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

to read the history of one who had reached a critical period in a fell disease, who had, perchance, fallen into a long-desired and much-needed slumber that might have turned the scale in his favour, when the hope of parents and the chances of life were scattered suddenly by the ruthless trump of war. War had taught him how to throw off the sweet lethargy that had been stealing over him, and to start once again on that weary road where he had been grappling in imagination with the brain-created fiends who had persecuted him so long, but who in reality were gentle spirits compared with the human devils by whom he and his kindred were surrounded.

On this journey, too, I met many brethren of the medical profession, who, urged by the double motive of acquiring surgical skill and alleviating human woe, were pressing in the same direction. Some had been fortunate enough, like myself, to obtain horses, others, despising difficulties, were pushing forward through the mud on foot. I need scarcely add that some of us turned aside from time to time, as opportunity offered, to succour the unfortunates around us.

At last I reached the front, went to headquarters, presented my credentials, and was permitted to attach myself to one of the regiments. At once I made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Nicholas Naranovitsch, and was so fortunate as to find him. He was in the act of mounting his horse as I reached his quarters.

It is impossible to describe the look of surprise and delight with which he greeted me.

“My dear fellow!” said he, turning at once to his girths and stirrups after the first hearty squeeze, “what breeze of good fortune has blown you here? Any news from home?”

“Yes, all well, and a message—by the way, I had almost forgot it,” fumbling in my pocket, “for you.”

“Almost forgot it!” echoed Nicholas, looking round with a smile and a glance which was meant for one of withering rebuke.

“Here it is,” I exclaimed, handing him a three-cornered note, which had come in my mother’s letter. He seized it eagerly and thrust it into the breast-pocket of his coat.

“Now look here, Jeff,” he said, having seen to the trappings of his steed, “you know what war is. Great things are at stake. I may not delay even to chat with you. But a few words will suffice. Do you know anything about your servant Lancey?”

“Nothing. I would give anything to hear that the poor fellow was alive. Have you—”

“Yes, I have seen him. I chanced this very morning, while galloping across country with an order from the General, to see him among the camp-followers. Why there I know not. To search for him now would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but I observed that he was in company with our Bulgarian friend the scout Dobri Petroff, who is so well known that he can easily be found, and will probably be able to lead you to him. Now, only one word for myself: don’t forget a message to Bella—say—say—bah! You English are such an undemonstrative set that I don’t like to put it in words, but—you ought to know what to say, and when you’ve said it, just add, like a good fellow, that I would have said a great deal more if I had had the saying of it myself. D’you understand?”

“All right,” said I, with a laugh. “We English feel, although we don’t demonstrate much, and can act when occasion requires it with as much energy as Russians I’ll say all you could wish, and some things, mayhap, that you couldn’t have said yourself.—But where are you going in such haste?”

“To battle, Jeff,” he replied, with one of those proud glances of the eyes which must be somewhat akin to the expanded nostrils of the warhorse when he scents the battle from afar. “At least,” he added, “to convey orders which will have some bearing on what is about to follow. The Turk is brave. We find that he fights well.”

“Ha!” said I quickly, “you find him a plucky fellow, and begin to respect him?”

“Yes, truly, he is a worthy foe,” returned Nicholas with animation.

“Just so,” I rejoined, unable to repress a feeling of bitterness, “a worthy foe simply because he possesses the courage of the bull-dog; a worthy foe, despite the fact that he burns, pillages, violates, murders, destroys, and tortures in cold blood. What if Bella were in one of these Bulgarian villages when given over to the tender mercies of a troop of Bashi-Bazouks?”

Nicholas had his left hand on the reins and resting on the pommel of his saddle as I said this. He turned and looked at me with a face almost white with indignation.

“Jeff, how can you suggest? Bashi-Bazouks are devils—”

“Well, then,” said I, interrupting, “let us suppose Cossacks, or some other of your own irregulars instead—”

I stopped, for Nicholas had vaulted on his horse, and in another second was flying at full speed over the plain. Perhaps I was hard on him, but after the miseries I witnessed that day I could not help trying to send the truth home.

Time pressed now. The regiment to which I was attached had received orders to march. I galloped off in search of it. At first I had thought of making a hurried search for Lancey or the scout, but gave up the idea, well content to have heard that the former was alive.

The Turks at this time were advancing under Mahomet Ali Pasha on the position occupied by the Russians on the Lom river. As I joined my regiment and reported myself, I heard distant cannonading on the left, and observed troops moving off in all directions. We soon got the order to march, and, on going to the top of a small eminence, came in sight of the field of action.

To my unaccustomed eyes the country appeared to be alive with confused masses of moving men, from some of which masses there burst at intervals the rolling smoke of rifle-firing. Of course I knew that there was order and arrangement, but the only order that impressed itself on me was that of the Russian regiment at my side, as the men strode steadily forward, with compressed lips and stern yet eager glances.

The Turkish troops had moved out and taken up a position on the face of a hill under cover of some woods. As battalion after battalion marched away, I, for the first time, became impressed with the multitudes of men who constitute an army, and, at the same time, with the feeling that something like a pitched battle was about to be fought. From the elevated position on which we stood, I could see that numbers of Russian cavalry were prowling about over the plain, as if watching the movements of the enemy. The intention of the Turks soon became evident, for they suddenly swarmed out of the woods and advanced to the attack. A Russian battery on our right instantly opened on them. This was replied to vigorously by a Turkish battery opposite. While these two turned their attention on each other, the troops in the plain below came into action. They swarmed over the numerous undulations, skirmished through the scrub and the fields of corn and maize, attacked a village in a hollow, and charged on various batteries and positions of strength,—sometimes one side, sometimes the other, being successful. The thunder of the great guns increased, the tremendous rattle of small arms became continuous, with now and again exceptionally strong bursts, when whole battalions fired in volleys. The smoke soon became so dense as partly to obscure the vision.

At that moment a Turkish battalion was seen to approach the mound on which we stood, with the evident intention of storming it. At the same time I observed a squadron of Russian cavalry trot smartly round the skirt of a wood on our left and take up a position. They were not fifty yards from the spot where I stood. I could even see the expression of their faces, and I fancied that the figure and countenance of the right-hand man of the troop were familiar to me.

“He’s a fine-looking man, sir, is he not?” said a voice at my elbow.

I turned in amazement. It was Dobri Petroff! There was no room for more than a squeeze of the hand at such a moment.

“That is our friend André Vanovitch, sir.”

As he spoke I saw the captain of the troop fall from his horse. A stray ball had killed him, and this was the first thing that drew my attention to the fact that bullets were whistling over our own heads now and then.

This happened at the very moment when a staff officer galloped up to the troop with an order. Seeing what had happened, this officer put himself at the head of the troop and gave the command to advance.

I recognised the voice at once as that of Nicholas. They swept past close in front of us at full gallop, and I could see on the face of Nicholas and on that of the stalwart André the same open, gladsome, noble expression, suggestive of high chivalrous sentiment, and a desire to do noble self-sacrificing deeds for fatherland. My own heart bounded within me as I looked at them, and I could not resist bursting into a cheer, which was taken up and prolonged wildly by the troops around.

The squadron came upon the Turks unexpectedly, but they stood like true men. Courage, however, was of no avail. The dragoons were heavy and irresistible. They cut right through the Turks; turned, charged again, and scattered them like chaff. I could perceive, in the midst of the fray, the lithe forms of Nicholas and André laying about them with tremendous impetuosity.

Personal valour is necessary, but it is not omnipotent nowadays. When the squadron returned, reduced almost to a skeleton, the Turks had reformed, were largely reinforced, and came at us again with steady determination. At the same time reinforcements came pouring in on our side, and I soon found that the position we occupied was deemed one of considerable importance.

The Turks came on steadily, and now I learned, for the first time, the power of modern weapons. Our men were armed with breech-loaders, so that no time was lost in loading.

Our commander acted on a principle which is said to be usually adopted by General Skobeleff. He reserved his fire until the Turks were within a hundred yards, and then gave the order to commence. The scene that followed is indescribable. Eight hundred men fell at once before the withering blast of lead. The firing was continuous. No troops on earth could have stood it. The Turks were instantly shattered and repulsed.

When they had retired, and the smoke had partially cleared away, I saw the plain covered with slaughtered men. Some were prone and motionless in death. Some were moving slightly. Others were struggling, as if in a delirium of agony, which it was frightful to witness. A few had life enough to rise, stagger forward several paces, fall and rise again to repeat the process until death ensued.

I stood fascinated.

“God help us!” I exclaimed aloud; “these murdered hundreds represent thousands of bleeding hearts At Home, and yet the maniacs continue to kill each other as if human lives were of no account and human souls not worth a thought.”

“Pardon me, sir,” said a voice at my side, “the maniacs who cause all this are not here, but at the place you mentioned just now—at home. These fine fellows are their unhappy tools, who, with untold depths of enthusiasm and kindliness in their nature, and a good deal of devilment too, are compelled, willing or not willing, to fight for what is called ‘religion and country’!”

I found that the speaker was the special correspondent of a Scotch newspaper. As brother “specials” we fraternised immediately; but we had scarcely had