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

I need not trouble the reader with an account of the meeting with my faithful servant. While we were still engaged in questioning each other, I noticed that the countenance of our friend the scout wore an anxious and almost impatient expression.

“Anything wrong, Dobri?” I inquired.

“God knows!” he replied in a solemn tone, which impressed me much. “A rumour has come that the Circassians or the Bashi-Bazouks—I know not which, but both are fiends and cowards—have been to Venilik, and—”

He stopped abruptly.

“But that village was in the hands of the Russians,” I said, at once understanding his anxiety.

“It may be so, but I go to see without delay,” he replied, “and have only stopped thus long to know if you will go with me. These brutes kill and wound women and children as well as men. Perhaps your services may— Will you go?”

He spoke so earnestly, and his face looked so deadly pale, that I felt it impossible to refuse him. I was much exhausted by the prolonged labours of the day, but knew that I had reserve strength for an emergency.

“Give me a few minutes,” said I,—“just to get leave, you know. I can’t go without leave.”

The scout nodded. In ten minutes I had returned. Meanwhile, Lancey had prepared my horse and his own. Swallowing a can of water, I vaulted into the saddle. It was very dark, but Petroff knew every foot of the country. For several hours we rode at a smart gallop, and then, as day was breaking, drew near to Venilik. As we approached, I observed that the bold countenance of the scout became almost pinched-looking from anxiety. Presently we observed smoke against the sky, and then saw that the village had undoubtedly been burned. I glanced at Petroff nervously. There was no longer a look of anxiety on his face, but a dark vindictive frown.

He increased his pace to racing speed. As we followed close at his heels, I observed that he drew a knife from his belt, and with that as a spur urged on his jaded steed. At last we reached the outskirts of the village, and dashed through. Blackened beams, ruined houses, dead men and women, met our horrified gaze on every side.

At the well-known turn of the road, where the bypath joined it, Dobri vaulted from his horse, and let the animal go, while he ran towards his dwelling. We also dismounted and followed him. Then a great and terrible shout reached our ears. When we came to the cottage we found the scout standing motionless before his old home, with his hands clasped tightly, and his eyes riveted to the spot with a glare of horror that words cannot describe.

Before him all that had been his home was a heap of blackened ashes, but in the midst of these ashes were seen protruding and charred bones. It did not require more than one glance to show that recognition of the remains was impossible. Everything was reduced to cinders.

As we gazed an appalling cry rang in our ears, and next moment a young woman darted out from behind a piece of the blackened walls with a knife in her hand.

“Hah! are you come back, you devils?” she shrieked, and flew at Dobri, who would certainly have been stabbed, for he paid no attention to her, if I had not caught her wrist, and forced the knife from her grasp. Even then she sprang at him and fastened her fingers in his neck while she cried, “Give me back my child, I say! give me my child, you fiend!”

She stopped and looked earnestly in his face, then, springing back, and standing before him with clenched hands, she screamed—

“Ha, haa! it is you, Dobri! why did you not come to help us? traitor—coward—to leave us at such a time! Did you not hear the shrieks of Marika when they dragged her from your cottage? Did you not see the form of little Dobri quivering on the point of the Circassian’s spear? Were you deaf when Ivanka’s death-shriek pierced my ears like—. Oh! God forgive me, Dobri, I did not mean to—”

She stopped in the torrent of her wrath, stretched both arms convulsively towards heaven, and, with a piercing cry for “Mercy!” fell dead at our feet.

Still the scout did not move. He stood in the same half-shrinking attitude of intense agony, glaring at the ruin around him.

“Dobri,” said I at last, gently touching his arm, and endeavouring to arouse him.

He started like one waking out of a dream, hurled me aside with such violence that I fell heavily to the ground, and rushed from the spot at full speed.

Lancey ran after him, but soon stopped. He might as well have chased a mountain hare. We both, however, followed the track he had pursued, and, catching our horses, passed into the village.

“It’s of no use to follow, sir,” said Lancey, “we can’t tell which way ’e’s gone.”

I felt that pursuit would indeed be useless, and pulled up with the intention of searching among the ruins of the village for some one who might have escaped the carnage, and could give me information.

The sights that met our eyes everywhere were indeed terrible. But I pass over the sickening details with the simple remark, that no ordinary imagination could conceive the deeds of torture and brutality of which these Turkish irregulars had been guilty. We searched carefully, but for a long time could find no one.

Cattle were straying ownerless about the place, while dogs and pigs were devouring the murdered inhabitants. Thinking it probable that some of the people might have taken refuge in the church, we went to it. Passing from the broad glare of day into the darkened porch, I stumbled over an object on the ground. It was the corpse of a young woman with the head nearly hacked off, the clothes torn, and the body half burnt. But this was as nothing to the scene inside. About two hundred villagers—chiefly women, children, aged, and sick—had sought refuge there, and been slaughtered indiscriminately. We found the dead and dying piled together in suffocating heaps. Little children were crawling about looking for their mothers, wounded mothers were struggling to move the ghastly heaps to find their little ones. Many of these latter were scarce recognisable, owing to the fearful sword-cuts on their heads and faces. I observed in one corner an old man whose thin white hair was draggled with blood. He was struggling in the vain endeavour to release himself from a heap of dead bodies that had either fallen or been thrown upon him.

We hastened to his assistance. After freeing him, I gave him a little brandy from my flask. He seemed very grateful, and, on recovering a little, told us, with many a sigh and pause for breath, that the village had been sacked by Turkish irregular troops, Circassians, who, after carrying off a large number of young girls, returned to the village, and slaughtered all who had not already fled to the woods for refuge.

While the old man was telling the mournful tale I observed a little girl run out from behind a seat where she had probably been secreting herself, and gaze wildly at me. Blood-stained, dishevelled, haggard though she was, I instantly recognised the pretty little face.

“Ivanka!” I exclaimed, holding out my arms.

With a scream of delight she rushed forward and sprang into them. Oh how the dear child grasped me,—twined her thin little arms round me, and strained as if she would crush herself into my bosom, while she buried her face in my neck and gave way to restful moans accompanied by an occasional convulsive sob!

Well did I understand the feelings of her poor heart. For hours past she had been shocked by the incomprehensible deeds of blood and violence around her; had seen, as she afterwards told me, her brother murdered, and her mother chased into the woods and shot by a soldier; had sought refuge in the church with those who were too much taken up with their own terrible griefs to care for her, and, after hours of prolonged agony and terror, coupled with hunger and thirst, had at last found refuge in a kindly welcome embrace.

After a time I tried to disengage her arms, but found this to be impossible without a degree of violence which I could not exert. Overcome by the strain, and probably by long want of rest, the poor child soon fell into a profound slumber.

While I meditated in some perplexity as to how I should act, my attention was aroused by the sudden entrance of a number of men. Their dress and badges at once told me that they formed a section of that noble band of men and women, who, following close on the heels of the “dogs of war,” do all that is possible to alleviate the sufferings of hapless victims.—God’s work going on side by side with that of the devil! In a few minutes surgeons were tenderly binding up wounds, and ambulance-men were bearing them out of the church from which the dead were also removed for burial.

“Come, Lancey,” said I, “our services here are happily no longer required. Let us go.”

“Where to, sir?” said Lancey.

“To the nearest spot,” I replied after a moment’s thought, “where I can lie down and sleep. I am dead beat, Lancey, for want of rest, and really feel unable for anything. If only I can snatch an hour or two, that will suffice. Meanwhile, you will go to the nearest station and find out if the railway has been destroyed.”

We hurried out of the dreadful slaughter-house, Ivanka still sound asleep on my shoulder, and soon discovered an outhouse in which was a little straw. Rolling some of this into a bundle for a pillow, I lay down so as not to disturb the sleeping child. Another moment and I too was steeped in that profound slumber which results from thorough physical and mental exhaustion.

Lancey went out, shut the door, fastened it, and left us.