In the Track of the Troops by R. M. Ballantyne (best books to read in life .TXT) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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“Just so,” replied Gotsuchakoff, with an intelligent nod, “only lend a hand to tie them together and then be off about your business.”
“Lancey,” said Ali Bobo, while the operation was being performed, “zat big Bulgar beast he say you’s his friend.”
“Big he is, a beast he’s not, and a friend he was,” replied Lancey, with a dazed look.
Further conversation was cut short by the sergeant ordering the trio to move on. He led them towards the Russian lines by a cord passed round Bobo’s neck, and carried a revolver in his right hand. Dobri Petroff immediately disappeared in the opposite direction.
At a later hour that night he entered the cottage of young Borronow. Giuana, Petko’s sister, reclined on a rude but comfortable couch. She was singularly pretty and innocent-looking, but very delicate and young. Her friends called her Formosa Giuana or Pretty Jane. Petko had been seated beside her, talking about the war, when his friend entered with a quick stealthy motion and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Dobri!” exclaimed the youth.
“Petko, there is danger at hand. Mischief is in the air. Time is precious. I may not say what it is, but you know me—I am not easily alarmed. You must promise me to quit this village with your sister within one hour.”
“But, Dobri, why?—what?—”
“Petko, no questions. More than that, no remarks,” interrupted the scout earnestly and firmly. “Another time I will explain. At present I ask you to trust, believe, and obey your friend. If you would save your life and that of Giuana leave this village within an hour. Go where you will, but leave it.”
“I will both trust and obey you, Dobri,” said Petko, returning the squeeze of his friend’s hand, which he had not yet let go.
“I said that time pressed, Petko; God be with you! Farewell.”
The scout turned, stooped to kiss Giuana on her pale cheek, and before either could utter another word was gone.
By midnight Dobri Petroff had made his rounds—now as a carter gruffly and clumsily driving a cart and horse of which he had managed to possess himself; anon as a stupid countryman belonging to the village on the height, noisily wanting to know why the Turks had robbed him of the said cart and horse, which he had conveniently tipped over a precipice, and vowing that he would carry his complaint against the army to the Sultan himself; once he was fain to act the part of a drunk man, almost incapable of taking care of himself.
During his perambulations he ran frequent risk of being shot by irascible Bashi-Bazouks or wearied Albanians; was more than once looked on with suspicion, and frequently suffered rough treatment, but he acted his part well. Nothing could draw from him a word or look beyond average intelligence.
No indignity could rouse him to more than the warfare of abuse, and the result was that long before dawn he found himself once more close to the front.
But fortune seemed inclined to fail him here. He was creeping cautiously among a heap of rocks when a sentinel of the advanced line of the Turks discovered and challenged him. Petroff knew well that escape by running would be impossible, for he was only six yards distant. He made therefore no reply, but sank on the ground, keeping his eye, however, sharply on the advancing sentinel. His only cause of anxiety was that the Turk might fire at him, in which case his doom would have been sealed. The Turk, however, preferred to advance and thrust his bayonet into him.
Petroff had calculated on and was prepared for this. He caught the bayonet and checked its progress between his ribs. Another moment and the Turk lay on his back with the stock of his own rifle broken over his skull. The scuffle had attracted the next sentry, who ran to his comrade’s assistance. The scout instantly made the best use of his legs. He was as fleet as a mountain deer, but the rifle-ball was fleeter. He felt a sharp pain in his left arm, and almost fell. The alarm was given. Sentries on both sides fired, and another bullet grazed his temple, causing blood to flow freely down his face. Still he ran steadily on, and in a few minutes was safe within the Russian lines.
He was seized, of course, by those who first met him, and, not being known to them, was at once carried before a captain of dragoons, who knew him.
By the captain he was sent to the tent of the General—the younger Skobeleff,—to whom he related the important information which he had obtained at so great risk.
“Thank you, my fine fellow,” said the General, when Petroff had finished; “you have done good service—are you badly wounded?”
“No—nothing worth mentioning,” replied the scout, but as he spoke a feeling of giddiness oppressed him. He fainted and fell as he left the General’s tent, and was carried on a stretcher to the rear.
Before the grey dawn had dissipated the mists of morning, the village on the height was fought for, lost, and won; its dwellings were reduced to ashes, and those of its inhabitants who had escaped massacre were scattered like sheep among the gorges of their native hills; but Petko and Giuana Borronow were safe—at least for the time—with a kinsman, among the higher heights of the Balkan range.
While these stirring events were taking place among the mountains, I had made arrangements to quit the hospitals at Sistova and proceed with a detachment of Russian troops to the front.
The evening before my departure I received a most unexpected and interesting letter from my friend U. Biquitous, the effects of which were so surprising, and I may add unparalleled, that I cannot forbear quoting it. After a few of those sage reflections in which Biquitous is prone to indulge, he went on to say:—
“You will be surprised to hear that there is some probability of my meeting you shortly, as I have become a special correspondent, like yourself. My paper, however, is an illustrated one, an Irish weekly of some merit, named the Evergreen Isle, which will now, it is expected, advance to the front rank of such periodicals. I purpose using the pencil as well as the pen, and, unlike you, and subject to no restrictions of any kind. I have carte-blanche, in fact, to draw what I like, write what I please, go where I feel inclined, stay as long as I may, and quit when I must. Veracity is no object. I am told to keep as many servants and as large a retinue as I find convenient, and to spare no expense. For the duties of this situation I am to receive no salary, but am at liberty to pay my own expenses. The honour of the thing is deemed more than sufficient compensation.
“In virtue of this appointment I went recently to see and take notes of Her Majesty’s famous ironclad turret-ship, the Thunderer. Knowing how much you are interested in the navy of England, I will relate a little of what I saw, premising, how ever, that although strict veracity is not required of me, I am, as you know, a man of principle, and therefore impose it on myself, so that whatever I say in this letter in regard to this splendid man-of-war may be relied on as absolutely true.
“Well, then, the gallant captain of the Thunderer, who is said to be one of the best disciplinarians in the service, and to have done many a deed of daring in the course of his adventurous career, received me very kindly. He is every inch a sailor, and as there are full seventy-three inches of him, I may be excused for styling him a splendid specimen. In consequence of my being a friend of a friend of his, the captain invited me to spend several days on board. During my stay I inhabited the captain’s ‘fighting cabin,’—and this, by the way, reminds me that I was introduced to a young lieutenant on board, named Firebrand, who says he met you not long ago at Portsmouth, and mortally offended your mother by talking to her about the Thunderer’s crinoline! The ‘fighting cabin’ is so styled because it may be inhabited in safety while the ship is in action, being within the ship’s tremendous armour plating. In times of peace the captain occupies a large handsome cabin on the deck, which, although made of iron capable of resisting winds and waves, and beautifully furnished, is nevertheless liable to be swept bodily into the sea if hit by the giant shot of modern days. A corresponding cabin on the port side of the ship constitutes the ward-room. This also might be blown to atoms, with the officers and all their belongings, if a shell were to drop into it. But the officers also have places of refuge below while in action.
“A large proportion of what meets the eye above the water-line of this ironclad, and looks solid enough, is of this comparatively flimsy build; not meant to resist shot or shell; willing, as it were, to be blown away, if the enemy can manage it, though proof against rifle-bullets. There is a huge central erection, styled the ‘flying’ or ‘hurricane’ deck, from which enormous davits project with several boats pendent therefrom. Out of this flying structure rise the great iron mast—with a staircase inside leading to the ‘top’—and the two smoke-funnels of the engines. In the heart of it rises ‘the fighting tower,’ an armoured core, as it were, from which the captain and officers may survey the aspect of affairs while fighting, steer, and, by means of electricity, etcetera, work the monster guns of the ship. If all the flimsy work about the vessel were blown into the sea, her vitality would not be affected, though her aspect would indeed be mightily changed for the worse, but the Thunderer in her entirety, with her low-armoured hull, her central fighting-tower, her invulnerable turrets with their two 35-ton and two 38-ton guns, and all her armament and men, would still be there, as able and ready for action as ever.
“Very simply yet very tastefully arranged did the captain’s fighting cabin seem to me as I lay down on its narrow but comfortable bed, the first night of my visit, and looked around me. Besides a commodious little chest of drawers, there were on one wall telescopes, swords, and naval caps; on another a compact library. Above my head, stretching diagonally across the bed, was an object which caused me no little surprise and much speculation. In appearance it resembled a giant flute with finger holes that no man of mortal mould could have covered. Not till next morning did I discover that this tube was part of a system of air-distributing pipes, supplied by fanners worked by steam, whereby fresh air is driven to every part of the vessel.
“‘So,’ said I to myself, turning to the prettily-painted wall at my side, and giving it a slight tap, ‘the proverbial two-inch plank between me and death is here increased to somewhere about thirty inches.’
“In this soliloquy I referred to the Thunderer’s armour-plates, of from ten to twelve inches thick, which are affixed to a timber backing of eighteen inches in two layers. With such a backing of solid comfort between me and ‘death,’ I felt soothed, and dropped asleep.
“It was Saturday night. On Sunday morning I was awakened by a rushing of water so furious that I fancied the sea must have proved more than a match for the 12-inch armour and 18-inch backing; but a moment or two of attentive reflection relieved me. Your friend Firebrand’s voice was audible. I listened. He muttered
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