The Dracula Papers, Book I: The Scholar's Tale

by Reggie Oliver

  Razendoringer bore this night journey with his usual stoic fortitude while Mircea and Vlad seemed almost to be enjoying it. When one is young novelty redeems much.

  Towards morning — as I guessed, for the night seemed endless — the rain began to ease off. Intense cold was replaced by a sort of prickling dampness. My armour had been no protection, for the rain had trickled down between it and my clothes. I felt nothing but profound anger that I, a scholar, who should have been toasting his feet by a fire with a book, was tired, uncomfortable and in danger. I looked back at all the misfortunes that had brought me here and wanted to scream with pain, though, strangely, I felt no resentment towards Alexander of Glem or any of the others who might have been thought instrumental to my plight. For an hour or so I was sunk in self-pity, but this in the end so disgusted and exhausted me that I decided that I should make a truce with fate.

  The glow of the sun began to broach the deep blue of the night. The sky was clear, washed clean by the rain, and full of faint stars. The army moved busily forward as quietly as it could. I saw a look of hope on the men’s faces as they had come through the night and the enemy was a small thing after that.

  A rider galloped down the line towards us. He asked that the princes, Razendoringer and I should join Ragul at the head. We were approaching Tchorlu. Mircea and Vlad immediately spurred their horses out of the main body and began to gallop up the line. The dwarf and I followed.

  The road narrowed to a defile overhung with fir trees. This presently debouched onto an area of gently rising pasture where we surprised an early shepherd with his flock. Presently we came across Ragul, almost in the very forefront of his army, protected only by a screen of cavalry.

  He noted our presence briefly and signalled us to join him and his staff. There was a stiffness and excitement about them which I had not noticed before. What little I knew told me that these men were preparing not so much for a battle as for a final throw of the dice, hazarding all. It did not make for a cheerful company, though Mircea tried to revive our spirits by riding down the sheep and their shepherd.

  As we climbed gradually, the sun began to glitter on helmets and tips of spears. The stars faded and, by the time we reached the top of the slope, the sun was fully above the horizon glancing across the river, turning its swollen currents into fluttering ribbons of burnished gold.

  Ragul began to dispose his troops just behind the head of the ridge so that they would be unnoticed. Meanwhile, I looked down on the scene below with a wonder which banished, for the moment, my damp clothes and aching joints.

  We were looking into a river valley on the far side of which was a sparse and scattered hamlet which I took to be Tchorlu. Spanning the river was a mighty bridge, built, I was told, in the time of the first crusades when a great warlord, Sigismond of Cozia, ruled the district. The ruins of his castle were on a hill above the village. The bridge seemed to me as much a sign of power as a convenience, for it looked, even in this time of spate, too massive for the water it spanned. Three great arches the size and shape of cathedral portals vaulted the river on piers faced with ashlar. At each end of the bridge were metal braziers on tripods so that it could be used safely at night.

  But it was not the bridge which excited my amazement so much as the vast concourse of people which was flooding across it. It was almost as if one river was being crossed by another. This was the van of the Ottoman army, the largest number of the enemy I had yet seen. Fear was cast out by the sheer exhilaration of the spectacle.

  Some twenty thousand troops had already crossed and were mustering in the plain below us. Some were setting up a temporary camp; other figures appeared to be wandering about trying to find their own units. It was a scene of some confusion. Evidently the army was being crossed in a quite haphazard fashion and no scouts had been sent out to reconnoitre the land around.

  On the bridge itself there was a blockage and some fighting had broken out. A unit of artillery had been dragging across one of the vast guns which were such a distinctive and terrifying feature of the Turkish army. Evidently the undercarriage had collapsed and the men were working furiously to repair it. But a unit of Arab lancers on Bactrian camels were anxious to cross and found the cannon slewed across their path, hence the dispute which threatened to bring the whole exercise to a halt.

  As I watched them I found it impossible to look on the Turks as individual beings. The army looked like a great crawling plague quivering with life, sending out long trails of slime to infect the land around it. I was reminded how once as a child I had seen a swarm of cockroaches cover the floor of a kitchen. Slowly, as I watched the army’s turbulent progress, my infant horror returned to me.

  The sun rose and was hot. Steam came off my woollen gown as it dried. From being cold and wet I was now boiled and parched. Ragul disposed his men to ring the area where the Turks were gathering. He was in no hurry to attack. When the time came he planned to cut off the troops on our side of the river and surround them.

  In the meantime the gun was moved and the Bactrian camels were now upsetting a line of tethered horses on our side of the bridge, but some order had been restored. I saw a column of men in blue with tossing white plumes crossing the bridge and recognized them as Janissaries at once.

  Preceding them, as is usual with Janissary regiments, came a small orchestra of flautists, trumpeters, harpists and drummers, followed by men in long white robes carrying a curious array of equipment. These were the famous regimental cooks who played such a vital role in this celibate unit.

  Following the Janissaries came more guns, great monsters, more than ten feet in length and able to throw a six hundredweight cannon ball half a mile. The rumble of their wheels on the cobbles of the bridge was like thunder.

  The message went along the line that, as soon as the Janissaries were across the river, while the artillery was still blocking any rapid movement of troops on the bridge, the signal for attack would be given. I found myself waiting impatiently for it all to begin. Beside me were Vlad and Mircea who had been assigned a small unit of guards to prevent them taking rash action. I saw no reason why they should as our vantage point was superb.

  The last Janissary had crossed and the heavy guns were now fully in possession of the bridge. On our side of the river some thirty thousand men milled and swirled oblivious of their fate. A single trumpet note sounded; then we were engulfed in a great cheer from our men as we saw emerge from a belt of trees a unit of our best cavalry racing to cut off the bridgehead. At the same time, from all sides, units of our army rose from their hiding place and began to march down the slope towards the Ottoman troops. The discipline of these men said much for Ragul’s powers of command. The numbers on either side were about equally matched, but our men had the incalculable advantage of surprise and a superior tactical position.

  Cavalry met first and in the shock neither side prevailed, our lancers having the initial advantage, but losing it when it came to close fighting; but as the infantry units became engaged the battle began to turn into something like a massacre. The Turks were being penned in to a rapidly diminishing space, their retreat over the bridge blocked by their cannon and our cavalry who had dismounted and seized the bridgehead. Many Turks were simply crushed to death, others fell to the pikes of the infantry, unable in the press to wield a sword or load an arquebus. On the other side of the river, the bulk of the Ottoman army looked on impotently. Frantic efforts were made to drag the cannon back over the bridge to make way for reserve troops, but this took time. Meanwhile some cannon were trained across the river to fire into our men, but when it was found that most of the Turkish gun stones were falling among the Turks themselves this course was abandoned.

  It is a curious thing to watch a battle taking place. At first it is a remarkably engrossing experience, always provided that one can see most of what is happening. The lines are clearly marked. One’s mind fresh to the excitement is able to take in a multitude of separate but connected events: a line of horsemen dancin
g through knots of confused infantry, a rank of pikes pressing hard upon an opposing rank, an officer waving his sword and shouting in a desperate effort to rally his men. The initial shock of contact between the two armies is almost palpably felt. It is in this moment that the course of the action is usually decided. After this the scene usually becomes less clear. One’s mind is overloaded with harrowing impressions and one ceases to distinguish between sides; there are only the killers and the killed. The overall impression, so clear at first, blurs so that one is only able to pick out details.

  I saw a man run from the battle, both hands held to his head. He ran crazily in circles and I thought I could hear his cries above the din. Finally he tripped over a corpse. Releasing his hands, to prevent himself from falling, he laid bare the wound in his head from which blood spurted like a fountain. Here was another, lying under a dead horse, struggling convulsively to release himself but without success. I saw a Turk, a Spahi, one of the regular native soldiers of the Ottoman, climb onto a parapet of the bridge from where he was able swing his club and deal execution on all who came near him. Finally one of his victims who had fallen below him, reached up and, with the tenacity of a dying man, seized his ankle. The Turk struck at him with his club repeatedly but the man would not let go. The Spahi crashed down on top of his dying enemy where he was rapidly dispatched by our soldiers.

  Ragul’s forces pressed inwards towards the bridge, killing as they went. It was now a pure infantry battle. Ragul had detached his cavalry from the fight and was mustering them in columns ready for their charge across the bridge. The river meadows which had been green that morning were now littered with corpses and trampled into bloodstained mud.

  Now the guns were cleared from the bridge and the Turks who remained on this side of the river were in full retreat across it, our men pursuing. Fresh Turkish troops were drawn up at the on the other side to defend but their ranks were confused by the flying remnant of their own armies.

  The first of our foot soldiers were over the bridge when Ragul at the head of his cavalry charged across and drove into the centre of the Turkish front. It was a bold move, and it carried all before him. Our men seemed unstoppable. There being no more fight in the Turks they retreated leaving Transylvania in possession of the bridge and the Turkish camp at Tchorlu. It had been a great victory.

  We rode down across the field of battle. The sun was fully up and the stench of blood and death filled the valley, as did the cries of the wounded to whom no-one was attending. All the able-bodied men had pressed on into Tchorlu to sack the Ottoman camp and with some shame I followed them, leaving behind me countless little instances of human agony.

  As we clattered over the bridge our men raised a cheer for the princes who had already acquired a reputation for courage and resource. We found ourselves at the centre of seething excitement as we entered an encampment which had been set up for the Grand Vizier. The story went that Sokolly had arrived to watch his advance guard crossing the An just as Ragul was beginning his attack, and, having no stomach for humiliations, he had immediately withdrawn, an action which precipitated the rout.

  Entering the Vizier’s personal camp, we were all struck with wonder: it was more like a city of pleasure than a fortification. We found the Vizier’s silver grey charger at the door of his tent so weighed down with its heavy caparisons — which included stirrups of solid gold — as to be useless for flight. The tent itself was full of carpets and furs, jewelled arms, quivers studded with rubies and pearls; its adjoining suite included fountains, baths, even a rabbit warren and a small menagerie. A parrot took wing and foiled the pursuit of our men. Strangest of all, we found a pet ostrich with a pearl collar which had been beheaded, presumably to prevent its falling alive into Christian hands.

  Plentiful supplies of food were also found, strange fruits preserved in spirits and all kinds of meat, including deer which, I was subsequently told, Vizier Sokolly would release to hunt with the bow and arrow before consuming. There were also barrels of Cyprus wine, for, though the drinking of wine is forbidden in Islam, the practice is not unknown among the higher ranks of Ottoman society. Indeed Sultan Murad’s immediate predecessor Selim, known as “the sot”, died of overindulgence in the fermented grape.

  All these discoveries, of booty and food, were too much for Ragul’s troops. After months of privation they gorged themselves. The smell of roasting meat mingled with the odour of unburied corpses all night. There were drinking bouts and quarrels over plunder. Ragul went round trying to rouse his men, ordering them to fortify the camp and bury the bodies; but they were crazed with victory. Not even an exemplary hanging for looting and disorderliness stopped them. Indeed, he would have had to hang nearly every man there to impose order. Razendoringer and I refrained from these celebrations, being all too sensible of the danger which threatened. We had, after all, only inflicted a defeat on something like a tenth of the entire Ottoman force at whose present whereabouts one could only guess; but we could not prevent Vlad and Mircea from drinking themselves into a stupor.

  At about three in the morning the exhaustion of the previous day and night caught up with the men. Quite suddenly I realized that silence had fallen over the camp. Looking out of my tent I saw by the fitful light of camp fires our victors lying among the spoil like dead men, haphazardly.

  Even those who were meant to be on guard were drooped over their pikes. The sight terrified me. If the Turks were to counter attack now there would be a massacre, but they did not come. This fear kept me awake for an hour or so longer, then I too was asleep.

  I must have slept lightly for it was a very faint sound which disturbed my sleep. Someone in the distance was shouting. I noticed Razendoringer was already awake and trying to rouse the princes. Looking out of the door of our tent I saw that the sun was fully up. The men were lying as I had seen them the night before, prone and in a dead slumber. I listened for the shouting and I thought I could detect the word “attack”. Presently Ragul appeared, at the head of his palace guard. There were black circles under his eyes and it was clear he had not slept that night.

  The guards were trying to rouse our men from sleep by kicking and prodding with spears. Ragul walked straight up to me.

  “Get the princes out of here,” he snapped. “We will shortly be under attack. Ride for Castle Dracula and warn them to prepare for a siege. Tell them what occurred.” He spoke like a man preparing to die.

  In the few seconds which it took him to say these words the scene had changed from one of supine oblivion to one of panic. Men half-drugged with sleep desperately searched for their weapons. Others were kicking awake their more sluggish companions. From the margins of the camp we heard screams and the clash of arms. From a greater distance came the boom of a cannon. Then I saw a ball of stone swing in a great arc through the air, bounce once in the dying embers of a camp fire and land on a still sleeping Transylvanian, crushing his skull instantly.

  Razendoringer appeared as if from nowhere with four fresh looking horses. One of them was Vizier Sokolly’s grey Arab, now resaddled more plainly. The princes were emerging from the tent rubbing their eyes and shaking their heads.

  “We must fly instantly. The Turks are upon us,” I said.

  Vlad looked around him and drew his sword. “No,” he said. “I shall stay here and fight till the last drop of my blood is shed.” A second boom of the cannon.

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Razendoringer. “These are Ragul’s orders. We have a vital mission, to ride to Castle Dracula and warn the king.”

  Mircea had already accepted this duty and was mounting his horse. In a moment Vlad was doing likewise. Having mounted, it took a moment to find our bearings. Our men were by now awake, but in a state of utter panic.

  Some even clung onto our horses and begged us to take them with us. I saw Vlad cut one of these down with his sword. Then Razendoringer spurred his horse and shouted, “Make for the bridge!” He rode off and we followed him. Somehow his sense of direction had not dese
rted him for we found ourselves galloping full tilt along the cobbled highway that led to the bridge. Some were running that way on foot, but they turned aside to let us pass. There was no thought now except flight. Coming to the bridge, our horses took the cobbled slope at a frantic pace. It was only when we reached midstream that we saw that our way was blocked. Standing at the exit on the far side of the bridge was a line of blue coated Janissaries, their white plumes nodding gently in the morning breeze, their scimitars drawn.

  XXI

  All four of us halted. At the other end of the bridge the Janissaries jeered. We could try to ride them down, but they seemed prepared for us, and at least one of us would die in the attempt. I looked behind me towards the camp. What looked like a rout was in progress, while a group of our soldiers who had been fleeing towards the bridge had halted behind us.

  It was then that Vlad showed for the first time his great powers of leadership. He turned back to the soldiers who were hoping to escape, then put them in order and rallied them. He told them that they could save Transylvania if only they would force the bridge and break free, offering them both freedom and glory under his command. He put heart into them, then led them into the assault, holding back a little so that he himself would avoid the risk of engagement.

  The struggle at the bridgehead was brisk and desperate. The Janissaries were the fresher, stronger troops, but our men were fighting for their lives with nowhere to turn to. As soon as the line of Turks was broken, Vlad rallied us and led us through the gap at breakneck speed, leaving the fight at the bridge still unresolved. So we rode once more across the valley where our ephemeral victory had been won. Apart from the company of Janissaries at the bridge, scouring the plain was a squadron of light Spahi cavalry who gave chase when they saw us escaping.