In the Track of the Troops by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕

immediately connected, namely, the next.

Lancey went through several of these phases. When the truth first really came home to him he quailed like an arrant coward. Then a sense of violated justice supervened. If at that moment Samson’s powers had been his, he would have snapped the ropes that bound him like packthread, and would have cut the throat of every man around him. When he was placed upon the substitute for a “block,” and felt by a motion of his elbows his utter powerlessness, the dogged and indifferent state came on, but it did not last. It could not. His Christian training was adverse to it.

“Come,” he mentally exclaimed, “it is God’s will. Quit you like a man, Jacob—and die!”

There is no doubt that in this frame the brave fellow would have passed away if he had not been roused by the loud clattering of horses’ feet as a cavalcade of glittering Turkish officers dashed through the square. In front of these he observed the red-bearded officer who had acted as interpreter in the cabin of the Turkish monitor.

There came a sudden gush of hope! Lancey knew not his name, but in a voice of thunder he shouted—

“’Elp! ’elp! ’allo! Pasha! Redbeard!—”

The executioner hastened his work, and stopped the outcry by tightening the rope.

But “Redbeard” had heard the cry. He galloped towards the place of execution, recognised the supposed spy, and ordered him to be released, at the same time himself cutting the rope with a sweep of his sword.

The choking sensation which Lancey had begun to feel was instantly relieved. The rope was removed from his neck, and he was gently led from the spot by a soldier of the Pasha’s escort, while the Pasha himself galloped coolly away with his staff.

If Lancey was surprised at the sudden and unexpected nature of his deliverance, he was still more astonished at the treatment which he thereafter experienced from the Turks. He was taken to one of the best hotels in the town, shown into a handsome suite of apartments, and otherwise treated with marked respect, while the best of viands and the choicest of wines were placed before him.

This made him very uncomfortable. He felt sure that some mistake had occurred, and would willingly have retired, if possible, to the hotel kitchen or pantry; but the waiter, to whom he modestly suggested something of the sort, did not understand a word of English and could make nothing of Lancey’s Turkish. He merely shook his head and smiled respectfully, or volunteered some other article of food. The worthy groom therefore made up his mind to hold his tongue and enjoy himself as long as it lasted.

“When I wakes up out o’ this remarkable and not unpleasant dream,” he muttered, between the whiffs of his cigarette, one evening after dinner, “I’ll write it out fair, an’ ’ave it putt in the Daily Noos or the Times.”

But the dream lasted so long that Lancey began at last to fear he should never awake from it. For a week he remained at that hotel, faring sumptuously, and quite unrestrained as to his movements, though he could not fail to observe that he was closely watched and followed wherever he went.

“Is it a Plenipotentiary or a furrin’ Prime Minister they take me for?” he muttered to himself over a mild cigar of the finest quality, “or mayhap they think I’m a Prince in disguise! But then a man in disguise ain’t known, and therefore can’t be follered, or, if he was, what would be the use of his disguise? No, I can’t make it out, no’ow.”

Still less, by any effort of his fancy or otherwise, could he make out why, after a week’s residence at the village in question, he was ordered to prepare for a journey.

This order, like all others, was conveyed to him by signs. Some parts of his treatment had been managed otherwise. When, for instance, on the night of his deliverance, it had been thought desirable that his garments should be better and more numerous, his attendants or keepers had removed his old wardrobe and left in its place another, which, although it comprehended trousers, savoured more of the East than the West. Lancey submitted to this, as to everything else, like a true philosopher. Generally, however, the wishes of those around him were conveyed by means of signs.

On the morning of his departure, a small valise, stuffed with the few articles of comfort which he required, and a change of apparel, was placed at his bed-side. The hotel attendant, who had apparently undertaken the management of him, packed this up in the morning, having somewhat pointedly placed within it his robe de nuit. Thereafter the man bowed, smiled gravely, pointed to the door, beckoned him to follow, and left the room.

By that time Lancey had, as it were, given himself up. He acted with the unquestioning obedience of a child or a lunatic. Following his guide, he found a native cart outside with his valise in it. Beside the cart stood a good horse, saddled and bridled in the Turkish fashion. His hotel-attendant pointed to the horse and motioned to him to mount.

Then it burst upon Lancey that he was about to quit the spot, perhaps for ever, and, being a grateful fellow, he could not bear to part without making some acknowledgment.

“My dear Turk, or whatever you are,” he exclaimed, turning to his attendant, “I’m sorry to say good-bye, an’ I’m still more sorry to say that I’ve nothin’ to give you. A ten-pun-note, if I ’ad it, would be but a small testimony of my feelin’s, but I do assure you I ’av’n’t got a rap.”

In corroboration of this he slapped his empty pockets and shook his head. Then, breaking into a benignant smile, he shook hands with the waiter warmly, turned in silence, mounted his horse and rode off after the native cart, which had already started.

“You don’t know where we’re goin’ to, I s’pose?” said Lancey to the driver of the cart.

The man stared, but made no reply.

“Ah, I thought not!” said Lancey; then he tried him in Turkish, but a shake of the head intimated the man’s stupidity, or his interrogator’s incapacity.

Journeying in silence over a flat marshy country, they arrived about mid-day at a small village, before the principal inn of which stood a number of richly-caparisoned chargers. Here Lancey found that he was expected to lunch and join the party, though in what capacity he failed to discover. The grave uncommunicative nature of the Turks had perplexed and disappointed him so often that he had at last resigned himself to his fate, and given up asking questions, all the more readily, perhaps, that his fate at the time chanced to be a pleasant one.

When the party had lunched, and were preparing to take the road, it became obvious that he was not regarded as a great man travelling incognito, for no one took notice of him save a Turk who looked more like a servant than an aristocrat. This man merely touched him on the shoulder and pointed to his horse with an air that savoured more of command than courtesy.

Lancey took the hint and mounted. He also kept modestly in rear. When the cavalcade was ready a distinguished-looking officer issued from the inn, mounted his charger, and at once rode away, followed by the others. He was evidently a man of rank.

For several days they journeyed, and during this period Lancey made several attempts at conversation with the only man who appeared to be aware of his existence—who, indeed, was evidently his guardian. But, like the rest, this man was taciturn, and all the information that could be drawn out of him was that they were going to Constantinople.

I hasten over the rest of the journey. On reaching the sea, they went on board a small steamer which appeared to have been awaiting them. In course of time they came in sight of the domes and minarets of Stamboul, the great city of the Sultans, the very heart of Europe’s apple of discord.

It was evening, and the lights of the city were everywhere glittering like long lines of quivering gold down into the waters of the Bosporus. Here the party with which Lancey had travelled left him, without even saying good-bye,—all except his guardian, who, on landing, made signs that he was to follow, or, rather, to walk beside him. Reduced by this time to a thoroughly obedient slave, and satisfied that no mischief was likely to be intended by men who had treated him so well, Lancey walked through the crowded streets and bazaars of Constantinople as one in a dream, much more than half-convinced that he had got somehow into an “Arabian Night,” the “entertainments” of which seemed much more real than those by which his imagination had been charmed in days of old.

Coming into a part of the city that appeared to be suburban, his keeper stopped before a building that seemed a cross between a barrack and a bird-cage. It was almost surrounded by a wall so high that it hid the building from view, except directly in front. There it could be seen, with its small hermetically-closed windows, each covered with a wooden trellis. It bore the aspect of a somewhat forbidding prison.

“Konak—palace,” said the keeper, breaking silence for the first time.

“A konak; a palace! eh?” repeated Lancey, in surprise; “more like a jail, I should say. ’Owever, customs differ. Oos palace may it be, now?”

“Pasha; Sanda Pasha,” replied the man, touching a spring or bell in the wall; “you goes in.”

As he spoke, a small door was opened by an armed black slave, to whom he whispered a few words, and then, stepping back, motioned to his companion to enter.

“Arter you, sir,” said Lancey, with a polite bow.

But as the man continued gravely to point, and the black slave to hold the door open, he forbore to press the matter, and stepped in. The gate was shut with a bang, followed by a click of bolts. He found, on looking round, that the keeper had been shut out, and he was alone with the armed negro.

“You’re in for it now, Jacob my boy,” muttered Lancey to himself, as he measured the negro with a sharp glance, and slowly turned up the wristband of his shirt with a view to prompt action. But the sable porter, far from meditating an assault, smiled graciously as he led the way to the principal door of the palace, or, as the poor fellow felt sure it must be, the prison.