With the return of spring brighter days dawned for the British troops in the East. The worst troubles were ended; supplies of all kinds were now flowing in in great profusion; the means of transport to the front were enormously increased and improved, not only by the opportune arrival of great drafts of baggage-animals, through the exertions of men like McKay, but by the construction of a railway for goods traffic.
The chief difficulty, however, still remained unsolved: the siege still slowly dragged itself along. Sebastopol refused to fall, and, with its gallant garrison under the indomitable Todleben, still obstinately kept the Allies at bay.
The besiegers' lines were, however, slowly but surelytightening round the place. Many miles of trenches were now open and innumerable batteries had been built and armed. The struggle daily became closer and more strenuously maintained. The opposing forces—besiegers and besieged—were in constant collision. Sharpshooters interchanged shots all day long, and guns answered guns. The Russians made frequent sorties by night; and every day there were hand-to-hand conflicts for the possession of rifle-pits and the more advanced posts.
It was a dreary, disappointing season. This siege seemed interminable. No one saw the end of it. All alike—from generals to common men—were despondent and dispirited with the weariness of hope long deferred.
Why did we not attack the place? This was the burden of every song. The attack—always imminent, always postponed—was the one topic of conversation wherever soldiers met and talked together.
It was debated and discussed seriously, and from every point of view, in the council-chamber, where Lord Raglan met his colleagues and the great officers of the staff. It was the gossip round the camp-fire, where men beguiled the weary hours of trench-duty. It was tossed from mouth to mouth by thoughtless subalterns as they galloped on their Tartar ponies for a day's outing to Kamiesch, when released from sterner toil.
The attack! To-morrow—next day—some day—never! So it went on, with a wearisome, monotonous sameness that was perfectly exasperating.
"I give you Good-day, my friend. Well, you see the summer is now close at hand, and still we are on the wrong side of the wall."
The speaker was M. Anatole Belhomme, Hyde's French friend. They had met outside a drinking-booth in the hut-town of Kadikoi. Hyde was riding a pony; the other was on foot.
"Ah! my gallant Gaul, is it you?" replied Hyde. "Let's go in and jingle glasses together, hey?"
"A little tear of cognac would not be amiss," replied the Frenchman, whose excessive fondness for the fermented liquor of his country was the chief cause of his finding himself a sergeant in the Voltigeurs instead of chief cook to a Parisian restaurant or an English duke.
Hyde hitched up his pony at the door, and they entered the booth, seating themselves at one of the tables, if the two inverted wine-boxes used for the purpose deserved the name. There were other soldiers about, mostly British: a couple of sergeants of the Guards, an assistant of the provost-marshal, some of the new Land Transport Corps, and one or two Sardinians, in their picturesque green tunics and cocked hats with great plumes of black feathers.
The demand for drink was incessant and kept the attendants busy. There were only two of them: the proprietress, a dark-skinned lady, familiarly termed Mother Charcoal, and a mite of a boy whom the English customers called the "imp" and the Frenchpolisson(rogue).
Mother Charcoal was a stout but comely negress, hailing originally from Jamaica, who had come to Constantinople as stewardess in one of the transport-ships. Being of an enterprising nature, she had hastened to the seat of war and sunk all her ready-money in opening a canteen. She was soon very popular with the allied troops of every nationality and did a roaring trade.
"Some brandy—your best, my black Venus!" shouted Hyde.
"Who you call names? Me no Venus."
"Well, Mrs. Charcoal, then; that name suits your colour."
"What colour? You call me coloured? I no common nigger, let me tell you, sah; I a Georgetown lady. Me wash for officers' wives and give dignity-balls in my own home. Black Venus! Charcoal! You call me my right name. Sophimisby Cleopatra Plantagenet Sprotts: that my right name."
"Well, Mrs. S.C.P.S., I can't get my tongue round them all; fetch the brandy or send it. We will talk about your pedigree and Christian names some other time."
This chaffing colloquy had raised a general laugh and put Hyde on good terms with the company.
"What news from the front, sergeant?" asked one of the Land Transport Corps, a new comer.
"Nothing much on our side, except that they say there will be a new bombardment in a few days. Butthe French, were pretty busy last night, to judge from the firing."
"What was it?"
"Perhaps our friend here can tell you" and he turned to Anatole, asking the question in French.
"A glorious affair, truly!" replied the Frenchman, delighted to have an opportunity of launching out.
"I was there—I, who speak to you."
"Tell us about it," said Hyde; "I will interpret it to these gentlemen."
"The Russians, you must understand, have been forming ambuscades in front of our bastion Du Mât, which have given us infinite trouble. Last night we attacked them in three columns, 10,000 strong, and drove them out."
"Well done!"
"It was splendidly done!" went on Anatole, bombastically. "Three times the enemy tried to retake their ambuscades; three times we beat them back at the point of the bayonet, so!"
And the excitable Frenchman jumped from his seat and went through the pantomime of charging with the bayonet.
"You lost many men?"
"Thousands. What matter? we have many more to come. The Imperial Guard has landed, and the reserve, are at Constantinople."
"Yes, and there are the 'Sardines,'" said another pointing to the new uniform.
"Plenty of new arrivals. M. Soyer, the great cook, landed yesterday."
"What on earth brings him?"
"He is going to teach the troops to make omelettes and biscuit-soup."
"We were ahead of him in that, I think," said Hyde, winking at Anatole.
"He is with Miss Nightingale, you know, who has come out as head nurse."
"Heaven bless her!"
"Well, for all the new arrivals, we don't get on very fast with the siege."
"Why don't they go into the place, without all this shilly-shallying?" cried an impetuous Briton. "We'd take the place—we, the rank and file—if the generals only would let us do the work alone."
"They are a poor lot, the generals, I say."
"Halt, there! not a word against Lord Raglan," cried Hyde.
"He is so slow."
"Yes, but he is uncommon sure. Have you ever seen him in action? I have. He knows how to command: so quiet and self-possessed. Such a different man from the French generals, who always shout and swear and make such a confounded row. What do you think of your generals, Anatole?"
"Canrobert is an imbecile; he never knows his own mind."
"Well, we shan't be troubled with him much longer,"said a fresh arrival. "Canrobert has just resigned the chief command."
"Impossible!" said Anatole, when the news was interpreted to him.
"It is perfectly true, I assure you," replied the last speaker. "I have just come from the English headquarters, and saw the new French commander-in-chief there. Palliser, I think they call him."
"Pélissier," said the French sergeant, correcting him. "That is good news. A rare old dog of war that. We shan't wait long to attack if he has the ordering."
"They say the Russian generals have changed lately. Gortschakoff has succeeded Mentschikoff."
"Confound those koffs! They are worse than a cold in the head."
"And just as difficult to get rid of. I'd like to wring their necks, and every Russian's at Sebastopol."
"Mentschikoff could not have been a bad fellow, anyway."
"How do you know that?"
"Why, one of our officers who was taken prisoner at Inkerman has just come back to camp. I heard him say that while he was in Sebastopol he got a letter from his young woman at home. She said she hoped he would take Mentschikoff prisoner, and send her home a button off his coat."
"Well?"
"The letter was read by the Russian authoritiesbefore they gave it him, and some one told the general what the English girl had said."
"He got mad, I suppose?"
"Not at all. He sent on the letter to its destination, with a note of his own, presenting his compliments, and regrets that he could not allow himself to be taken prisoner, but saying that he had much pleasure in inclosing the button, for transmission to England."
"A regular old brick, and no mistake! We'll drink his health."
It was drunk with full honours, after which Hyde, finding the party inclined to be rather too noisy, got up to go.
"Here!" he cried out, "some of you. What have I got to pay? Hurry up, my dusky duchess; I want to be off. Come, don't keep me waiting all day," and he struck the table impatiently with his riding-whip.
Mother Charcoal's assistant, "the imp," ran up.
"How much?"
"One dollar: four shilling," said the lad, in broken English.
"There's your money!" cried Hyde, throwing it down, "and a 'bob' for yourself. Stop!" he added. "Who and what are you? I have seen you before."
The lad, a mere boy, frail-looking and slightly built, but with a handsome, rather effeminate-looking face, tried to slink away.
"What's your name?" went on Hyde.
"Pongo," replied the boy.
"That's no real name. Smacks of the West Coast of Africa. Who gave it you?"
"Mother Charcoal."
"What's your country? What language do you talk?"
"English."
"Monstrous little of that, my boy. What's your native lingo, I mean? Greek, Turkish, Italian, Coptic—what?"
"Spanish," the boy confessed, in a low voice.
Hyde looked at him very intently for a few seconds; then, without further remark, walked out with his French friend.
But he did not do more than say good-bye outside the shanty; and, leaving his horse still hitched up near the door, he presently re-entered the canteen.
The place had emptied considerably, and he was able to take his seat again in a corner without attracting much attention. For half-an-half or more he watched this boy, who seemed to interest him so much.
"There's not a doubt of it. I must know what it means," and he beckoned the "imp" towards him.
"How did you get to the Crimea?" he asked, abruptly, speaking in excellent Spanish, when the lad, shyly and most reluctantly, came up to him. "What brings you here? I must and will know. It is very wrong. This is no place for you."
"I came to save him; he is in pressing danger," said the boy, whose large eyes were now filled with tears.
"Does he know you are in the Crimea?"
"I have been unable to find him. I lost all my money; it was stolen from me directly I landed, and, if I had not found this place with the black woman, I should have starved."
"Poor child! Alone and unprotected in this terrible place. It was sheer madness your coming."
"But I could tell him in no other way."
"Tell him what?"
"He has two bitter and implacable enemies, who are sworn to take his life."
Hyde shook his head gravely.
"It is true, as Heaven is my witness—perfectly true. But read this if you doubt me," and the boy, who was no other than Mariquita in disguise, produced the scrap of paper she had picked up in the shop in Bombardier Lane.
"I did not doubt your words. I was thinking of those enemies—one of them, at least—and wondering why she is permitted to live."
He took the letter, and read it slowly.
"Her handwriting! I was sure of it. To whom was this addressed?"
"Benito Villegas. Perhaps you know him—he is a native of the Rock."
"I remember him years ago. And has he carried out these instructions? Is he here?"
"I cannot make out. I have looked for him, but have been unable to find him."
"Not at the address stated here? You have been to it?"
"Several times, but have never seen him."
"He is probably in some disguise; that would suit his purpose best. We will hunt him up, never fear. But Stanislas must first be warned."
"You will go to him—at once?"
"This very day. And you—won't you come too?"
"No, no! I cannot." Mariquita blushed crimson. "He would chide me. It is wrong, I know; I have no right to be here, but he was in such danger. I risked everything: his displeasure, my life, my good name."
"Yes," said Hyde, thoughtfully; "this is no place for you; it is a pity you came to it. Still, we should not have known but for you; as it is, you had better stay here."
"With Mother Charcoal?"
"Just so. She is a worthy old soul, and can be trusted. It will be best, I think, to tell her the exact state of the case. Leave that to me."
"You will not delay in warning Stanislas?" said Mariquita, placing her hand on his arm.
"No; I will go directly after I have spoken to our black friend. Be easy in your mind, little woman, or Señor Pongo, or whatever you like to be called, and expect to see me again, and perhaps some one else you know, within a day or two from now."
Fate, however, decreed that Hyde should be unavoidably delayed in his errand of warning.
On leaving Mother Charcoal's shanty the second time, he found that his horse had disappeared. It had been hitched up to a hook near the doorway, in company with several others, and all were now gone.
"Some mistake? Scarcely that. One of those rascally sailor thieves, rather; not a four-footed beast is safe from them. What a nuisance it is! I suppose I must walk back to camp."
What chafed Hyde most was the delay in getting to headquarters. He had already made up his mind to find McKay as soon as he could, and tell him exactly what had occurred.
"He will, of course, think first of Mariquita; but that matter can be easily settled. We will send her on board one of the hospital-ships, where she will be with nurses of her own sex. What is really urgent is that McKay should look to himself. We must manage, through his interest and authority, to make a thorough search for this villain Benito, and get him expelled from the Crimea. That would make McKay safe, if only for a time, although I suppose Cyprienne would soon devise some new and more diabolical scheme. If I could only get on a little faster! It is most annoying about the horse. I will go straight to headquarters on foot, taking the camp of the Naval Brigade on my way."
There was wisdom in this last resolution. Thesailors' camp was the Crimean pound. All animals lost or strayed, or, more exactly, stolen, if the truth is to be told, found their way to it. Jack did a large business in horseflesh. Often enough a man, having traced his missing property, was obliged to buy it back for a few shillings, or a glass or two of grog.
It was a general joke in the Crimea that the infantry were better mounted than the cavalry, and that the sailors had the pick of the infantry horses.
"I suppose I must go to the sailors' camp, but it's rather out of my road," said Hyde, as he trudged along under the hot sun.
Many more fortunate comrades, all mounted, overtook and passed him on the way. Each time he heard the sound of hoofs his rage increased against the dishonest rogue who had robbed him of his pony.
"Like a lift, guv'ner?" said a voice behind him. "You shall have this tit chape. Half a sov., money down."
Hyde turned, and saw a blue-jacket astride of the missing pony.
"Buy it, you rascal! why it belongs to me! Where did you get it?"
"I found it, yer honour."
"Stole it, you mean. Get off this instant, or I'll give you up to the provost!" And, so saying, Hyde put out his hand to seize the reins.
"Avast heaving there, commodore," said Jack, digging his heels into the horse, and lifting it cleverlyjust out of Hyde's reach. "Who finds keeps. Pay up, or you shan't have him. Why, I deserve a pound for looking after the dumb baste."
Hyde looked around for help, but no one was in sight. He was not to be baulked, however, and made a fresh attempt to get alongside the pony. But each time the sailor forged a little ahead, and this tantalising game continued for half-an-hour.
At last, disgusted and despairing, Hyde thought it better to make terms. He was losing valuable time.
"I give in, you rogue! Pull up, and you shall have your money."
"Honour bright, guv'ner?"
"Here it is," said Hyde, taking out the money.
"It's a fair swap. Hand over the money."
"No; you give up the pony first."
"I shan't. That's not my way of doing business."
"You shall!" cried Hyde, who had been edging up towards the sailor, and now suddenly made a grab at his leg.
He caught it, and held it with an iron grip. But Jack was not disposed to yield quietly. With a loud oath, he struck viciously at the pony's side with his disengaged foot.
It was a lively little beast, and went off at once, Hyde still clinging tenaciously to his prey.
But Jack was determined not to be beaten. With one hand he tried to beat off Hyde, and with the other incited the pony to increase its pace.
In the end Hyde was thrown to the ground, and received two nasty kicks—one in the forehead, the other in the breast—from the heels of the excited horse.
The sailor got clear away, and our friend Hyde was picked up senseless half-an-hour later by a passing ambulance-cart, and carried back to camp.
McKay, on returning to the Crimea, had resumed his duties at headquarters. He was complimented by Lord Raglan and General Airey on the manner in which he had performed his mission.
"Matters have improved considerably in the month or two you were absent," said the latter to him one day. "Thanks to the animals you got us, we have been able to bring up sufficient shot and shell."
"When is the new bombardment to take place, sir?"
"At once."
"And the attack?"
"I cannot tell you. Some of the French generals are altogether against assaulting the fortress. They would prefer operations in the open field."
"What do they want, sir?"
"They would like to divide the whole allied forces into three distinct armies: one to remain and guard the trenches, another to go round by sea, so as to cut the Russian communications; and the third, when this is completed, to attack the Mackenzie heights, and get in at the back of the fortress."
"It seems rather a wild plan, sir."
"I agree with you—wild and impossible."
"Does the French commander-in-chief approve of it, sir?"
"General Canrobert does; but I think we have nearly seen the last of him. I expect any day to hear that he has given up the command."
"Who will succeed him, sir?"
"Pélissier, I believe—a very different sort of man, as we shall see."
A few days later the change which has already been referred to took place, and Marshal Pélissier came over to the English headquarters to take part in a council of war. All the principal general officers of both armies were present, and so was McKay, whose perfect acquaintance with French made him useful in interpreting and facilitating the free interchange of ideas.
The new French commander-in-chief was a prominent figure at the council—a short, stout, hard-featured man, brusque in movements and abrupt in speech; a man of much decision of character, one who made up his mind quickly, was intolerant of all opposition, and doggedly determined to force his will upon others.
When it came to the turn of the French generals to speak, one of them began a long protest against the attack as too hazardous. Several others brought forward pet schemes of their own for reducing the place.
"Enough!" said Pélissier, peremptorily. "You are not brought here to discuss whether or how we should attack. That point is already settled by my lord and myself."
He looked at Lord Raglan, who bowed assent.
"We have decided to attack the outworks on the 7th of the month."
"But I dissent," began General Bosquet.
"Did you not hear me? I tell you we have decided to attack. You are only called together to arrange how it can best be carried out."
"I have a paper here in which I have argued out the principles on which an attack should be conducted," said another, General Niel, an engineer.
"Ah!" said Pélissier, "you gentlemen are very clever—I admit your scientific knowledge—but when I want your advice I will ask for it."
While this conversation was in progress, the English officers present were whispering amongst themselves with undisguised satisfaction at finding that the new commander-in-chief of the French, unlike his predecessor, was well able to keep his subordinates in order;and, all useless discussion having been cut short, the plan of attack was soon arranged.
"Well," said Lord Raglan, "it is all clear. We shall begin by a heavy cannonade."
"To last four-and-twenty-hours," said Pélissier, "and then the assault."
"At what hour?" asked Lord Raglan.
"Daylight, of course!" cried two or three French generals in a breath.
"One moment," interposed General Airey. "Day-break is the time of all others that the enemy would expect an attack; they would therefore be best prepared for it then."
A sharp argument followed, and lasted several minutes, each side clinging tenaciously to its own opinion.
"Do not waste your energies, gentlemen," said Marshal Pélissier, again interfering decidedly. "Lord Raglan and I have settled that matter for ourselves. The attack will take place at five o'clock in the afternoon. That will allow time for us to get established in the enemy's works in the night after we have carried them."
"Of course, gentlemen," said Lord Raglan, in breaking up the council, "you will all understand the importance of secrecy. Not a word of what has passed here must be repeated outside. It would be fatal to success if the enemy got any inkling of our intentions."
"It's quite extraordinary," said General Airey toMcKay and a few more, as they passed out from the council-chamber, "how the enemy gets his information."
"Those newspaper correspondents, I suspect, are responsible," said another general. "They let out everything, and the news, directly it is printed, is telegraphed to Russia."
"That does not entirely explain it. They must be always several weeks behind. I am referring more particularly to what happens at the moment. Everything appears to be immediately known."
"Why, only the other day a Russian spy walked coolly through our second parallel," said a French officer, "and counted the number of the guns. He passed himself off as an English traveller."
"Great impudence, but great pluck. I wish we had men who would do the same. That's what I complain of. We want a better organised secret service, and men like Wellington's famous Captain Grant in the Peninsular War, bold, adroit, and quick-witted, ready to run any risks, but bound to get information in the long run. I wish I could lay my hands on a few Captain Grants."
McKay smarted under the sting of these reproaches, feeling they applied, although scarcely so intended, to him. But there was no man, after all, on the headquarter staff better fitted to remove them. With his enterprising spirit and intimate acquaintance with manytongues, he ought to be able to secure information that would be useful to his chiefs.
Full of this idea, he rode down that afternoon to Balaclava, the centre of all the rascaldom that had gathered around the base of the Crimean army. He was in search of agents whom he could employ as emissaries into the enemy's lines.
Putting up his horse, he mixed amongst the motley crowd that thronged the "sutlers' town," as it was called, which had sprung up half-a-mile outside Balaclava, to accommodate the swarms of strangers who, under the strict rule of Colonel Harding, had been expelled from the port itself.
The place was like a fair—a jumble of huts and shanties and ragged canvas tents, with narrow, irregular lanes between them, in which the polyglot traders bought and sold. Here were grave Armenians, scampish Greeks from the Levant, wild-eyed Bedouins, Tartars from Asia Minor, evil-visaged Italians, scowling Spaniards, hoarse-voiced, slouching Whitechapel ruffians, with a well-developed talent for dealing in stolen goods.
As McKay stood watching the curious scene, and replying rather curtly to the eager salesmen, who pestered him perpetually to buy anything and everything—food, saddlery, pocket-knives, horse-shoes, fire-arms, and swords—he became conscious of a stir and flutter among the crowd. It presently became strangelysilent, and parted obsequiously, to give passage to some great personage who approached.
This was Major Shervinton, the provost-marshal, supreme master and autocrat of all camp-followers, whom he ruled with an iron hand. Close behind him came two sturdy assistants—men who had once been drummers, and were specially selected in an army where flogging was the chief punishment for their prowess with the cat-o'-nine-tales.
Woe to the sutler, whatever his rank or nation, who fell foul of the terrible provost! Summary arrest, the briefest trial, and a sharp sentence peremptorily executed, in the shape of four dozen, was the certain treatment of all who offended against martial law.
"Hullo, McKay!" cried Shervinton, a big, burly, pleasant-faced man, whose cheery manner was in curious contrast with his formidable functions. "What brings a swell from headquarters into this den of iniquity? Lost your servant, or looking out for one? Don't engage any one without asking me. They are an abominable lot, and deserve to be hanged, all of them."
"You are the very fellow to help me, Shervinton," and McKay, taking the provost-marshal aside, told him his errand.
"I firmly believe every second man here is a spy, or would be if he had the pluck."
"Are any of them, do you think, in communication with the Russians?"
"Lots. They come and go through the lines, I believe, as they please."
"I wish I could find a few fellows of this sort."
"Perhaps I can put you in the way; only I doubt whether you can trust to a single word that they will tell you."
"But where shall we come upon them?"
"The best plan will be to consult Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at the end of the lines. I have always suspected him of being a Russian spy; but I dare say we could buy him over if you want him. If he tries to play us false we will hang him the same day."
Valetta Joe was in his bread-store—a small shed communicating with the dark, dirty, semi-subterranean cellar behind, in which the dough was kneaded and baked. The shed was encumbered with barrels of inferior flour, and all around upon shelves lay the small short rolls, dark-looking and sour-tasting, which were sold in the camp for a shilling a piece.
"Well, Joe, what's the news from Sebastopol to-day?" asked Shervinton.
"Why you ask me, sare? I a poor Maltee baker—sell bread, make money. Have nothing to do with fight."
"You rascal! You know you're in league with the Russians. I have had my eye on you this long time. Some of these days we'll be down upon you like a cart-load of bricks."
"You a very hard man, Major Shervinton, sare—very unkind to poor Joe. I offer you bread every day for nothing; you say No. Why not take Joe's bread?"
"Because Joe's a scoundrel to offer it. Do you suppose I am to be bribed in that way? But here: I tell you what we are after. This gentleman," pointing to McKay, "wants news from the other side."
"Why you come to me? I nothing to do with other side."
"You can help him, you know that, and you must; or we will bundle you out of this and send you back to Constantinople."
The provost-marshal's manner was not to be mistaken.
"What can I do, sare?"
"Find out some one who can pass through the lines and bring or send him to my friend."
"Who is this gentleman?"
"He is one of Lord Raglan's staff; his name is Mr. McKay."
A close observer would have seen that the baker started slightly at the name and that he bent an eager, inquisitive look upon McKay.
"Will the gentleman give promise to do no harm to me or my people?"
"So long as you behave properly,—yes."
"I think I know some one, then."
"Produce him at once."
"He not here to-day; out selling bread. Where hefind you, sare, to-morrow, or any time he have anything to tell?"
"Let him come to the headquarters and ask for my tent," said McKay. "There is my name on a piece of paper; if he shows that to the sentry they will let him through."
"Very good, sare; you wait and see."
"No humbug, mind, Joe; or I'll be down on you!" added the provost-marshal. "Is that all you want, McKay?"
Our hero expressed himself quite satisfied, and, with many thanks to the provost-marshal, he remounted and rode away.
McKay was in His tent next morning finishing dressing when his servant brought him a piece of crumpled paper and said there was a messenger waiting to see him. The paper was the pass given the day before to Valetta Joe; its bearer was a nondescript-looking ruffian, in a long shaggy cloak of camel's hair, whose open throat and bare legs hinted at a great scantiness of wardrobe beneath. He wore an old red fez, stained purple, on the back of his bullet-head; he had a red, freckled face, red eyebrows, red eyes, red hair, and a pointed red beard, both of which were very ragged and unkempt.
"Have you got anything to tell me?" asked McKay, sharply, in English; and when the other shook his headhe tried him in French, Spanish, and last of all in Italian.
"News," replied the visitor, at length, laconically; "ten dollars."
McKay put the money in his hand and was told briefly—
"To-morrow—sortie—Woronzoff Road."
And this was all the fellow would say.
McKay passed on this information to his chief, but rather doubtfully, declining to vouch for it, or say whence it had come.
It was felt, however, that no harm could be done in accepting the news as true and preparing for a Russian attack. The event proved the wisdom of this course. The sortie was made next night. A Russian column of considerable strength advanced some distance along the Woronzoff Road, but finding the English on the alert immediately retired.
The next piece of information that reached McKay from the same source, but by a different messenger, was more readily credited. He learnt this time that the Russians intended to establish a new kind of battery in front of the Karabel suburb.
"What kind?" asked McKay.
The messenger, a hungry-looking Tartar who spoke broken English, but when encouraged explained himself freely in Russian, said—
"Big guns; they sink one end deep into the ground, the other point very high."
"I understand. They want to give great elevation, so as to increase the range."
"Yes, you see. They will reach right into your camp."
Again the information proved correct. Within a couple of days the camps of the Third and Fourth Divisions, hitherto deemed safe from the fire of the fortress, were disturbed by the whistling of round-shot in their midst. The fact was reported in due course to headquarters.
"You see, sir, it is just what I was told," said McKay to General Airey.
"Upon my word, you deserve great credit. You seem to have organised an intelligence department of your own, and, what is more to the purpose, your fellow seems always right."
McKay was greatly gratified at this encouragement, and eager to be still more useful. He visited the Maltese baker again, and urged him to continue supplying him with news.
"Trust to Joe. Wait one little bit; you know plenty more."
Several days passed, however, without any fresh news. Then a new messenger came, another Tartar, a very old man with a flowing grey beard, wearing a long caftan like a dressing-gown to his heels, and an enormous sheepskin cap that came far down over his eyes, and almost hid his face. He seemed very decrepit, and was excessively stupid, probably from oldage. He looked terribly frightened when brought to McKay's tent, stooping his shoulders and hanging his head in the cowering, deprecating attitude of one who expects, but would not dare to ward off, a blow.
He was tongue-tied, for he made no attempt to speak, but merely thrust forward one hand, making a deep obeisance with the other. There was a scrap of paper in the extended hand, which McKay took and opened curiously. A few lines in Italian were scrawled on it.
"The Russians are collecting large forces beyond the Tchernaya," ran the message. "Expect a new attack on that side."
"Who gave you this?" asked McKay, in Russian.
The old fellow bowed low, but made no answer.
He repeated the question in Italian and every other language of which he was master, but obtained no reply. The man remained stupidly, idiotically dumb, only grovelling lower and more abjectly each time.
"What an old jackass he is! I shall get nothing out of him, I'm afraid. But it won't do to despise the message, wherever it comes from. Take him outside," he said to his orderly, "while I go and see the general." "You have no idea where this news comes from?" was General Airey's first inquiry.
"The same source, I don't doubt; but of course I can't vouch for its accuracy."
"It might be very important," the general wasmusing. "I am not sure whether you know what we contemplate in these next few days?"
"In the direction of the Tchernaya, sir?"
"Precisely. Now that the Sardinian troops have all arrived, Lord Raglan thinks we are strong enough to extend our position as far as the river."
"I had heard nothing of it, sir?"
"If this news be true, the Russians appear to be better informed than you are, McKay."
"And are preparing to oppose our movement?"
"That's just what I should like to know, and what gives so much importance to these tidings. I only wish we could verify them. Where is your messenger? Who is he?"
"A half-witted old Tartar; you will get nothing out of him, sir. I have been trying hard this half-hour."
"But you know where the news comes from. Could you not follow it up to its source?"
"I will do so at once, sir;" and within half-an-hour McKay was in his saddle, riding down to Balaclava.
Valetta Joe was in his shop, distributing a batch of newly-baked bread to a number of itinerant vendors, each bound to retail the loaves in the various camps.
McKay waited until the place was clear, then accosted the baker sharply.
"What was the good of your sending that old numbskull to me?"
"He give you letter. You not understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand; but I want to be certain it is true."
"When Joe tell lies? You believe him before; if you like, believe him again."
"But can't you tell me more about it? How many troops have the Russians collected? Since when? What do they mean to do?"
"You ask Russian general, not me; I only know what I hear."
"But it would be possible to tell, from the position of the enemy, something of their intentions. I could directly if I saw them."
"Then why you not go and look for yourself?" asked Joe, carelessly; but there was a glitter in his eyes which gave a deep meaning to the simple question.
"Why not?" said McKay, whom the look had escaped. "It is well worth the risk."
"I'll help you, if you like," went on Joe, with the same outwardly unconcerned manner.
"Can you? How?"
"Very easy to pass lines. You put on Tartar clothes same as that old man go to you to-day. He live near Tchorgaun; he take you right into middle of Russian camp."
"When can he start?" asked McKay eagerly, accepting without hesitation all the risks of this perilous undertaking.
"To-night, if you choose. Come down here by-and-by; I have everything ready."
McKay agreed, and returned to headquarters in all haste, where he sought out his chief and confided to him his intentions.
"You are really prepared to penetrate the enemy's lines? It will be a daring, dangerous job, McKay. I should be wrong to encourage you."
"It is of vital importance, you say, that we should really know what the enemy is doing beyond the Tchernaya. I am quite ready to go, sir."
"Lord Raglan—all of us—indeed, will be greatly indebted to you if you can find out. But I do not like this idea of the disguise, McKay. You ought not to go under false colours."
"I should probably learn more."
"Yes; but do you know what your fate would be if you were discovered?"
"I suppose I should be hanged, sir," said McKay, simply.
"Hanged or shot. Spies—everyone out of uniform is a spy—get a very short shrift at an enemy's hand. No; you must stick to your legitimate dress. I am sure Lord Raglan would allow you to go under no other conditions."
"As you wish, sir. Only I fear I should not be so useful as if I were disguised."
"It is my order," said the general, briefly; and after that there was nothing more to be said.
McKay spent the rest of the afternoon at his usual duties, and towards evening, having carefully reloaded his revolver, and filled his pockets with Russian rouble notes, which he obtained on purpose from the military chest, he mounted a tough little Tartar pony, used generally by his servant, and trotted down to the hut-town.
Valetta Joe heard with marked disapprobation McKay's intention of carrying out his enterprise without assuming disguise.
"You better stay at home: not go very far like that."
"Lend me agreggoto throw over my coat, and a sheepskin cap, and I shall easily pass the Cossack sentries. Where is my guide?"
"Seelim—Jee!" shouted Joe, and the old gentleman who had visited McKay that morning came ambling up from the cellar below.
"Is that old idiot to go with me? Why, he speaks no known tongue!" cried McKay.
"Only Tartar. You know no Tartar? Well, he understand the stick. Show it him—so," and Joe made a motion of striking the old man, who bent submissively to receive the blow.
"Does he know where he is to take me? What we are going to do?"
"All right. You trust him: he take you past Cossacks." Joe muttered a few unintelligible instructions to the guide, who received them with deep respect, making a low bow, first to Joe and then to McKay.
"I give himgreggoand cap: you put them on when you like."
McKay knew that he could only pass the British sentries openly, showing his uniform as a staff officer, so he made the guide carry the clothes, and the two pressed forward together through Kadikoi, towards the formidable line of works that now covered Balaclava.
He skirted the flank of one of the redoubts, and, passing beyond the intrenchments, came at length to our most advanced posts, a line of cavalry vedettes, stationed at a considerable distance apart.
"I am one of the headquarter staff," he said, briefly, to the sergeant commanding the picket, "and have to make a short reconnaissance towards Kamara. You understand?"
"Are we to support you, sir?"
"No; but look out for my coming back. It may not be till daybreak, but it will be as well, perhaps, to tell your men who I am, and to expect me. I don't want to be shot on re-entering our own lines."
"Never fear, sir, so long as we know. I will tell the officer, and make it all right."
McKay now rode slowly on, his guide at his horse's head. They kept in the valleys, already, as night was now advancing, deep in shade, and their figures, which could have been clearly made out against the sky if on the upper slopes, were nearly invisible on the lower ground.
It was a splendid summer's evening, perfectly still and peaceful, with no sounds abroad but the ceaselesschirp of innumerable grasshoppers, and the faint hum of buzzing insects ever on the wing. Only at intervals were strange sounds wafted on the breeze, and told their own story; the distant blare of trumpets, and the occasional "thud" of heavy cannon, gun answering gun between besiegers and besieged. As they fared along, McKay once or twice inquired, more by gesture than by voice, how far they had to go.
Each time the guide replied by a single word—"Cossack"—spoken almost in a whisper, and following by his placing finger on lip.
Half-a-mile further, the guide motioned to McKay to dismount and leave his horse, repeating the caution "Cossack!" in the same low tone of voice.
McKay, who had now put on thegreggoand sheepskin cap, did as he was asked, and the two crept forward together, having left the horse tethered to a bush, the guide explaining by signs that they would presently come back to it.
A little farther and he placed his hand upon McKay's arms, with a motion to halt.
"H—sh!" said the old man, using a sound which has the same meaning in all tongues, and held up a finger.
McKay listened attentively, and heard voices approaching them. Instinctively he drew his revolver and waited events. The voices grew plainer and plainer, then gradually faded away.
"Cossack!" repeated the guide, and McKay gatheredthat these were a couple of Cossack sentries, from whose clutches he had narrowly escaped.
Again our hero was urged forward, and this time with all speed. The guide ran, followed by McKay, for a couple of hundred yards, then halted suddenly. What next? He had thrown himself on the ground, and seemed closely examining it; in this attitude he crept forward cautiously.
The movement was presently explained. A slight splash told of water encountered. He had been in search of the river, and had found it. This was the Tchernaya—a slow sluggish stream, hidden amidst long marshy grass, and everywhere fordable, as McKay had heard, at this season of the year.
The guide now stood up and pointed to the river, motioning McKay to enter it and cross.
Our hero stepped in boldly, and in all good faith, expecting his guide to follow. But he was half-way towards the other bank, and still the old man had made no move.
Why this hesitation?
McKay beckoned to him to come on. The guide advanced a step or two, then halted irresolute.
McKay grew impatient, and repeated his motion more peremptorily. The guide advanced another step and again halted. He seemed to suffer from an invincible dislike to cold water.
"Is he a cur or a traitor?" McKay asked himself,and drew his revolver to quicken the old man's movements, whichever he was.
The sight of the weapon seemed to throw the guide into a paroxysm of fear. He fell flat on the ground, and obstinately refused to move.
All this time McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted—the night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood erect.
"You old scoundrel!" cried McKay, putting his revolver to his head. "Come on! do you understand? Come on, or you are a dead man!"
The gesture was threatening, not that McKay had any thought of firing. He knew a pistol-shot would raise a general alarm. Still the old man, although trembling in every limb, would not move.
"Come on!" repeated McKay, and with the idea of dragging him forward he seized him fiercely by the beard.
To his intense surprise, it came off in his hand.
"Cursed Englishman!" cried a voice with which he was perfectly familiar, and in Spanish. "You are at my mercy now. You dare not fire; your life is forfeited. The enemy is all around you. I have betrayed you into their hands."
"Benito! Can it be possible?" But McKay didnot suffer his astonishment to interfere with his just revenge.
"On your knees, dog! Say your prayers. I will shoot you first, whatever happens to me."
"You are too late!" cried Benito, wrenching himself from his grasp, and whistling shrilly as he ran away.
McKay fired three shots at him in succession, one of which must have told, for the scoundrel gave a great yell of pain.
The next instant McKay was surrounded by a mob of Cossacks and quickly made prisoner.
They had evidently been waiting for him, and the whole enterprise was a piece of premeditated treachery, as boldly executed as it had been craftily planned.
McKay's captors having searched his pockets with the nimbleness of London thieves, and deprived him of money, watch, and all his possessions, proceeded to handle him very roughly. He had fought and struggled desperately, but was easily overpowered. They were twenty to one, and their wild blood was aroused by his resistance. He was beaten, badly mauled, and thrown to the ground, where a number of them held him hand and foot, whilst others produced ropes to bind him fast. The brutal indignities to which he was subjected made McKay wild with rage. He addressed them in their own language, protesting vainly against such shameful ill-usage.
"Hounds! Miscreants! Sons of burnt mothers!Do you dare to treat an English officer thus? Take me before your superior. Is there no one here in authority? I claim his protection."
"Which you don't deserve, scurvy rogue," said a quiet voice. "You are no officer—only a vile, disreputable spy."
"I can prove to you—"
"Bah! how well you speak Russian. We know all about you; we expected you. But enough: we must be going on."
"I don't know who you may be," began McKay, hotly, "but I shall complain of you to your superior officer."
"Silence!" replied the other, haughtily. "Have I not told you to hold your tongue? Fill his mouth with clay, some of you, and bring him along."
This fresh outrage nearly maddened McKay.
"You shall carry me, then," he spluttered out, from where he still lay upon the ground.
"Ah! we'll see. Get up, will you! Prick him with the point of your lance, Ivanovich. Come, move yourself," added the officer, as McKay slowly yielded to this painful persuasion, "move yourself, or you shall feel this," and the officer cracked the long lash of his riding-whip.
"You shall answer for this barbarity," said McKay "I demand to be taken before the General at once."
"You shall see him, never fear, sooner than you might wish, perhaps."
"Take me at once before him; I am not afraid."
"You will wait till it suits us, dog; meanwhile, lie there."
They had reached a rough shelter built of mud and long reeds. It was the picket-house, the headquarters of the troop of Cossacks, and a number of them were lying and hanging about, their horses tethered close by.
The officer pointed to a corner of the hut, and, giving peremptory instructions to a couple of sentries to watch the prisoner, for whom they would have to answer with their lives, he disappeared.
Greatly dejected and cast down at the failure of his enterprise, and in acute physical pain from his recent ill-usage and the tightness of his bonds, McKay passed the rest of the night very miserably.
Dawn came at length, but with it no relief. On the contrary, daylight aggravated his sufferings. He could see now the cruel scowling visages of his captors, and the indescribable filth and squalor of the den in which he lay.
"Get up!" cried a voice; but McKay was too much dazed and distracted by all he had endured to understand that the command was addressed to him.
It was repeated more arrogantly, and accompanied by a brutal kick.
He rose slowly and reluctantly, and asked in a sullen voice—
"Where are you taking me?"
"Before his Excellency. Step out, or must we prick you along?"
A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large camp. They passed through many lines of tents, and halted presently before a smart marquee.
The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with the order—
"March him in!"
McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and another in the centre of the cap. At a button-hole on his breast, however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.
There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created things.
"So"—he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that day, to show their aristocratic superiority—"you have dared, wretch, to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in half-an-hour."
"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.
"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking spy—taken in the very act! You!"
"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be browbeaten or abashed.
"Where is your uniform?"
"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open thegreggo, which he still wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches with their broad red stripe.
"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the general,—for such was the officer's rank,—turning to one of his staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke in Russian.
"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."
"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment that, in English officers, I expect."
"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.
"How and when did you learn it?"
"I do not choose to say. What can that matter?"
Again the staff-officer interposed and whispered something in the general's ear.
"Of course; I had forgotten." Then, turning to McKay, he went on: "What is your name?"
"McKay."
"Your Christian names in full?"
"Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay."
"Exactly. Stanislas Alexandrovich McKay. I knew your father when he was a captain in the Polish Lancers; was he not?"
"I cannot deny it."
"He was a Russian, in the service of our holy Czar, and you, his son, are a Russian too."
"It is false! I am an Englishman. I have never yielded allegiance to the Czar."
"You will find it hard to evade your responsibility. It is not to be put on or off like a coat. You were born a Russian subject, and a Russian subject you remain!"
"I bear a commission in the army of the British Queen. I dare you to treat me as a Russian now!"
"We will treat you as we find you, Mr. McKay: as an interloper disguised for an improper purpose within our lines."
"What shall you do with me?" asked McKay, in a firm voice, but with a sinking heart.
"Hang you like a dog to the nearest tree. Or, stay! out of respect for your father, whom I knew, and if you prefer it, you shall be shot."
"I am in your power. But I warn you that, if you execute me, the merciless act will be remembered throughout Europe as an eternal disgrace to the Russian arms."
This bold speech was not without its effect. The general consulted with his staff, and a rather animated discussion followed, at the end of which he said—
"I am not to be deterred by any such threats: still, it will be better to refer your case to my superiors. I shall send you into Sebastopol, to be dealt with as Prince Gortschakoff may think fit, only do not expect more at his hands than at mine. Rope or rifle—one of them will be your fate. See he is sent off, Colonel Golopine, will you? And now take him away."
McKay was marched out of the marquee, still under the escort of Cossacks. But outside he was presently handed over to a fresh party; they brought up a shaggy pony—it might have been the fellow of the one he had left behind the previous night—and curtly bade him mount. When, with hands still tied, he scrambled with difficulty into his saddle, they tied his legs together by a long rope under the pony's belly, and, placing him in the centre of the escort, they started off at a jog-trot in the direction of the town.