In the Track of the Troops

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

  WOE TO THE "AUBURN HAIR!" AFTER THE BATTLE--PROWLING VILLAINS PUNISHED.

  When the white flag was seen a loud shout went up from the Russian army.Then a party of officers rode forward, and two Turkish horsemen wereseen advancing. They stated that Osman himself was coming to treat withthe Russians.

  The spot on which they stood was covered with the grim relics of battle.The earth had been uptorn by exploding shells. Here lay a horsegroaning and struggling in its agony. Close to it lay an ox, silentlybleeding to death, his great, round, patient eyes looking mournfully atthe scene around him. Close by, was a cart with a dead horse lying inthe yoke as he had fallen, and a Turkish soldier, stretched alongside,whose head had been carried away by a cannon shot. Under the wagon wasa wounded man, and close to him four others, who, drained of nearly alltheir life-blood, lay crouched together in helplessness, with the hoodsof their ragged grey overcoats drawn down on their faces. These lattergazed at the murky sky in listless indifference, or at what was going onin a sort of weary surprise. Among them was Nicholas Naranovitsch.

  Russian surgeons were already moving about the field of battle, doingwhat they could, but their efforts were trifling compared with the vastnecessity.

  At last there was a shout of "Osman!" "He comes!"

  "We will give him a respectful reception," exclaimed one Russianofficer, in what is supposed by some to be the "gallant spirit of truechivalry."

  "That we will," cried another; "we must all salute him, and the soldiersmust present arms."

  "He is a great soldier," exclaimed a third, "and has made a heroicdefence."

  Even Skobeleff himself seems to have been carried away by the feeling ofthe moment, if we may credit report, for he is said to have exclaimed--

  "He is the greatest general of the age, for he has saved the honour ofhis country: I will proffer him my hand and tell him so."

  "So," thought I, when afterwards meditating on this subject, "the Turkshave for centuries proved themselves to be utterly unworthy ofself-government; they have shown themselves to be ignorant of the firstprinciples of righteousness,--_meum_ and _tuum_; they (or rather theirrulers) have violated their engagements and deceived those who trustedthem; have of late repudiated their debts, and murdered, robbed,violated, tortured those who differed from them in religious opinions,as is generally admitted,--nevertheless now, because one of theirgenerals has shown somewhat superior ability to the rest, holding incheck a powerful enemy, and exhibiting, with his men, a degree ofbull-dog courage which, though admirable in itself, all history provesto be a common characteristic of all nations--that `honour,' which thecountry never possessed, is supposed to have been `saved'!"

  All honour to the brave, truly, but when I remember the butcheries thatare admitted, by friend and foe of the Turk, to have been committed onthe Russian wounded by the army of Plevna (and which seem to have beenconveniently forgotten at this dramatic incident of the surrender),--when I reflect on the frightful indifference of Osman Pasha to his ownwounded, and the equally horrible disregard of the same hapless woundedby the Russians after they entered Plevna,--I cannot but feel that adesperate amount of error is operating here, and that multitudes ofmankind, especially innocent, loving, and gentle mankind, to say nothingof tender, enthusiastic, love-blinded womankind, are to some extentdeceived by the false ring of that which is not metal, and the falserglitter of a tinsel which is anything but gold.

  However, Osman did not come after all. He had been wounded, and theRussian generals were obliged to go to a neighbouring cottage totransact the business of surrender.

  As the cavalcade rode away in the direction of the cottage referred to,a Russian surgeon turned aside to aid a wounded man. He was a tallstrapping trooper. His head rested on the leg of his horse, which laydead beside him. He could not have been more than twenty years of age,if so much. He had carefully wrapped his cloak round him. His carbineand sabre were drawn close to his side, as if to protect the weaponswhich it had always been his pride to keep bright and clean. He was afresh handsome lad, with courage and loveableness equally stamped uponhis young brow. He opened his eyes languidly as the doctor attended tohim.

  "Come, my fine fellow, keep up your heart," said the doctor tenderly;"you will perhaps--that is to say, the ambulance-wagons will be roundimmediately, and--"

  "Thank you," interrupted the trooper quietly, "God's blessing rest uponyou. I know what you mean.--Look, sir."

  He tried to take a locket from his neck as he spoke, but could not. Thedoctor gently assisted him. "See," he said, "take this to DobriPetroff--the scout. You know him? Every one knows dashing Dobri!"

  "I know him. Well?"

  "Tell him to give it to her--he knows who--and--and--say it has kept mein--in heaven when sometimes it seemed to me as if I had got into hell."

  "From whom?" asked the doctor, anxiously, as the youth's head sankforward, and the terrible pallor of approaching death came on.

  "From Andre--"

  Alas! alas for Maria with the auburn hair!

  The doctor rose. His services were no longer needed. Mounting hishorse, he rode away.

  The ground over which he galloped was strewn with weapons. The formalsurrender had been made, and each Turk, obeying literally the order tolay down his arms, had deposited his rifle in the mud where he stood.

  That night a faint light shone through the murky clouds, and dimlyillumined the grim battle-field.

  It was deserted by all but the dead and dying, with now and then apassing picket or fatigue-party. As the night advanced, and the coldbecame piercing, even these seemed to have finally retired from theghastly scene. Towards morning the moon rose high, and, piercing theclouds, at times lit up the whole battle-field. Ah! there was many apale countenance turned wistfully on the moon that night, gazing at ituntil the eyes became fixed in death. There was one countenance, which,deadly white, and gashed by a Turkish sabre, had been ruddy with younglife in the morning. It was that of Nicholas Naranovitsch. He lay onhis back near his dead horse, and close to a heap of slaughtered men.He was so faint and so shattered by sabre-cuts and bullets as to beutterly unable to move anything but his eyes. Though almost in a stateof stupor, he retained sufficient consciousness to observe what went onaround him. The night, or rather the early morning, had become verystill, but it was not silent, for deep sighs and low moanings, as of mensuffering from prolonged and weary pain, struck on his listening ear.Now and then some wretch, unable to bear his misery, would make adesperate effort to rise, only, however, to fall back with a sharp cryor a deep-despairing groan. Here and there a man might be seen creepinga few paces on his hands and knees, and then dropping to rest for atime, after which the creeping was resumed, in the vain hope, no doubt,that some place of shelter or an ambulance might be reached at last.One of these struggling men passed close to Nicholas, and stopped torest almost at his side. In a few minutes he rose again, and attemptedto advance, but instead of doing so writhed in a hideous contortion overon his back, and stretching himself with a convulsive shudder, died withhis teeth clenched and his protruding eyeballs glaring at the sky.

  Suddenly a low sweet sound broke on Nicholas's ear. It swelledgradually, and was at length recognised as a hymn with which he had beenfamiliar in childhood. Some dying Christian soldier near him hadapparently sought relief in singing praise to God. Nicholas wept as helistened. He soon found that there were sympathetic listeners besideshimself, for the strains were taken up by one and another, and another,until the hymn appeared to rise from all parts of the battle-field. Itwas faint, however, and tremulous, for the life-blood was drainingrapidly from the hearts of those who raised it. Ere long it altogetherceased.

  For some time Nicholas had been aware that a wounded man was slowlygasping out his life quite close to him, but, from the position in whichhe lay, it was not possible to see more than his red fez. Presently theman made a powerful effort, raised himself on one elbow, and displayedthe g
hastly black countenance of Hamed Pasha. He looked unsteadilyround him for a moment, and then sank backward with a long-drawn sigh.

  Close to him, under a heap of slain, Dobri Petroff himself lay. For along time he was unconscious, and had been nearly crushed to death bythe weight of those above him. But the life which had been so strong inhis huge body seemed to revive a little, and after a time he succeededin freeing himself from the load, and raising himself on his hands, buthe could not get up on his feet. A wound in the neck, which had partlyclosed while he was in a recumbent position, now burst out afresh. Helooked at the blood with a faint sad smile, and sank down again.

  Nicholas recognised him, and tried to speak, but he could neither speaknor move. It seemed to him that every part of his frame had beenparalysed except his brain and eyes.

  Presently the scout felt for something at his side. His flask wasthere; putting it to his lips he drank a little and was evidentlyrefreshed, for he raised himself again and began to look about him.

  Another moment and Petroff had discovered the Pasha, who lay near himwith a look of intense longing in his eyes as he saw the flask and heardthe gurgling water. A fierce frown crossed the scout's brow for amoment, but it was instantly chased away by a look of pity. He draggedhimself slowly towards the dying Turk, and held the flask to his lips.

  With a murmur of thankfulness and a look of gratitude at his late enemy,the Pasha uttered a faint sigh and closed his eyes in the last longsleep of death.

  The effort to drag himself even a few paces served to show Petroff howseverely he had been wounded. He was in the act of raising the flask tohis lips a second time, when Nicholas, by a desperate effort, succeededin uttering a low groan.

  The scout turned quickly, observed his master, and crept to his side.

  "Drink, sir," he said, knowing well that water was what Nicholasrequired most at such a time.

  The avidity with which the latter obeyed prevented him observing thatthe scout was almost sinking. The successive efforts he had made hadcaused the blood to pour copiously from his wounds.

  "You are badly hurt, Dobri, I fear," he said, when the life-givingdraught had sent new vigour into his frame, and loosed his tongue.

  "Ay," replied the scout, with a faint smile.--"I shall soon be with younow, Marika, and with the little ones and the dear Lord you loved sowell and tried so hard to make me follow too. And you succeeded,Marika, though you little th--"

  He stopped abruptly, swayed a moment to and fro, then fell heavilyforward with his head on the bosom of his friend.

  "Take some more water, Dobri," said Nicholas anxiously. "Quick, beforeyou lose consciousness. I have not power to move a limb to help you.--Dobri!"

  He called in vain,--the scout had fainted.

  Nicholas had not power at first to remove the poor fellow's head fromhis chest, and he felt as if he should be suffocated. By degrees,however, he managed to roll it slightly to one side, and, at the sametime, returning vigour enabled him to raise his right arm. He observedthat his hand still grasped a revolver, but for some time he had nopower to unclasp it. At last he succeeded, and raising Petroff's flaskwith difficulty to his lips obtained another draught.

  Just at that moment the moon, which had passed behind a dark cloud,shone through an opening, and he saw three men not far off searchingamong the dead. He was about to call to them, but a thought occurredand he restrained himself.

  He was right; the three men, one of whom was habited like a priest, wererifling the dead. He saw them come up to a prostrate form whichstruggled on being touched. One of the three men instantly drew a knifeand stabbed the wounded man. When they had searched the body and takenfrom it what they required they came towards the spot where Nicholaslay.

  A feeling of horror came over him for a moment, but that seemed to givehim strength, for he instantly grasped his revolver. Hoping, howeverthat they might pass without observing him, he shut his eyes and layquite still.

  The three murderers drew near, talking in low tones, and seemed about topass, when one of them stopped.

  "Here's a big-looking fellow whose boots will just fit me," he said,stooping and seizing the scout's leg.

  "There's an officer behind him," said the villain in the priest's dress;"he will be more worth stripping."

  Nicholas pointed his revolver full in the man's face and fired, but hisaim was unsteady. He had missed. Again he pulled the trigger, but ithad been the last shot. The man sprang upon him. The report, however,had attracted the notice of a picket of Russian soldiers, who, wellaware of the deeds of foul villainy that are practised by the followersof an army on battle-fields at night, immediately rushed up and securedthe three men.

  "They are murderers," exclaimed Nicholas in reply to a question from thesergeant in command.

  "Lead them out," said the sergeant promptly.

  The men were bound and set up in a row.

  "Ready--present!"

  A volley rang out in the night air, and three more corpses were added tothe death-roll of the day.

  It was summary justice, but richly deserved. Thereafter the soldiersmade a rough-and-ready stretcher of muskets, on which Nicholas, who hadfainted, was carefully laid and borne from the field.