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

Some of them had beheld the fathers, brothers, lovers, around whom their heart-strings twined, tortured to death before their eyes. Others had seen their babes tossed on spear-points and bayonets, while to all the future must have appeared a fearful prospect of want and of dreary sighing for a touch of those “vanished hands” that had passed from earth for ever.

“Philanthropic societies,” said the secretary, “have done great things for Turkey and for Russia too. Had it not been for the timely aid sent out by the charitable people in England and other countries, it is certain that many thousands of these refugees would already have been in their graves.”

I did not like the tone or looks of this secretary. He was an oily man, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Doubtless there are many of them,” I returned sharply, “who wish that they had fallen with their kindred. But you say truth: the tender-hearted and liberal ones of England and elsewhere have done something to mitigate the horrors of war, and yet there is a party among us who would draw the sword, if they were allowed, and add to the number of these wretched refugees. A pretty spectacle of consistency, truly, is presented by war! If we English were to join the Turks, as of course you wish us to do, and help you to maintain your misrule, to say nothing of the massacres which have been and still are going on around us, we should have to keep our philanthropic societies at work still longer, and thus we should be seen cutting men down with one hand and binding them up with the other,—roaring like fiends as we slaughter sires, and at the same time, with the same voice, softly comforting widows and fatherless children. Oh, sir, if there is a phrase of mockery on the face of this earth, it is the term ‘civilised warfare’!”

Before the secretary had time to reply the Pasha entered, accompanied by Lancey.

“Mr Childers,” said the Pasha, sitting down on a cushion beside me, “I have managed it at last, though not without difficulty, but when a man wants to help an old school-mate in distress he is not easily put down. You have to thank Lancey for anything I have done for you. There is, it seems, to be an exchange of prisoners soon, and I have managed that you and Lancey shall be among the number. You must be ready to take the road to-morrow.”

I thanked the Pasha heartily, but expressed surprise that one in so exalted a position should have found difficulty in the matter.

“Exalted!” he exclaimed, with a look of scorn, “I’m so exalted as to have very narrowly missed having my head cut off. Bah! there is no gratitude in a Turk—at least in a Turkish grandee.”

I ventured to suggest that the Pasha was in his own person a flat—or rather sturdy—contradiction of his own words, but he only grinned as he bowed, being too much in earnest to smile.

“Do you forget,” he continued, “that I am in disgrace? I have served the Turk faithfully all my life, and now I am shelved at the very time my services might be of use, because the Sultan is swayed by a set of rascals who are jealous of me! And is it not the same with better men than myself? Look at Mehemet Ali, our late commander-in-chief, deposed from office by men who had not the power to judge of his capacities—for what? Did he not say with his own lips, to one of your own correspondents, that although he had embraced the religion of Mohammed they never could forget or forgive the fact that he was not born a Turk, but regarded him as a Giaour in disguise; that his elevation to power excited secret discontent among the Pashas, which I know to be true; that another Pasha thwarted instead of aiding him, while yet another was sent to act the spy on him. Is not this shameful jealousy amongst our leaders, at a time when all should have been united for the common weal, well known to have operated disastrously in other cases? Did not Osman Pasha admit as much, when he complained bitterly, after the fall of Plevna, that he had not been properly supported? Our rank and file are lions in the field—though I cannot allow that they are lambs anywhere else—but as for our— Bah! I have said enough. Besides, to tell you the truth, I am tired of the Turks, and hate them.”

Here my servant interrupted the Pasha with a coolness and familiarity that amused me much.

“Sandy,” said he, with a disapproving shake of the head, “you oughtn’t to go an’ speak like that of your hadopted nation.”

The Pasha’s indignation vanished at once. He turned to Lancey with a curious twinkle in his eye.

“But, my good fellow,” he said, “it isn’t my hadopted nation. When I came here a poor homeless wanderer the Turks adopted me, not I them, because they found me useful.”

“That,” returned Lancey, “should ’ave called hout your gratitood.”

“So it did, Lancey. Didn’t I serve them faithfully from that day to this, to the best of my power, and didn’t I shave my head and wear their garb, and pretend to take to their religion all out of gratitude?”

“Worse and worse,” retorted Lancey; “that was houtrageous ’ypocrisy. I’m afraid, Sandy, that you’re no better than you used to be w’en you smashed the school-windows an’ went about playin’ truant on the Scottish ’ills.”

“No better indeed,” returned the Pasha, with a sudden touch of sadness; “that is true, but how to become better is the difficulty. Islamism fills a land with injustice, robbery, and violence; while, in order that such things may be put right, the same land is desolated, covered with blood, and filled with lamentation, in the name of Christianity.”

Here I could not refrain from reminding the Pasha that the professors of religion did not always act in accordance with their profession, and that the principles of the “Prince of Peace,” when carried out, even with average sincerity, had an invariable tendency to encourage peace and good-will among men, which was more than could be said of the doctrines of Mohammed.

“It may be so,” said the Pasha, with a sigh.

“Meanwhile, to return to our point, you will find everything ready for your journey at an early hour to-morrow.”

“But what of little Ivanka Petroff?” I asked. “She must go with us.”

The Pasha seemed a little perplexed. “I had not thought of that,” he said; “she will be well-cared for here.”

“I cannot go without her,” said I firmly.

“No more can I,” said Lancey.

“Well, that shall also be arranged,” returned the Pasha, as he left us.

“Never saw nothink like ’im,” observed Lancey; “’e sticks at nothink, believes nothink, cares for nothink, an’ can do hanythink.”

“You are showing want of gratitude now, Lancey, for it is plain that he cares a good deal for you.”

Lancey admitted that he might, perhaps, have been a little harsh in expressing himself, and then went off to prepare for the journey.

“We are going back again to your own country, Ivanka,” said I, gently stroking the child’s head, as we sat together in the same room, some hours later.

Ivanka raised her large eyes to mine.

“There is no home now,” she said, in a mournful voice.

“But we shall find father there, perhaps.”

The child dropped her eyes, and shook her head, but made no further remark. I saw that tears were trickling down her cheeks, and, feeling uncertain as to how far she realised her forlorn condition, refrained from further speech, and drew her little head upon my breast, while I sought to comfort her with hopes of soon meeting her father.

Snow lay on the ground when we bade farewell to our kind host. “Good-bye, Sanda Pasha; I shall hope to see you in England one of these days,” said I at parting.

“Farewell, Sandy,” said my man, grasping the Pasha’s hand warmly, and speaking in a deeply impressive tone; “take the advice of a wery old friend, who ’as your welfare at ’art, an’ leave off your evil ways, w’ich it’s not possible for you to do w’ile you’ve got fifty wives, more or less, shaves your ’ead like a Turk, and hacts the part of a ’ypocrite. Come back to your own land, my friend, w’ich is the only one I knows on worth livin’ in, an’ dress yourself like a Christian.”

The Pasha laughed, returned the squeeze heartily, and said that it was highly probable he would act upon that advice ere another year had passed away.

Half an hour later we were driving over the white plains, on which the sun shone with dazzling light.

I felt unusual exhilaration as we rattled along in the fresh frosty air, and crossed the fields, which, with the silvered trees and bushes, contrasted so pleasantly with the clear blue sky. I began to feel as if the horrible scenes I had lately witnessed were but the effects of a disordered imagination, which had passed away with fever and bodily weakness.

Ivanka also appeared to revive under those genial influences with which God surrounds His creatures, for she prattled a little now and then about things which attracted her attention on the road; but she never referred to the past. Lancey, too, was inspirited to such an extent that he tackled the Turkish driver in his own tongue, and caused the eyes of that taciturn individual occasionally to twinkle, and his moustache to curl upwards.

That night we slept at a small road-side inn. Next day we joined a group of travellers, and thus onward we went until we reached the region where the war raged. Here we were placed under escort, and, with some others, were exchanged and set free.

Immediately I hired a conveyance and proceeded to the Russian rear, where I obtained a horse, and, leaving Ivanka in charge of Lancey at an inn, hastened to headquarters to make inquiries about Nicholas and Petroff.

On the way, however, I halted to telegraph to the Scottish Bawbee, and to write a brief account of my recent experiences among the Turks.

I was in the midst of a powerful article—powerful, of course, because of the subject—on one of the war-episodes, when I heard a foot on the staircase. I had placed my revolver on the table, for I was seated in a room in a deserted village. One wall of the room had been shattered by a shell, while most of the furniture was more or less broken by the same missile, and I knew well that those sneak-marauders who infest the rear of an army were in the habit of prowling about such places.

Suddenly I heard a loud shout on the staircase, followed by the clashing of swords. I leaped up, seized the revolver, and ran out. One man stood on the stair defending himself against two Circassians. I knew the scoundrels instantly by their dress, and not less easily did I recognise a countryman in the grey tweed shooting coat, glengarry cap, and knickerbockers of the other. At the moment of my appearance the Englishman, who was obviously a dexterous swordsman, had inflicted a telling wound on one of his adversaries. I fired at the other, who, leaping nearly his own height into the air, fell with a crash down the staircase. He sprang up, however, instantly, and both men bolted out at the front door and fled.

The Englishman turned to thank me for my timely aid, but, instead of speaking, looked at me with amused surprise.

“Can it be?” I exclaimed; “not possible! you, Biquitous?”

“I told you we should probably meet,” he replied, sheathing his sword, “but I was not prophetic enough to foretell the exact circumstances of the meeting.”

“Come along, my dear fellow,” said I, seizing his arm and dragging him up-stairs; “how glad I am! what an unexpected—oh! never mind the look of the room, it’s pretty tight in most places, and I’ve stuffed my