One of the Six Hundred: A Novel
poodle, whose bark was familiar to me; and then I was greatly concerned
to recognise in the deserter, who was stripped of his uniform, and stood
in his loose wide trousers and red flannel shirt, poor Corporal
Pugacheff, who had escorted me from the Belbeck river.
"Had I known your disposition for levanting, my friend," thought I,
"gladly would I have availed myself of it in time."
"Was he deserting towards the Allies?" I inquired of Anitchoff.
"No; he was supposed to be making off to his own country by the
peninsula of Arabat, which encloses the Putrid Sea. Ah, _pardonnez
moi_," added the hussar, and he yawned lazily in the chill air of the
early morning, as he buttoned his well-furred pelisse over his uniform.
"But is not the punishment excessive?"
"Not for a soldier in time of war, surely! There are two classes in
Russia exempt from all corporal punishment, severe as you may deem
us--nobles, and soldiers who have been honoured with medals. Pugacheff
served against the Turks at the frontier town of Isaktcha last year. He
has a medal, so there is no resource but to shoot him; and here comes
the firing company under a _praperchick_? (This grotesque word in Russ
signifies an ensign.)
"What is he saying?" I asked, as the poor Cossack now threw himself on
his knees, and raised his trembling hands and haggard eyes to heaven in
supplication.
"He is praying to St. Sergius, and saying that, if his life that is to
come in heaven were to be no better than it is on earth, as a corporal
of Cossacks, pain and death would, indeed, be terrible!"
"Poor fellow!"
His sentence had been read over by Vladimir Dahl; and he and General
Baur--both of whom wore cocked hats with immense green plumes, and
well-furred _soubas_--withdrew a little way, and leaned composedly on
their sabres, while the ramrods glittered in the rising sun, as the
stolid-visaged firing party of twelve men loaded their rifles, cast them
about, and capped. Now the chapel bell began to toll solemnly, and the
standard waved, half-hoisted, in the wind.
The small, keen eyes of Pugacheff seemed fixed on vacancy. The old
priest, in full canonicals, was praying with great earnestness and
devotion; but the prisoner scarcely seemed to hear him.
Perhaps his eyes at that moment saw in fancy his father's cottage by the
broad waters of the Lena; the grove of dark green pines that cast their
shadows on the deep snow-wreaths, and the sharp, flinty summits of the
distant hills, where the stalwart Siberian Cossack galloped in freedom,
with his long, ready spear at his stirrup.
The fawning of the dog, Olga, now attracted the attention of the doomed
man. He lifted it up, stroked, caressed, and kissed it tenderly, for
the poor dog was, perhaps, his only friend. His rugged nature was
melted, and I think there was a tear in his eye, as he looked with a
haggard expression around him.
Suddenly his glance fell on me. He beckoned me to him, and gave me the
dog, saying something, I know not what, hurriedly, and in a husky
voice--a request, no doubt, that I would keep and be kind to the little
animal when he was gone; and I led it away by its leather collar, just
as the firing party brought their muskets to the "ready" and cocked
them.
The dog whined and struggled fiercely with me. It broke away at last,
and rushed to the side of its kneeling and blindfolded master, leaping,
frisking, and barking joyously about him, just as the twelve death-shots
flashed from the muzzles of the firing party.
When the smoke cleared away I saw the Cossack and his dog lying dead on
the gravel, side by side. They had been shot at the same moment.
Pugacheff had several balls in his head and breast, and from the white
coat of the still quivering poodle a crimson current was pouring.
The corporal was buried in the dry ditch of Kourouk, and ere the last
sods were put over his grave by the pioneers, his faithful little
four-footed friend was thrown in beside him, by order of Vladimir Dahl,
and they were covered up together.
The tolling of the chapel bell died away; hoisted to the truck, the
Russian cross streamed out upon the morning wind; and so ended this
little tragedy.
*CHAPTER XLVI.*
BEN. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves!
Supper is done, and we shall come too late.
ROMEO. I fear too early; for my mind misgives,
Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,
Shall bitterly begin his fearful date
With this night's revels; and expire the term
Of a despised life, closed in my breast,
By some vile forfeit of untimely death:
But he that hath the steerage of my course
Directs the sail!
SHAKSPEARE.
The noon of the succeeding day saw me several miles from the Castle of
Kourouk, and pursuing the rugged old Tartar highway that was to conduct
me to Yekaterinoslav, under the escort of Trebitski's Cossacks, about a
hundred of whom, armed with sabres, pistols, and lances, and carrying
their forage, food, and in most instances, plunder, rode in double file
on each side of a train of _kabitkas_, which were filled with sick and
wounded Russian soldiers, and, in a few instances, I saw Frenchmen among
them.
Every jolt of those wretched waggons over the rough and rocky roads
caused wounds to burst out afresh; groans and curses rose in the air,
and blood was soon oozing or dripping through the salt-encrusted
planking on the dusty highway.
These _kabitkas_ are Tartar waggons, which are driven in vast numbers to
Perecop for the conveyance of the salt, which, in the dry season--from
June till August--lies on the plains or steppes so thick that they are
usually driven axle-deep among it for loading.
A number of these waggons had been improvised by General Baur for
ambulance purposes; and now I found myself seated in one, among some
bloody and dirty straw, with three severely wounded men of the 45th, or
Tambrov regiment, and a French officer, whose face was half hidden by a
large bandage, discoloured by the blood of a sword-wound, which had laid
open his right cheek.
Intent upon escape, I looked earnestly and constantly before me; but we
were now traversing an undulating plain, that was dotted by a few trees,
of strange aspect, and the flocks of the Nomadic Tartars. And as the
path dipped down over an eminence, I took a last farewell, but certainly
not "fond look," of Kourouk, with its two burnished domes, which
glittered brightly in the sunshine, while the Mountain of the Tent
looked faint and blue in distance.
Trebitski, the Cossack officer, had conceived, I knew why, a personal
animosity for me; and ever and anon, as if he would anticipate any
attempt on my part to escape, he hovered about the _kabitka_ in which I
was reclining, and recoiling in disgust from the grey-coated Muscovites
who lay beside me, and whose presence made the air redolent of Stamboul
tobacco, bloody bandages, and the Russian leather of their clumsy boots
and coarse accoutrements.
One of the first acts of the pitiful Trebitski was to deprive me of a
small basket of rations--cold fowl, wine, &c.--provided for me by the
kindness of Vladimir Dahl and Captain Anitchoff, and to substitute in
their place a meagre allowance of the black bread, salt, and _vodka_
used by the half-barbarian escort.
I determined to report this petty theft on reaching his head-quarters;
but where were they?
At Yekaterinoslav, on the banks of the Dnieper, in the territory of the
Cossacks of Azof, far over the desert plains that lie beyond the Isthmus
of Perecop, whose vast fortress bars the way from the Crimea to the
mainland of Europe.
My blood boiled up with vengeance against Berkeley, my betrayer, and my
entire soul revolted at the prospect of such a heartless and hopeless
journey, with a doubtful termination--a captivity, the end of which none
could foresee; and the desire--a deep, clamorous, and heart-burning
desire--of escape at any hazard grew strong within me; but I was without
weapon, money, or a horse.
Oh, that I had but five minutes' start, with such an animal under me as
that ridden by Trebitski, which was a beautiful and powerful Arab, whose
actions were full of lightness and grace!
To increase my annoyance, this bearded commander got tipsy more than
once on brandy and absinthe; and then he would shake his crooked sabre
at me with many "strange oaths," of which I could make nothing; but I
thought that, if some of those "wives and daughters of England," who
think foreigners so interesting, had been with us in the Crimea, their
ideas of continentals might have changed in favour of their more prosaic
countrymen.
"_Ouf! pst! pst!_" I heard the wounded Frenchman muttering, as he raised
himself from an uneasy doze, and looked about him with one eye, that
glared wildly, for bandages concealed the other. "But for this devilish
Crimean business, I should have been flirting in the Bois de Boulogne,
lounging in the Gardens of the Tuileries, eating ices at Tortoni's, or
drinking lemonade at a cafe chantant with la belle Rogolboche. _Pst!
pst! c'est le diable!_" Then, addressing himself to me, he said, "_Ah,
le Cossaque!_--yon devil of a Trebitski--is a shocking ruffian--a
veritable brigand! Luckily, the Russian savage does not understand a
word we say. He has stolen your rations, and left you--pah! what a dog
wouldn't eat; but I have something better, and you shall dine with me."
"I thank you, monsieur," said I.
"Comrades in glory, we shall be friends in misfortune!" exclaimed the
Frenchman, with great emphasis. While he ran on thus, something in his
voice seemed familiar to me.
"You are, monsieur--you are----"
"Exactly, my friend; Victor Baudeuf, at your service--Captain of the
French line."
"I thought you were killed at Alma!"
"Only half killed, as you may see. Pardieu! but who told you so?"
"Mademoiselle Sophie."
"The vivandiere of the 2nd Zouaves?"
"Yes."
"Ah! she had always a spite at me--that dear little Sophie. You should
see her riding at the head of the 2nd, with her canteen slung over her
shoulder, and a cigarette between her little fingers, and a saucy
twinkle in her bright eyes as she sings--
"Vivandiere du regiment
C'est Catin qu'on me nomme,
Je vends, je donne, et bois gaiment
Mon vin et mon rogomme.
"I hope she may escape all this wild work, and see our beautiful France
again. No, monsieur, I was not killed, but most severely wounded--left
for dead--and thus fell into the hands of these beastly fellows. I
remember you now, monsieur. We often met at Varna, at the Restaurant de
l'Armee d'Orient. A droll den it was! And you remember Jules
Jolicoeur, of the 2nd Zouaves. Poor Jules! A round shot finished him
at Alma. He has gone to his last account. Heaven rest him! You are a
Scotsman, I believe, though I always took you for a Jean Boule--a
_biftek_; and so you shall dine with me. '_Fier comme un Ecossais_,' is
still a proverb among us in France, in memory of the old times, which
our Zouaves are about to renew, I think; for they boast themselves '_les
Ecossais de l'Armee Francaise_,' and fraternize like brothers with your
sans culotte regiments, in what you call 'lakeelt.'"
All this sounded so like some of Toole's "French before breakfast," that
I could almost have laughed at my garrulous friend, who produced from a
small havresack, which he opened with his left hand--the right being
severely shattered by a grape shot--one of those _pates de foies gras_
for which Strasbourg is so famous; made from the livers of geese, after
the poor birds have undergone a process there is no use in detailing
here. Heaven knows how M. Baudeuf came by it, but the pate, with his