In the Track of the Troops, R. M. Ballantyne [best pdf ebook reader TXT] 📗

night. It therefore behoved him to advance with extreme caution. Creeping from mound to rock, and bush to knoll, he reached a small clump of bushes, into which he entered for the purpose of resting a few minutes and considering well his future movements.

A thrill of excitement ran through his frame when he discovered that he was not alone in this thicket. A man sat there leaning against a tree as if asleep. The scout crouched and drew a revolver. A moment sufficed to show that his arrival had not been observed. No wonder, for his approach had been like that of a cat! He was now in great perplexity. The man was evidently not a sentinel of either belligerent—that was plain, but it was equally plain that he was armed. To shoot him would be impossible without putting the sentries of both sides on the alert. To pass him in so small a thicket, without attracting attention, would be difficult. To draw back would necessitate a long détour, involving loss of precious time and increase of risk. A thought occurred to him. Many a time had he hunted among these mountains, and well accustomed was he to glide with serpentine caution towards his game. He would stalk him! Petroff seldom thought twice in cases of emergency. He unbuckled his sword quietly and hung it on a branch, and leant his carbine against a tree, resolving to trust to his great personal strength alone, for he did not mean to sacrifice life if he could avoid it. In case of being driven to extremity, his knife and revolver would suffice.

Then, sinking down until he became lost among the deep shadows of bush and brake, he began the slow, laborious, and silent process of gliding towards his unconscious victim.

This was one of those ventures to which we have referred as being afoot on that foggy night. The other venture had some points of similarity to it, though the end in view was different.

Let us turn aside for a little to the Turkish camp.

There, round one of the watch-fires, a considerable distance to the rear, stood a group of Turkish soldiers chatting and smoking. Although not so noisy as the Russians round their camp-fires, these Turks were by no means taciturn. There was a touch, now and then, of dry humour in the remarks of some, and a sedate chuckle occasionally. Among them stood Eskiwin and his resuscitated friend Ali Bobo. The latter, although not naturally boastful, had been so nettled by a big comrade underrating his courage and muscular power, in regard to which latter he, Bobo, was rather vain, that he vowed he would prove both by going to the front and bringing in, single-handed, a live Russian sentinel!

The big comrade laughed contemptuously, whereupon Ali Bobo rose to carry out his threat, but was warned by his mates of the danger of being shot by his own commander for going on such an errand without leave. Bobo replied that his captain would forgive him when he presented his Russian prisoner. As it was clear that the angry little man was in earnest, his friend Eskiwin vowed he would go with him, and the big comrade agreed to regard the deed as a sufficient proof of Ali Bobo’s strength and prowess if a Russian should be brought in by the two of them. Bobo would have preferred to go alone, but Eskiwin would take no denial.

Accordingly the two adventurous fellows went off and were soon lost in the fog. In a short time they reached the front, and began to move with excessive caution in order to pass their own sentries unobserved.

Ali Bobo, it must be remarked, had not originated this idea of stalking sentinels. Some Albanians in the army had already done so with great success; but these ferocious murderers had done it for the mere pleasure of killing their enemies, without any other end in view. Their method was to creep towards a wearied sentinel, which they did with comparative ease, being expert mountaineers. Each man on reaching his victim sprang on him from behind, clapped a hand on his mouth, crushed his neck, after the manner of garrotters, with his strong left arm, and drawing a long keen knife thrust it into his heart.

But our adventurers had no such murderous design as this. To capture a live Russian was their aim.

The front reached, and the Turkish line of sentries safely passed in the fog, they came unexpectedly on two Russian horsemen who were cautiously riding towards the Turkish lines. These horsemen were Sergeant Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff. They had been visiting the outposts, and, before returning, were making a little private reconnaissance of the enemy’s disposition, for Gotsuchakoff and Shoveloff were enthusiasts in their way, and fond of adventure.

The ground at the spot being much broken, and affording facility for concealment, especially to men on foot, Eskiwin and Ali Bobo crept unseen upon a low cliff, and lay down behind a mass of rocks.

The Russians chanced to select the same spot as a point of observation, but, instead of riding to the top of the eminence, where they would have been rather conspicuous, they rode under the cliff and halted just below,—not far distant from the spot where the Turks lay, so that Eskiwin, craning his long neck over the rocks, could look down on the helmets of the Russian cavaliers.

For some minutes the sergeant and corporal conversed in whispers. This was exceedingly tantalising to the friends above! The hiss of their voices could be distinctly heard. Eskiwin’s long arm could almost have reached them with a lance. Presently the corporal rode slowly away, became dim in the fog, and finally disappeared, while the sergeant remained immoveable like an equestrian statue.

“This,” whispered Ali Bobo solemnly, “is more than I can stand.”

Eskiwin whispered in reply that he would have to stand it whether he could or not.

Bobo didn’t agree with him (not an unusual condition of mind with friends). He looked round. A huge stone lay at his elbow. It seemed to have been placed there on purpose. He rose very slowly, lifted the stone, held it in a position which is familiar to Scotch Highlanders, and hurled it with tremendous force down on the head of Sergeant Gotsuchakoff.

The sergeant bowed to circumstances. Without even a cry, he tumbled off his horse and laid his helmet in the dust.

The Turks leaped down, seized him in their powerful arms, and carried him away, while the frightened horse bolted. It followed, probably, an animal instinct, and made for the Russian lines.

The corporal chanced to return at that moment. The Turks dropped their burden and lay flat down beside it. Seeing that his friend was gone, and hearing the clatter of his retreating charger, Corporal Shoveloff put spurs to his steed and followed.

The Turks then rose, tied the legs of the sergeant with his own sword-belt, lest he should recover inopportunely, and bore him to a neighbouring thicket which loomed darkly through the fog.

“Fate smiles upon us,” whispered Ali Bobo, as the comrades entered the bushes and laid their burden down.

If Bobo had known that he had laid that burden down within ten yards of the spot where Dobri Petroff was preparing, as I have described, to stalk the figure he had discovered in the same thicket, he might have recalled the sentiment in reference to Fate. But Bobo did not know.

Suddenly, however, he discovered the figure that Petroff was stalking. It was leaning against a tree. He pointed it out to Eskiwin, while the scout, interrupted in his plans, sank into darkness and watched the result with much curiosity and some impatience.

Just then the figure roused itself with a heavy sigh, looked sleepily round, and, remarking in an undertone, “It’s an ’orrible sitooation,” turned itself into a more comfortable position and dropped off again with another sigh.

But Ali Bobo did not allow it to enjoy repose. He glided forward, and, with a spring like that of a cat, laid his hand upon its mouth and threw it violently to the ground. With the aid of Eskiwin he pinned it, and then proceeded to gag it.

All this Dobri Petroff observed with much interest, not unmingled with concern, for he perceived that the new-comers were Turks, and did not like the idea of seeing a man murdered before his eyes. But the thought of his friend Petko Borronow, and what he had at stake, restrained him from action. He was however at once relieved by observing that, while the short Turk kneeled on the prisoner’s chest and kept his mouth covered, so as to prevent his crying out, the tall Turk quickly tied his legs and hands. It was thus clear that immediate death was not intended.

The scout’s interest, to say nothing of surprise, was increased by what followed. When the short Turk, pointing a revolver at the prisoner’s head, removed his hand so as to admit of speech, that prisoner’s first utterance was an exclamation of astonishment in tones which were familiar to Petroff’s ear. This was followed by exclamations of recognition from the Turks, and the short man seizing one of victim’s tied hands shook it warmly.

At that moment the scout’s eyes were opened still wider with amazement, for the unfortunate Sergeant Gotsuchakoff—who, as I have said, had been laid down a few yards from him, and whom he had almost forgotten—began to recover consciousness and growled something in an undertone about its being “far too soon to turn out.”

Petroff recognised the well-known growl of the sergeant. In an instant he glided to his side, laid his hand on his mouth, and whispered—

“Gotsuchakoff, be still for your life! I am Dobri Petroff. Do you understand?”

He looked close to the sergeant’s eyes, and saw that he was understood. At once he removed his hand, and untied the belt which fastened the sergeant’s feet.

Gotsuchakoff was too well used to war’s alarms to give way to unreasonable curiosity. He instantly perceived that the scout required of him the utmost circumspection for some reason or other, and, in the spirit of a true soldier, awaited orders in total silence, ready for prompt action.

This was well, because there was little time to spare. When Petroff directed the sergeant’s attention to the Turks they were busy undoing the bonds of their prisoner.

Without saying another word, the scout glided swiftly forward. He was promptly followed by the sergeant. Next moment both men leaped on the Turks and had them by their throats.

Eskiwin was no match for Gotsuchakoff, who bore him back and held him like a vice. As for Ali Bobo, strong though he was, he felt himself to be a perfect baby in the grasp of the scout. The two men submitted at once, and while Petroff ordered them in a low tone to keep silence, enforcing the order with the touch of a revolver’s muzzle, the sergeant quickly bound their arms behind them.

The scout turned to the prisoner, who was sitting on the ground with eyes dilated to the uttermost, and mouth wide open. He sat perfectly speechless.

There was just light enough to make darkness visible. Petroff looked close in to the face of the man whom he had been about to stalk.

“Lancey!” he exclaimed.

“Dobri Peterhuff,” gasped the other.

“Why, where did you come from?” asked the scout in Turkish, which he was aware Lancey had been attempting to learn.

“Dobri, my friend,” replied the other solemnly, in English, “if this is a dream, it is the most houtrageous dream that I’ve ’ad since I was a babby. But I’m used to ’em now—only I do wish it was morning.”

The scout smiled, not because of what was said, which of course he did not understand, but because of the Englishman’s expression. But time pressed; too much had already been lost. He therefore contented himself by giving Lancey a friendly slap on the shoulder and turned to the sergeant.

“Gotsuchakoff,” said he, “I’m out on special service, and have already