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 were seen advancing. They stated that Osman himself was coming to treat with the 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 horse groaning and struggling in its agony. Close to it lay an ox, silently bleeding to death, his great, round, patient eyes looking mournfully at the scene around him. Close by, was a cart with a dead horse lying in the yoke as he had fallen, and a Turkish soldier, stretched alongside, whose head had been carried away by a cannon shot. Under the wagon was a wounded man, and close to him four others, who, drained of nearly all their life-blood, lay crouched together in helplessness, with the hoods of their ragged grey overcoats drawn down on their faces. These latter gazed at the murky sky in listless indifference, or at what was going on in a sort of weary surprise. Among them was Nicholas Naranovitsch.
Russian surgeons were already moving about the field of battle, doing what they could, but their efforts were trifling compared with the vast necessity.
At last there was a shout of “Osman!” “He comes!”
“We will give him a respectful reception,” exclaimed one Russian officer, in what is supposed by some to be the “gallant spirit of true chivalry.”
“That we will,” cried another; “we must all salute him, and the soldiers must present arms.”
“He is a great soldier,” exclaimed a third, “and has made a heroic defence.”
Even Skobeleff himself seems to have been carried away by the feeling of the 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 of his country: I will proffer him my hand and tell him so.”
“So,” thought I, when afterwards meditating on this subject, “the Turks have for centuries proved themselves to be utterly unworthy of self-government; they have shown themselves to be ignorant of the first principles of righteousness,—meum and tuum; they (or rather their rulers) have violated their engagements and deceived those who trusted them; 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 their generals has shown somewhat superior ability to the rest, holding in check a powerful enemy, and exhibiting, with his men, a degree of bull-dog courage which, though admirable in itself, all history proves to be a common characteristic of all nations—that ‘honour,’ which the country never possessed, is supposed to have been ‘saved’!”
All honour to the brave, truly, but when I remember the butcheries that are admitted, by friend and foe of the Turk, to have been committed on the Russian wounded by the army of Plevna (and which seem to have been conveniently forgotten at this dramatic incident of the surrender),—when I reflect on the frightful indifference of Osman Pasha to his own wounded, and the equally horrible disregard of the same hapless wounded by the Russians after they entered Plevna,—I cannot but feel that a desperate amount of error is operating here, and that multitudes of mankind, especially innocent, loving, and gentle mankind, to say nothing of tender, enthusiastic, love-blinded womankind, are to some extent deceived by the false ring of that which is not metal, and the falser glitter of a tinsel which is anything but gold.
However, Osman did not come after all. He had been wounded, and the Russian generals were obliged to go to a neighbouring cottage to transact 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 tall strapping trooper. His head rested on the leg of his horse, which lay dead 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 carbine and sabre were drawn close to his side, as if to protect the weapons which it had always been his pride to keep bright and clean. He was a fresh handsome lad, with courage and loveableness equally stamped upon his young brow. He opened his eyes languidly as the doctor attended to him.
“Come, my fine fellow, keep up your heart,” said the doctor tenderly; “you will perhaps—that is to say, the ambulance-wagons will be round immediately, and—”
“Thank you,” interrupted the trooper quietly, “God’s blessing rest upon you. I know what you mean.—Look, sir.”
He tried to take a locket from his neck as he spoke, but could not. The doctor gently assisted him. “See,” he said, “take this to Dobri Petroff—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 me in—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 sank forward, and the terrible pallor of approaching death came on.
“From André—”
Alas! alas for Maria with the auburn hair!
The doctor rose. His services were no longer needed. Mounting his horse, he rode away.
The ground over which he galloped was strewn with weapons. The formal surrender had been made, and each Turk, obeying literally the order to lay down his arms, had deposited his rifle in the mud where he stood.
That night a faint light shone through the murky clouds, and dimly illumined the grim battle-field.
It was deserted by all but the dead and dying, with now and then a passing picket or fatigue-party. As the night advanced, and the cold became piercing, even these seemed to have finally retired from the ghastly scene. Towards morning the moon rose high, and, piercing the clouds, at times lit up the whole battle-field. Ah! there was many a pale countenance turned wistfully on the moon that night, gazing at it until the eyes became fixed in death. There was one countenance, which, deadly white, and gashed by a Turkish sabre, had been ruddy with young life in the morning. It was that of Nicholas Naranovitsch. He lay on his 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 be utterly unable to move anything but his eyes. Though almost in a state of stupor, he retained sufficient consciousness to observe what went on around him. The night, or rather the early morning, had become very still, but it was not silent, for deep sighs and low moanings, as of men suffering from prolonged and weary pain, struck on his listening ear. Now and then some wretch, unable to bear his misery, would make a desperate effort to rise, only, however, to fall back with a sharp cry or a deep-despairing groan. Here and there a man might be seen creeping a few paces on his hands and knees, and then dropping to rest for a time, 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 to rest almost at his side. In a few minutes he rose again, and attempted to advance, but instead of doing so writhed in a hideous contortion over on his back, and stretching himself with a convulsive shudder, died with his teeth clenched and his protruding eyeballs glaring at the sky.
Suddenly a low sweet sound broke on Nicholas’s ear. It swelled gradually, and was at length recognised as a hymn with which he had been familiar in childhood. Some dying Christian soldier near him had apparently sought relief in singing praise to God. Nicholas wept as he listened. He soon found that there were sympathetic listeners besides himself, 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. It was faint, however, and tremulous, for the life-blood was draining rapidly from the hearts of those who raised it. Ere long it altogether ceased.
For some time Nicholas had been aware that a wounded man was slowly gasping out his life quite close to him, but, from the position in which he lay, it was not possible to see more than his red fez. Presently the man made a powerful effort, raised himself on one elbow, and displayed the ghastly black countenance of Hamed Pasha. He looked unsteadily round 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 a long time he was unconscious, and had been nearly crushed to death by the weight of those above him. But the life which had been so strong in his huge body seemed to revive a little, and after a time he succeeded in freeing himself from the load, and raising himself on his hands, but he could not get up on his feet. A wound in the neck, which had partly closed while he was in a recumbent position, now burst out afresh. He looked at the blood with a faint sad smile, and sank down again.
Nicholas recognised him, and tried to speak, but he could neither speak nor move. It seemed to him that every part of his frame had been paralysed except his brain and eyes.
Presently the scout felt for something at his side. His flask was there; putting it to his lips he drank a little and was evidently refreshed, for he raised himself again and began to look about him.
Another moment and Petroff had discovered the Pasha, who lay near him with a look of intense longing in his eyes as he saw the flask and heard the gurgling water. A fierce frown crossed the scout’s brow for a moment, but it was instantly chased away by a look of pity. He dragged himself 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 long sleep of death.
The effort to drag himself even a few paces served to show Petroff how severely he had been wounded. He was in the act of raising the flask to his lips a second time, when Nicholas, by a desperate effort, succeeded in 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 Nicholas required most at such a time.
The avidity with which the latter obeyed prevented him observing that the scout was almost sinking. The successive efforts he had made had caused the blood to pour copiously from his wounds.
“You are badly hurt, Dobri, I fear,” he said, when the life-giving draught had sent new vigour into his frame, and loosed his tongue.
“Ay,” replied the scout, with a faint smile.—“I shall soon be with you now, Marika, and with the little ones and the dear Lord you loved so well 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 heavily forward with his head on the bosom of his friend.
“Take some more water, Dobri,” said Nicholas anxiously. “Quick, before you 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 from his 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 same time, returning vigour enabled him to raise his right arm. He observed that his hand still grasped a revolver, but for some time he had no power to unclasp it. At last he succeeded, and raising Petroff’s flask with 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 searching among the dead. He was about to call to them, but a thought occurred and he restrained himself.
He was right; the three men, one of whom was habited like a priest, were rifling the dead. He saw them come up to a prostrate form which struggled on being touched. One of the three men instantly drew a knife and stabbed the wounded man. When they had searched the body and taken from it what they required they came towards the spot where Nicholas lay.
A feeling of horror came over him for a moment, but that seemed to give him strength, for he instantly grasped his revolver. Hoping, however that they might pass without observing him, he shut his eyes and lay quite still.
The three murderers drew near, talking in low tones, and seemed about to pass, 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 his aim was unsteady. He had missed. Again he pulled the trigger, but it had been the last shot. The man sprang upon him. The report, however, had attracted the notice of a picket of Russian soldiers, who, well aware of the deeds of foul villainy that are practised by the followers of an army on battle-fields at night, immediately rushed up and secured the three men.
“They are murderers,” exclaimed Nicholas in reply to a question from the sergeant 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 to the death-roll of the day.
It was summary justice, but richly deserved. Thereafter the soldiers made a rough-and-ready stretcher of muskets, on which Nicholas, who had fainted, was carefully laid and borne from the field.
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