Kitobni o'qish: «In the Track of the Troops», sahifa 10
Chapter Fifteen.
Simtova—New Views of War—Lancey Goes to the Front, and Sees Service, and Gets a Scare
Shortly afterwards our detachment reached the headquarters of General Gourko, who, with that celebrated Russian general, Skobeleff the younger, was pressing towards the Balkans.
Here changes took place which very materially altered my experiences.
Nicholas Naranovitsch was transferred to the staff of General Skobeleff. Petroff was sent to act the part of guide and scout to the division, and I, although anxious to obtain employment at the front, was obliged to content myself with an appointment to the army hospitals at Sistova.
As it turned out, this post enabled me to understand more of the true nature of war than if I had remained with the army, and, as I afterwards had considerable experience in the field, the appointment proved to be advantageous, though at the time I regarded it as a disappointment.
When I had been some weeks at Sistova I wrote a letter to my mother, which, as it gives a fair account of the impressions made at the time, I cannot do better than transcribe:—
“Dearest Mother,—I have been in the hospitals now for some weeks, and it is not possible for you to conceive, or me to convey, an adequate description of the horrible effects of this most hideous war. My opinions on war—always, as you know, strong—have been greatly strengthened; also modified. Your heart would bleed for the poor wounded men if you saw them. They are sent to us in crowds daily, direct from the battle-fields. An ordinary hospital, with its clean beds, and its sufferers warmly housed and well cared for, with which you are familiar enough, gives no idea of an army hospital in time of war.
“The men come in, or are carried in, begrimed with powder, smoke, and dust; with broken limbs and gaping wounds, mortifying and almost unfit for inspection or handling until cleansed by the application of Lister’s carbolic acid spray. Some of these have dragged themselves hither on foot from that awful Shipka Pass—a seven days’ journey,—and are in such an abject state of exhaustion that their recovery is usually impossible. Yet some do recover. Some men seem very hard to kill. On the other hand, I have seen some men whose hold on life was so feeble as to make it difficult to say which of their comparatively slight wounds had caused death.
“I am now, alas! familiar with death and wounds and human agony in every form. Day and night I am engaged in dressing, operating, and tending generally. The same may be said of all connected with the hospital. The doctors under Professor Wahl are untiring in their work. The Protestant sisters of mercy, chiefly Germans, and the ‘Sanitaires,’ who take the weary night-watches, are quite worn out, for the number of sick and wounded who pour in on us has far exceeded the computations formed. Everything in this war has been under-estimated. What do you think of this fact—within the last fifty days 15,000 men have been killed, and 40,000 sick and wounded sent to Russian hospitals? This speaks to 55,000 Russian homes plunged into mourning,—to say nothing of similar losses, if not greater, by the Turks,—a heavy price to pay for improving the condition of Bulgaria,—isn’t it?
“There is a strong feeling in my mind that this is a war of extermination. ‘No quarter’ is too frequently the cry on either side. I do not say that the Russians mean it to be so, but when Bashi-Bazouks torture their prisoners in cold blood, and show fiendish delight in the most diabolical acts of cruelty, even going the length of roasting people alive, is it strange that a brutalising effect is produced on the Russians, and that they retaliate in a somewhat similar spirit at times? The truth is, mother, that one of the direct and most powerful effects of war is to dehumanise, and check the influence of, the good men engaged, while it affords a splendid opportunity to the vicious and brutal to give the rein to their passions, and work their will with impunity.
“But, while this is so with the combatants, many of those outside the ring are stirred to pity and to noble deeds. Witness the self-sacrificing labours of the volunteer heroes and heroines who do their work in an hospital such as this, and the generous deeds evoked from the peoples of other lands, such as the sending of two splendid and completely equipped ambulance trains of twenty-five carriages each, by the Berlin Central Committee of the International Association for the Relief of Sick and Wounded Soldiers in the field, the thousands of pounds that have been contributed by the Russians for the comfort of their sick and wounded, and the thousands contributed by England for that fund which embraces in its sympathies both Russian and Turk. It seems to me that a great moral war is going on just now—a war between philanthropy and selfishness; but I grieve to say that while the former saves its thousands, the latter slays its tens of thousands. Glorious though the result of our labours is, it is as nothing compared with the torrent of evil which has called us out, and the conclusion which has been forced upon me is, that we should—every one of us, man, woman, and child—hold and pertinaciously enforce the precept that war among civilised nations is outrageous and intolerable. Of course we cannot avoid it sometimes. If a man will insist on fighting me, I have no resource left but to fight him; but for two civilised nations to go to war for the settlement of a dispute is an unreasonable and childish and silly as it would be for two gentlemen, who should differ in opinion, to step into the middle of a peaceful drawing-room, button up their coats, turn up their wristbands, and proceed to batter each other’s eyes and noses, regardless of ladies, children, and valuables. War would be a contemptible farce if it were not a tremendous tragedy.”
My mother’s reply to this letter was characteristic and brief.
“My dear Jeff,” she wrote, “in regard to your strictures on war I have only to say that I agree with you, as I have always done on all points, heart and soul. Don’t forget to keep your feet dry when sleeping out at nights, and never omit to take the globules.”
While I was busy at Sistova—too busy with the pressing duties of my post to think much of absent friends, my poor servant Lancey was going through a series of experiences still more strange and trying than my own.
As I have said, he had been appointed by Sanda Pasha to a post in connection with a Turkish ambulance corps. He was on his way to the front, when the detachment with which he travelled met with a reverse which materially affected his fortunes for some time after.
There were two Turkish soldiers with whom Lancey was thrown much in contact, and with whom he had become very intimate. There was nothing very particular in the appearance of the two men, except that they formed contrasts, one being tall and thin, the other short and thick. Both were comrades and bosom friends, and both took a strong fancy to their English comrade. Lancey had also taken a fancy to them. It was, in short, the old story of “kindred souls,” and, despite the fact that these Turks were to Lancey “furriners” and “unbelievers,” while he was to them a “giaour,” they felt strong human sympathies which drew them powerfully together. The name of the thick little man was Ali Bobo, that of the tall comrade Eskiwin.
That these two loved each other intensely, although Turks, was the first thing that touched Lancey’s feelings. On discovering that Ali Bobo happened to have dwelt for a long time with an English merchant in Constantinople, and could speak a little of something that was understood to be English, he became intimate and communicative.
Not more tender was the love of David and Jonathan than was that of Eskiwin and Ali Bobo. As the screw to the nut, so fitted the one to the other. Eskiwin was grave, his friend was funny. Ali Bobo was smart, his comrade was slow. They never clashed. Jacob Lancey, being quiet and sedate, observed the two, admired each, philosophised on both and gained their esteem. Their friendship, alas! was of short duration.
“You’s goodish sorro man,” said Ali Bobo to Lancey one evening, as they sat over the camp-fire smoking their pipes in concert.
Lancey made no reply, but nodded his head as if in approval of the sentiment.
“Heskiwin, ’e’s a good un too, hain’t ’e, Bobo?” asked Lancey, pointing with his thumb to the tall Turk, who sat cross-legged beside him smoking a chibouk.
Ali Bobo smiled in the way that a man does when he thinks a great deal more than he chooses to express.
At that moment the officer in command of the detachment galloped furiously into the camp with the information that the Russians were upon them!
Instantly all was uproar, and a scramble to get out of the way. Eskiwin, however, was an exception. He was a man of quiet promptitude. Deliberately dropping his pipe, he rose and saddled his horse, while his more excitable comrades were struggling hurriedly, and therefore slowly, with the buckles of their harness. Ali Bobo was not less cool, though more active. Lancey chanced to break his stirrup-leather in mounting.
“I say, Bobo,” he called to his stout little friend, who was near, “lend a ’and, like a good fellow. This brute won’t stand still. Give us a leg.”
The little Turk put his hand on Lancey’s instep and hoisted him into the saddle. Next moment the whole party was in full retreat. Not a moment too soon either. A scattering volley from the Russians, who were coming on in force, quickened their movements.
The faint moonlight enabled the Turks to distance their pursuers, and soon the chase appeared to be given up. Still, most of the detachment continued its headlong retreat for a considerable time.
Suddenly Eskiwin observed that Ali Bobo swayed from side to side as he rode, and then fell heavily to the ground. He pulled up at once and dismounted. Lancey, who saw what had happened, also dismounted. The rest of the detachment was out of sight in a moment. There was no sound of pursuers, and they found themselves left thus in a lonely spot among the hills.
On examining the fallen Turk it was found that he had been hit by two balls. One had apparently penetrated his shoulder, the other had grazed his temple. It was the latter which had brought him to the ground, but the shoulder-wound seemed to be the more dangerous.
“Dead!” said Lancey solemnly, as he kneeled beside the body.
Eskiwin made no answer, his grave countenance expressed nothing but stern decision. His friend’s face was colourless, motionless, and growing cold. He raised Bobo’s hand and let it drop as he gazed mournfully into his face.
Just then the sound of the pursuers was heard, as if searching the neighbouring thicket.
Eskiwin rose slowly, and, with his bayonet, began to dig a grave. The soil was soft. A hollow was soon scooped out, and the dead Turk was put therein. But while the two men were engaged in burying it, the Russians were heard still beating about in the thicket, and apparently drawing near. Lancey felt uneasy. Still Eskiwin moved with slow deliberation. When the grave was covered he kneeled and prayed.
“Come, come; you can do that on horseback” said Lancey, with impatience.
Eskiwin took no notice of the irreverent interruption, but calmly finished his prayer, cast one sorrowful glance on the grave, and remounted his charger.
Lancey was about to do the same, being retarded by the broken stirrup-leather, when a tremendous shout caused his horse to swerve, break its bridle, and dash away. At the same moment a band of Don Cossacks came swooping down the gorge. Lancey flung himself flat beneath a mass of underwood. The Cossacks saw only one horseman, and went past the place with a wild yell. Another moment and Lancey was left alone beside the grave.
To find his way out of the thicket was now the poor man’s chief care, but this was difficult, for, besides being ignorant of the road, he had to contend with darkness, the moon having become obscured.
It is a well-known fact that when a lost man wanders he does so in a circle. Twice, during that night, did Lancey start with a view to get away from that spot, and twice did he find himself, after two hours’ wandering, at the side of Ali Bobo’s grave. A third time he set out, and at the end of that effort he not only came back to the same spot, but chanced, inadvertently, to plant his foot over the stomach of the luckless Turk.
This was too much, even for a dead man. Ali Bobo turned in his shallow grave, scattered the sod, and, sitting up, looked round him with an expression of surprise. At that moment the moon came out as if expressly for the purpose of throwing light on the dusty, blood-stained, and cadaverous visage of the Turk.
Jacob Lancey, although a brave man, was superstitious. On beholding the yellow countenance and glaring eyeballs turned full upon him, he uttered a yell of deadly terror, turned sharp round and fled, stumbling over stumps and stones in his blind career. The Don Cossacks heard the yell, and made for the spot. Lancey saw them coming, doubled, and eluded them. Perceiving only a wounded man sitting on the ground, the foremost Cossack levelled his lance and charged. Ali Bobo’s stare of surprise developed into a glare of petrified consternation. When the Cossack drew near enough to perceive an apparently dead man sitting up in his grave, he gave vent to a hideous roar of horror, turned off at a tangent, and shot away into the bushes. Those in rear, supposing that he had come on an ambuscade, followed his example, and, in another moment, Ali Bobo was left alone to his moonlight reflections.
That these were of a perplexing nature was evident from his movements. Allowing his eyes to resume their ordinary aspect, he looked round him with a troubled expression, while his fingers played slowly with the loose earth that still covered his legs. Then he shook his head, after that he scratched it, and put on his fez, which had fallen off. Finding, apparently, that meditation was of no avail, he finally heaved a deep sigh, rose, shook off the dust, picked up his rifle and marched away.
He had not gone far when he came upon Lancey, who, having fled with such haste that he could scarcely breathe, had been fain to lie down and rest for a few minutes. Hearing a step behind him, he started up. One glance sufficed. The dead Turk again! With another horrific howl he plunged headlong into the nearest thicket and disappeared.
A humorous smile stole over the features of Ali Bobo as he began to understand the situation. He searched the thicket, but his late companion was not to be found. Continuing his march, therefore, he travelled all night. Next morning he found his detachment, and introduced himself to his friend Eskiwin, whose astonishment, I need scarcely say, was great, but his joy was greater.
Ali Bobo’s wounds turned out after all to be slight, and were not permitted by him to interfere long with his service in the field.
Chapter Sixteen.
Lancey gets Embroiled in Troubles, and Sees some Peculiar Service
Meanwhile Jacob Lancey, impressed with the belief that the Turkish detachment had taken to the mountains, travelled as rapidly as possible in that direction.
Next morning at daybreak he found himself so thoroughly exhausted as to be unable to proceed. With difficulty he climbed a neighbouring eminence, which, being clear of bushes, gave him a view of the country around. There was a small village, or hamlet, within a stone’s throw of him. The sight revived his drooping spirits. He descended to it at once, but found no one stirring—not even a dog. Perceiving a small outhouse with its door ajar, he went to it and peeped in. There were a few bundles of straw in a corner. The temptation was irresistible. He entered, flung himself on the straw, and fell sound asleep almost immediately.
The sun was shining high in the heavens when he was awakened by a rude shake. He started up and found himself in the rough grasp of a Bulgarian peasant.
Lancey, although mentally and morally a man of peace, was physically pugnacious. He grappled at once with the Bulgarian, and being, as we have said, a powerful fellow, soon had him on his back with a hand compressing his windpipe, and a knee thrust into his stomach. It would certainly have fared ill with the Bulgarian that day if a villager had not been attracted to the hut by the noise of the scuffle. Seeing how matters stood, he uttered a shout which brought on the scene three more villagers, who at once overwhelmed Lancey, bound him, and led him before the chief man of the place.
This chief man was a Turk with a very black beard. Lancey of course expected to receive severe punishment without trial. But, on hearing that he had merely attacked a Bulgarian, the Turk seemed rather inclined to favour the prisoner than otherwise. At all events, after ascertaining that he could not communicate with him by any known language, he sent him to his kitchen to obtain a meal, and afterwards allowed him to depart, to the evident indignation of the Bulgarian and his friends, who did not, however, dare to show their feelings.
For some time Lancey wandered about endeavouring to make friends with the people, but without success. As the day advanced, the men, and most of the women, went to work in the fields. Feeling that he had not obtained nearly enough of sleep, our wanderer took an opportunity of slipping into another outhouse, where he climbed into an empty loft. There was a small hole in the loft near the floor. As he lay down and pillowed his head on a beam, he found that he could see the greater part of the village through the hole, but this fact had barely reached his brain, when he had again fallen into the heavy slumber of an exhausted man.
His next awakening was caused by shouts and cries. He raised himself on one elbow and looked out of his hole. A large body of Russian soldiers had entered the village, and were welcomed with wild joy by the Bulgarians, while the Turkish inhabitants—those of them who had not been able or willing to leave—remained quiet, but polite. The column halted. The men swarmed about the place and “requisitioned,” as the phrase goes, whatever they wanted—that is, they took what they chose from the people, whether they were willing or not. To do them justice, they paid for it, though in most cases the payment was too little.
There was a good deal of noisy demonstration, and some rough treatment of the inhabitants on the part of those who had come to deliver them, but beyond being “cleaned out,” and an insufficient equivalent left in money, they were not greatly the worse of this visit from the regulars.
The loft where Lancey had ensconced himself did not attract attention. He felt, therefore, comparatively safe, and, while he watched the doings of the soldiery, opened his wallet and made a hearty meal on the débris of his rations.
Before he had finished it the trumpets sounded, the troops fell in, and the column left the place.
Then occurred a scene which astonished him not a little. No sooner were the troops out of sight than the Bulgarian population, rising en masse, fell upon their Turkish brethren and maltreated them terribly. They did not, indeed, murder them, but they pillaged and burned some of their houses, and behaved altogether in a wild and savage manner. Lancey could not understand it. Perhaps if he had known that these Bulgarians had, for many years, suffered horrible oppression and contemptuous treatment from the Turks under whose misrule they lay, he might have felt less surprise, though he might not have justified the act of revenge. If it be true that the worm turns on the foot that crushes it, surely it is no matter of wonder that human beings, who have long been debased, defrauded, and demoralised, should turn and bite somewhat savagely when opportunity offers!
It had occurred to Lancey, when the Russians had arrived, that it would be well for him to descend and join these troops, so as to get out of his present predicament; but, remembering that he had actually accepted service with the Turks, and that, being clothed in a semi-Turkish costume, he might be taken for a spy, he resolved to remain where he was. The riot in the village after the Russian column had left confirmed him in his intention to remain quiet.
“Your wisest plan, Jacob,” he soliloquised, “is to ’old on and bide your time. Don’t ’urry yourself on any account.”
Scarcely had he made this resolve when, looking through his hole of observation, he observed a body of spearmen galloping along the road that led to the village. The inhabitants also observed them with some anxiety, for by that time they had come to know the difference between regular and irregular troops.
The horsemen proved to be Cossacks. The Bulgarians, of course, regarded them as friends. They formed a portion of the army of deliverers from Turkish misrule. As such they were received with cheers. The cheers were returned heartily—in some cases mingled with laughter—by the gay cavaliers, who had also come to make “requisitions.” Their mode of proceeding, however, was quite different from that of their “regular” brethren. Leaping from their saddles, they set about the business without delay. Some went to the fields and cut grain for fodder. Others entered the houses and carried off victuals and wine, while many chased and caught pigs and poultry.
They were evidently in a hurry. So much so, that they had no time to put off in making payment! It was obviously to be regarded as an outstanding debt against them by the villagers. As the rear-guard passed out of the place, the corporal in command observed a fat young pig in the middle of a by-road. He turned aside sharply, charged, picked the pig neatly up on the point of his lance, and galloped after his friends, accompanied by a tune that would have done credit to a Scotch bagpipe.
All this did Lancey see from his secret point of observation, and deeply did his philosophic mind moralise on what he saw.
The village in which he had sought shelter was in the very heart of the district swept by the wave of war. The panorama of incidents commenced to move again at an early hour.
When morning light had just begun to conquer night, Lancey was once more awakened from a refreshing sleep by a noise in the room below. He looked down and saw an old, old woman, with bent form, tottering step, and wrinkled brow. She was searching for something which, evidently, she could not find. Scraping various things, however, and tasting the ends of her thin fingers, suggested that she was in search of food. Lancey was a sympathetic soul. The old woman’s visage reminded him of his own mother—dead and gone for many a day, but fresh and beautiful as ever in the memory of her son.
He descended at once. The old woman had flung herself down in despair in a corner of the hovel. Lancey quickly emptied the remnants of food in his wallet into her lap.
It would have saddened you, reader, to have seen the way in which that poor old thing hungrily munched a mouthful of the broken victuals without asking questions, though she glanced her gratitude out of a pair of large black eyes, while she tied up the remainder in a kerchief with trembling haste.
“No doubt,” soliloquised Lancey, as he sat on a stool and watched her, “you were a pretty gal once, an’ somebody loved you.”
It did not occur to Lancey, for his philosophy was not deep, that she might have been loved more than “once,” even although she had not been a “pretty gal;” neither did it occur to him—for he did not know—that she was loved still by an old, old man in a neighbouring hut, whose supper had been carried off by the Cossacks, and whose welfare had induced her to go out in search of food.
While the two were thus engaged their attention was attracted by a noise outside. Hastening to the door Lancey peeped out and beheld a band of Bashi-Bazouks galloping up the road. The Turks of the village began to hold up their heads again, for they regarded these as friends, but scant was the courtesy they received from them. To dismount and pillage, and to slay where the smallest opposition was offered, seemed the order of the day with these miscreants. For some time none of them came near to the hut where Lancey and the old woman were concealed, as it stood in an out-of-the-way corner and escaped notice.
While the robbers were busy, a wild cheer, accompanied by shots and cries, was heard some distance along the road. The Bashi-Bazouks heard it and fled. A few minutes later Lancey saw Turkish soldiers running into the village in scattered groups, but stopping to fire as they ran, like men who fight while they retreat. Immediately after there was a rush of men, and a column of Turkish infantry occupied the village in force. They were evidently hard pressed, for the men ran and acted with that quick nervous energy which denotes imminent danger.
They swarmed into the houses, dashed open the windows, knocked out loop-holes in the walls, and kept up a furious fusillade, while whistling balls came back in reply, and laid many of them low.
One party of Turks at last made a rush to the hut where Lancey sat with the old woman. There was no weapon of any sort in the hut, and as Lancey’s arms had been taken from him when he was captured, he deemed it the wisest policy to sit still.
Leaping in with a rush, the Turks shut and barred the door. They saw Lancey, but had evidently no time to waste on him. The window-frame was dashed out with rifle-butts, and quick firing was commenced by some, while others made loop-holes in the mud walls with their bayonets. Bullets came pinging through the window and brought down masses of plaster from the walls. Suddenly a terrible yell rang in the little room, and the commander of the party, raising both hands above him, dropped his sword and fell with a terrible crash. He put a hand to his side and writhed on the floor in agony, while blood flowed copiously from his wound. The poor fellow’s pain lasted but a moment or two. His head fell back suddenly, and the face became ashy pale, while his glaring eyeballs were transfixed in death.
No notice was taken of this except by a man who sat down on the floor beside his dead commander, to bandage his own wounded arm. Before he had finished his task, a shout from his comrades told that danger approached. Immediately the whole party rushed out of the hut by a back door. At the same instant the front door was burst open, and a soldier leaped in.
It was evident to Lancey that, in the midst of smoke and turmoil, a mistake had been made, for the man who appeared was not a Russian but a Turk. He was followed by several companions.
Casting a savage piercing look on Lancey, and apparently not feeling sure, from his appearance, whether he was friend or foe, the man presented his rifle and fired. The ball grazed Lancey’s chest, and entering the forehead of the old woman scattered her brains on the wall.
For one moment Lancey stood horror-struck, then uttered a roar of rage, rose like a giant in his wrath, and seized a rifle which had been dropped by one of the fugitive soldiers. In an instant the bayonet was deep in the chest of his adversary. Wrenching it out, he swung the rile round and brought the butt down on the skull of the man behind, which it crushed in like an egg-shell. Staggered by the fury of the onslaught, those in rear shrank back. Lancey charged them, and drove them out pell-mell. Finding the bayonet in his way, he wrenched it off, and, clubbing the rifle, laid about him with it as if it had been a walking-cane.
There can be no question that insanity bestows temporary and almost supernatural power. Lancey was for the time insane. Every sweep of the rifle stretched a man on the ground. There was a wavering band of Turks around him. The cheers of victorious Russians were ringing in their ears. Bullets were whizzing, and men were falling. Shelter was urgently needful. Little wonder, then, that one tall sturdy madman should drive a whole company before him. The Russians saw him as they came on, and cheered encouragingly. He replied with savage laughter and in another moment the Turks were flying before him in all directions.
Then Lancey stopped, let the butt of his rifle drop, leaned against the corner of a burning house, and drew his left hand across his brow. Some passing Russians clapped him on the back and cheered as they ran on to continue the bloody work of ameliorating the condition of the Bulgarian Christians.
Nearly the whole village was in flames by that time. From the windows of every house that could yet be held, a continuous fire was kept up. The Russians replied to it from the streets, rushing, in little bands, from point to point, where shelter could be found, so as to escape from the withering shower of lead. Daring men, with apparently charmed lives, ran straight up in the face of the enemy, sending death in advance of them as they ran. Others, piling brushwood on a cart, pushed the mass before them, for the double purpose of sheltering themselves and of conveying combustibles to the door of the chief house of the town, to which most of the inhabitants, with a company of Turks, had retired.
But the brushwood proved a poor defence, for many of those who stooped behind it, as they ran, suddenly collapsed and dropped, as men are wont to do when hit in the brain. Still, a few were left to push the cart forward. Smoke disconcerted the aim of the defenders to some extent, and terror helped to make the firing wild and non-effective.
Against the town-house of the village some of the Russians had already drawn themselves up so flat and close that the defenders at the windows could not cover them with their rifles. These ran out ever and anon to fire a shot, and returned to reload. Meanwhile the brushwood was applied to the door and set on fire, amid yells of fiendish joy.
Lancey had followed the crowd almost mechanically. He had no enemy—no object. The Turk, as it happened, was, for the time being, his friend.
