up after the ceremony to shake her hand.
"I am so sorry for you," she began.
"It is too terrible!" he exclaimed. "Both in one day."
He had heard of Balaclava, then.
"But I can't talk about it to-day. I will call on you to-morrow, if I may, in the morning. I am going back to England almost at once."
He came next day, and she received him in her little sitting-room at Misseri's.
"You know how I feel for you," she said, giving him both her hands, her fine eyes full of tears. "They were such splendid young fellows, too. It is so sad—so very sad."
"I am very grateful for your sympathy. But we will not talk about them, please," interrupted Lord Lydstone.
"You have my warmest and most affectionate sympathy. Is there anything I can do to console you, to prove to you how deeply, how sincerely, I feel for you?"
Her voice faltered, and she seemed on the point of breaking down.
"What news have you of the general?" asked Lord Lydstone, rather abruptly, as though to change the conversation.
"Good enough. He is all right," said Mrs. Wilders,dismissing inquiry for her husband in these few brusque words.
"I can't think of him just now," she went on. "It is you and your great sorrow that fill all my heart. Oh, Lydstone! dear Lord Lydstone, the pity of it!"
This tender commiseration was very captivating. But the low, sweet voice seemed to have lost its charm.
"I think I told you yesterday, Mrs. Wilders, that I intended to return to England," said Lord Lydstone, in a cold, hard voice.
"Yes; when do you start?"
"To-morrow, I think. Have you any commands?"
"You do not offer me a passage home?"
"Well, you see, I am travelling post haste," he answered. "I shall only go in the yacht as far as Trieste, and then on overland. I fear that would not suit you?"
"I should be perfectly satisfied"—she was not to be put off—"with any route, provided I go with you."
"You are very kind, Mrs. Wilders," he said, more stiffly, but visibly embarrassed. "I think, however, that as I shall travel day and night I had better—"
"In other words, you decline the pleasure of my company," she said, in a voice of much pique.
It was very plain that she had no longer any influence over him.
"But why are you in such a desperate hurry, Lord Lydstone?" she went on.
"I have had letters, urging me to hurry home. My father and mother are most anxious to see me; and now, after what has happened, it is right that I should be at their side."
"You are a good son, Lord Lydstone," she said, but there was the slightest sneer concealed beneath her simple words.
"I have not been what I ought, but now that I am the only one left I feel that I must defer to my dear parents' wishes in every respect." He said this with marked emphasis.
"They have views for you, I presume?" Mrs. Wilders asked, catching quickly at his meaning.
"My mother has always wanted me to settle down in life, and my father has urged me—"
"To marry. I understand. It is time, they think, for you to have sown your wild oats?"
"Precisely. I have liked my freedom, I confess. Now there are the strongest reasons why I should marry."
"To secure the succession, I suppose."
"We have surely a right to look to that!" said Lord Lydstone, rather haughtily.
"Oh! of course. Everyone is bound to look after his own. And the young lady—has she been found?"
Lord Lydstone coloured at this point-blank question.
"I have been long paying my addresses to Lady Grizel Banquo," he said.
"Oh! she is your choice? I have often seen her and you together."
"We have been friends almost from childhood; and it seems quite natural—"
"That you should tie yourself for life to a red-headed, raw-boned Scotch girl."
"To an English lady of my own rank in life," interrupted Lord Lydstone, sternly, "who will make me an honest, faithful helpmate, as I have every reason to hope and believe."
"You are just cut out for domestic felicity, Lord Lydstone. I can see you a staid, sober English peer, a pattern of respectability, the stay and support of your country, obeyed with reverent devotion by a fond wife, bringing up a large family—"
"As young people should be brought up, I hope—the girls as modest, God-fearing maidens; the boys to behave like gentlemen, and to tell the truth."
"A very admirable system of education, I'm sure. By-and-bye we shall see how nearly you have achieved your aim."
She was disappointed and bitterly angry, feeling that he had rebuffed and flouted her.
"We part as friends, I hope?" said Lord Lydstone, rising to go.
"Oh, certainly! why not?" she answered carelessly.
"I trust you will continue to get good news from Cousin Bill."
"And I that you will have a speedy voyage home. It would be provoking to be delayed when bound on such a mission."
Then they parted, never to meet again.
The mixed population of Constantinople in these busy, stirring times was ripe for any great surprise. It was much moved and excited by a startling bit of news that spread very rapidly next day.
An atrocious murder had been committed on the Stamboul side, near the Bridge of Boats.
Certainly, murders were not unknown in this hive of complex life, harbouring as it did the very scum and refuse of European rascality. But the victims were mostly vile, nameless vagabonds, low Greeks, Maltese suttlers, Italian sailors, or one or other of the hybrid mongrel ruffians following in the track of our armies, any of whom might be sent to their long account without being greatly missed.
It was otherwise now: the murdered man was a prominent personage, an Englishman of high rank, a rich and powerful representative of a great people. No wonder that Constantinople was agitated and disturbed.
On this occasion Lord Lydstone was the murdered man.
He had been found at daybreak by the Turkish patrol, lying in a doorway just where he had fallen dead, stabbed to the heart.
The body was taken to the nearest guard, and inquiries were instituted. A card-case found on the body led to identification, and a report made to the British Embassy set in motion the law and justice of the peace.
Nothing satisfactory or conclusive was brought to light. No one could account for his lordship's presence in that, the lowest quarter of the city; the only clue to his movements was furnished by his steward and body-servant on board the yacht.
The valet came on shore and gave his evidence before the informal court, which was dealing with the case at the British Embassy, presided over by theattachés.
"When did you see his lordship last?"
"Last night. My lord dined on board alone. He appeared depressed, and altogether low. He told me he should go to bed early."
"And did he?"
"No. Late in the evening a shore-boat came off—one of those caiques, I think they called them—with a letter, very urgent."
"For Lord Lydstone?"
"For his lordship. He seemed much disturbed on reading it."
"Well?"
"My lord called me and said he would dress to go on shore. I gave him out the suit which he was wearing when the body was found."
"He said nothing about the letter, or its contents?"
"Oh, no! My lord was never given to talking much, although I was his confidential valet since he left college. He never spoke to me of his affairs. My lord always kept his distance, as it was proper he should."
"Could you tell at all what became of this letter?"
"My lord put it in his pocket when he was dressed."
"You are certain of this?"
"Most positive."
"Was any such letter found in the pockets of the deceased?" asked theattachéof the Turkish police, through the dragoman of the Embassy.
Nothing of the kind had been found.
"The letter was no doubt removed purposely. This would destroy all trace of its origin. It was evidentlya snare, a bait to lure the poor lord on shore," said oneattachéto another.
"It is curious that he should have been so ready to swallow it."
"There must have been something peculiarly persuasive in the letter."
"But we have heard that he was much distressed, or annoyed, at receiving it."
"Persuasive in a good or bad sense—probably the latter. At any rate, it was sufficient to lure him on shore."
"Of course there is something beneath all this: some intrigue, perhaps."
"The old story, 'who is she?' I suppose."
"But I thought he was devoted to his cousin, the fair Mrs. Wilders."
"Is she still in Constantinople?"
"Yes, I think so. Still at Misseri's, I believe."
"I wonder whether she has yet heard about this horrible affair. Some one ought to break it to her."
But no one was needed for a task from which all shrank, with not unnatural hesitation. While they still talked, a message was brought in to the effect that Mrs. Wilders was in the antechamber, and her first words, when one of theattachésjoined her, plainly showed that she had heard of Lord Lydstone's death.
"What a horrible, frightful business!" she said, ina voice broken with emotion. "Oh! this wicked, accursed town! How did it happen? Do tell me all you know."
"We are completely in the dark. We know nothing more than that Lord Lydstone was found stabbed at daylight this morning in the streets of Stamboul."
"What could have taken him there?"
Theattachéshrugged his shoulders.
"There is nothing to show, except that he was inveigled by some mysterious communication—a letter sent on board the yacht."
"Inveigled for some base purpose—robbery, perhaps?"
"Very probably. When the body was found, it had been rifled of everything—watch, money, rings: everything had gone."
Mrs. Wilders sighed deeply. It might have been a sigh of relief, but to theattachéit seemed a new symptom of horror.
"But how imprudent—how frightfully imprudent—of the poor dear lord to venture alone, and so late at night, into that vile quarter. What could have tempted him?"
"That's what we are all asking. Some unusually powerful motive must have influenced him, we may be sure, and that I hope we may still ascertain. It will be the first step towards detecting the authors of the crime."
"They will be discovered, you think?"
"No efforts will be spared, you may be sure. The means at our disposal are not very first-rate, perhaps, but we have been promised the fullest help by the Turkish Minister of Police, and we shall leave no stone unturned."
"Oh! I do so hope that the villains will be discovered. Is there anything I can do?"
"Hardly, Mrs. Wilders. But, as you are the only representative of the family, it would be well perhaps for you to go on board the yacht. Poor Lord Lydstone's papers and effects should be sealed up. One of us will accompany you."
"I shall be delighted to be of any use. When shall we start?"
"The sooner the better," said theattaché, Mr. Loftus by name; and, leaving the inquiry, the two took boat, and were presently alongside theArcadia.
They were received by the captain, a fine specimen of a west-country sailor, a hardy seaman, well schooled in his profession, who had long commanded a vessel in the Mediterranean trade, and was thus well qualified to act as sailing-master in theArcadia'spresent cruise.
But Captain Trejago was soft-hearted, easily led, especially by any daughter of Eve, and he had long since succumbed to the fascinations of Mrs. Wilders's charms. From the day she first trod the deck of theyacht he had become her humblest, perhaps, but most devoted, admirer and slave.
They exchanged a few words of sympathy and condolence.
"You have lost a good friend, Captain Trejago," said the lady.
"He was that, ma'am. My lord was one of the finest, noblest men that ever trod in shoe-leather. And you, ma'am—it must be very terrible for you."
"Losing him in such a way, it is that which embitters my grief. But this gentleman"—she turned to Mr. Loftus—"comes from the Embassy to seal up his lordship's papers."
"Quite right, ma'am. That ought to be done without delay."
"We can go down into the cabin, then?" said Mrs. Wilders.
"Why! surely, ma'am, you ought to know the way. Mr. Hemmings"—this was the valet—"is not on board, as you know: but I will send the second steward if you want any help."
Assisted by the steward, Mr. Loftus proceeded in a business-like manner to place the seals of the Embassy upon the desk, drawers, and other receptacles in Lord Lydstone's cabin. While they were thus employed, Mrs. Wilders sat at the cabin-table under the skylight, her head resting on one hand, and in an attitude that indicated the prostration of great sorrow. The otherhand was on the table, fingering idly the various objects that strewed it. There were an inkstand, a pen-tray, a seal, a blotting-book or portfolio, and many other odds and ends.
This blotting-book, with the same listless, aimless action, Mrs. Wilders presently turned to, and turned over the leaves one by one.
Between two of them she came upon a letter, left there by accident, or to be answered perhaps that day.
The feminine instinct of curiosity Mrs. Wilders possessed in no common degree. To look at the letter thus exposed, however unworthy the action, was a temptation such a woman could not resist. She began to read it, almost as a matter of course, but carelessly, and with no set purpose, as though it was little likely to contain matter that would interest her. But after the first few lines its perusal deeply absorbed her. A few lines more, and she closed the book, leaving her hand inside, and looked round the cabin.
Mr. Loftus and his assistants were still busily engaged upon their official task. Neither of them was paying the slightest attention to her.
With the hand still concealed inside the blotter, she folded up this missive which seemed so interesting and important, and, having thus got it into a small compass, easily and quickly transferred it to her pocket.
She looked anxiously round, fearing she might have been observed. But no one had noticed her, and presently, when Mr. Loftus had completed his work, they again left the yacht for the shore.
So soon as Mrs. Wilders regained the privacy of her own room at Misseri's, which was not till late in the day, she took out the letter she had laid hands on in the cabin of the yacht, and read it through slowly and carefully.
It was from Lord Lydstone's father, dated at Essendine Towers, the principal family-seat.
"My dear boy," so it ran, "your mother and I are very grateful to you for your very full and deeply interesting letter, with its ample, but most distressing, account of our dear Anastasius. It is a proud, but melancholy, satisfaction to know that he has maintained the traditions of the family, and bled, like many a Wilders before him, for his country's cause. His condition must, however, be a constant and trying anxiety, and I beseech you, more particularly on your mother's account, to keep us speedily informed of his progress. It is some consolation to think that you are by his side, and it is only right that you should remain at Constantinople so long as your brother is in any danger.
"But do not, my dear boy, linger long in the East. We want you back with us at home. This is your proper place—you who are our eldest born, heir to the title and estates—you should be here at my side. There are other urgent reasons why you should return. You know how anxious we are that you should marry and settle in life. We are doubly so now. Your brothersbefore this hateful war broke out made the succession, humanly speaking, almost secure. But the chances of a campaign are unhappily most uncertain. Anastasius has been struck down; we may lose him, which Heaven forbid; a Russian bullet may rob us any day of dear Hugo too. In such a dire and grievous calamity, you alone—only one single, precious life—would remain to keep the title in our line. Do not, I beseech you, suffer it to continue thus. Come home; marry, my son; give us another generation of descendants, and assure the succession.
"I have never made any secret of my wishes in this respect; but I have never told you the real reasons for my deep anxiety. It was my father's earnest hope—he inherited it from his father, as I have from mine—that the title might never be suffered to pass to his brother Anastasius's heirs. My uncle had married in direct opposition to his father's orders, in an age when filial disobedience was deemed a very heinous offence, and he was cut off with a shilling. I might say that he deserved no better; but he did not long survive to bear the penalty of his fault. He left a child—a daughter, however—to whom I would willingly have lent a helping hand, but she spurned all my overtures in a way that grieved me greatly, although I never openly complained. That branch of the family has continued estranged from us; and I am certainly indisposed to reopen communications with them.
"Yet the existence of that branch cannot be ignored. It might, at any time, through any series of mishaps of a kind I hardly like to contemplate, but, nevertheless, quite possible in this world of cross-purposes and sudden surprises, become of paramount importance in the family; for in point of seniority it stands next to ourselves. The next heir to the title, after you and your brothers, is the grandson of Anastasius Wilders, a lad of whom I know nothing, except that he is quite unfitted to assume the dignity of an Earl of Essendine, should fate ever will it that he should succeed. This unfitness you will readily appreciate when I tell you that he is at present a private soldier in a marching-regiment in the East. Stranger still, this regiment is the same as that in which poor Anastasius is serving—the Royal Picts. The young man's name is McKay—Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay. I have never seen him; but I am satisfied of his existence, and of the absolute validity of his claims. My agents have long had their eye on him, and through them I have full information of his movements and disposition. He appears a decent, good sort of youth. But I feel satisfied that we ought, as far as is possible by human endeavour, to prevent his becoming the head of the family.
"You are now in possession of the whole of the facts, my dear Lydstone, and I need scarcely insist upon the way in which you are affected by them. Youwill not hesitate, I am sure, after reading this letter, to return to England the moment you can leave your poor brother."
There was more in the letter, but it dealt with purely business matters, which did not interest the person who had become clandestinely possessed of it.
To say that Mrs. Wilders read this letter with surprise would inadequately express its effect upon her. She was altogether taken aback, dismayed, horror-stricken at its contents.
Now, when chance, or something worse, had cleared the way towards the great end, after which she had always eagerly, but almost hopelessly, hankered, a new and entirely unexpected obstacle suddenly supervened.
Another life was thrust in between her and the proximate enjoyment of high rank and great wealth.
Who was this interloper—this McKay—this private soldier serving in the ranks of the Royal Picts? What sort of man? What were his prospects—his age? Was it likely that he would stand permanently in her way?
These were facts which she must speedily ascertain. The regiment to which he belonged was in the Crimea, part of her uncle's brigade. Surely through him she might discover all she wanted to know. But how could this be best accomplished?
The more she thought over it, the more convinced she was that she ought to go in person to the Crimea, to prosecute her inquiries on the spot. While stilldoubtful as to the best means of reaching the theatre of war, it occurred to her that she could not do better than make use of Lord Lydstone's yacht.
It would have to go home eventually—to be paid off and disposed of by Lord Lydstone's heirs. But there was surely no immediate hurry for this, and Mrs. Wilders thought she had sufficient influence with Captain Trejago to persuade him, not only to postpone his departure, but to take a trip to the Crimea.
In this she was perfectly successful, and the day after Lord Lydstone's funeral theArcadia, with a fine breeze aft, steered northward across the Black Sea.
It reached Balaclava on the morning of the 5th of November, and Mrs. Wilders immediately despatched a messenger on shore to inform the general of her arrival. That day, however, the general and his brigade were very busily employed. It was the day of Inkerman!