In the Track of the Troops, Robert Michael Ballantyne [i read a book .txt] 📗

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