The Last Man
distress, and even agony. It gave ideality to that, from which, taken
in naked truth, the soul would have revolted: it bestowed pictorial
colours on misery and disease, and not unfrequently relieved me from
despair in deplorable changes. This faculty, or instinct, was now
rouzed. I watched the re-awakened devotion of my sister; Clara’s timid,
but concentrated admiration of her father, and Raymond’s appetite for
renown, and sensitiveness to the demonstrations of affection of the
Athenians. Attentively perusing this animated volume, I was the less
surprised at the tale I read on the new-turned page.
The Turkish army were at this time besieging Rodosto; and the Greeks,
hastening their preparations, and sending each day reinforcements, were
on the eve of forcing the enemy to battle. Each people looked on the
coming struggle as that which would be to a great degree decisive; as,
in case of victory, the next step would be the siege of Constantinople
by the Greeks. Raymond, being somewhat recovered, prepared to re-assume
his command in the army.
Perdita did not oppose herself to his determination. She only
stipulated to be permitted to accompany him. She had set down no rule
of conduct for herself; but for her life she could not have opposed his
slightest wish, or do other than acquiesce cheerfully in all his
projects. One word, in truth, had alarmed her more than battles or
sieges, during which she trusted Raymond’s high command would exempt
him from danger. That word, as yet it was not more to her, was PLAGUE.
This enemy to the human race had begun early in June to raise its
serpent-head on the shores of the Nile; parts of Asia, not usually
subject to this evil, were infected. It was in Constantinople; but as
each year that city experienced a like visitation, small attention was
paid to those accounts which declared more people to have died there
already, than usually made up the accustomed prey of the whole of the
hotter months. However it might be, neither plague nor war could
prevent Perdita from following her lord, or induce her to utter one
objection to the plans which he proposed. To be near him, to be loved
by him, to feel him again her own, was the limit of her desires. The
object of her life was to do him pleasure: it had been so before, but
with a difference. In past times, without thought or foresight she had
made him happy, being so herself, and in any question of choice,
consulted her own wishes, as being one with his. Now she sedulously put
herself out of the question, sacrificing even her anxiety for his
health and welfare to her resolve not to oppose any of his desires.
Love of the Greek people, appetite for glory, and hatred of the
barbarian government under which he had suffered even to the approach
of death, stimulated him. He wished to repay the kindness of the
Athenians, to keep alive the splendid associations connected with his
name, and to eradicate from Europe a power which, while every other
nation advanced in civilization, stood still, a monument of antique
barbarism. Having effected the reunion of Raymond and Perdita, I was
eager to return to England; but his earnest request, added to awakening
curiosity, and an indefinable anxiety to behold the catastrophe, now
apparently at hand, in the long drawn history of Grecian and Turkish
warfare, induced me to consent to prolong until the autumn, the period
of my residence in Greece.
As soon as the health of Raymond was sufficiently re-established, he
prepared to join the Grecian camp, near Kishan, a town of some
importance, situated to the east of the Hebrus; in which Perdita and
Clara were to remain until the event of the expected battle. We quitted
Athens on the 2nd of June. Raymond had recovered from the gaunt and
pallid looks of fever. If I no longer saw the fresh glow of youth on
his matured countenance, if care had besieged his brow,
“And dug deep trenches in his beauty’s field,”[2]
if his hair, slightly mingled with grey, and his look, considerate even
in its eagerness, gave signs of added years and past sufferings, yet
there was something irresistibly affecting in the sight of one, lately
snatched from the grave, renewing his career, untamed by sickness or
disaster. The Athenians saw in him, not as heretofore, the heroic boy
or desperate man, who was ready to die for them; but the prudent
commander, who for their sakes was careful of his life, and could make
his own warrior-propensities second to the scheme of conduct policy
might point out.
All Athens accompanied us for several miles. When he had landed a month
ago, the noisy populace had been hushed by sorrow and fear; but this
was a festival day to all. The air resounded with their shouts; their
picturesque costume, and the gay colours of which it was composed,
flaunted in the sunshine; their eager gestures and rapid utterance
accorded with their wild appearance. Raymond was the theme of every
tongue, the hope of each wife, mother or betrothed bride, whose
husband, child, or lover, making a part of the Greek army, were to be
conducted to victory by him.
Notwithstanding the hazardous object of our journey, it was full of
romantic interest, as we passed through the vallies, and over the
hills, of this divine country. Raymond was inspirited by the intense
sensations of recovered health; he felt that in being general of the
Athenians, he filled a post worthy of his ambition; and, in his hope of
the conquest of Constantinople, he counted on an event which would be
as a landmark in the waste of ages, an exploit unequalled in the annals
of man; when a city of grand historic association, the beauty of whose
site was the wonder of the world, which for many hundred years had been
the strong hold of the Moslems, should be rescued from slavery and
barbarism, and restored to a people illustrious for genius,
civilization, and a spirit of liberty. Perdita rested on his restored
society, on his love, his hopes and fame, even as a Sybarite on a
luxurious couch; every thought was transport, each emotion bathed as it
were in a congenial and balmy element.
We arrived at Kishan on the 7th of July. The weather during our journey
had been serene. Each day, before dawn, we left our night’s encampment,
and watched the shadows as they retreated from hill and valley, and the
golden splendour of the sun’s approach. The accompanying soldiers
received, with national vivacity, enthusiastic pleasure from the sight
of beautiful nature. The uprising of the star of day was hailed by
triumphant strains, while the birds, heard by snatches, filled up the
intervals of the music. At noon, we pitched our tents in some shady
valley, or embowering wood among the mountains, while a stream
prattling over pebbles induced grateful sleep. Our evening march, more
calm, was yet more delightful than the morning restlessness of spirit.
If the band played, involuntarily they chose airs of moderated passion;
the farewell of love, or lament at absence, was followed and closed by
some solemn hymn, which harmonized with the tranquil loveliness of
evening, and elevated the soul to grand and religious thought. Often
all sounds were suspended, that we might listen to the nightingale,
while the fire-flies danced in bright measure, and the soft cooing of
the aziolo spoke of fair weather to the travellers. Did we pass a
valley? Soft shades encompassed us, and rocks tinged with beauteous
hues. If we traversed a mountain, Greece, a living map, was spread
beneath, her renowned pinnacles cleaving the ether; her rivers
threading in silver line the fertile land. Afraid almost to breathe, we
English travellers surveyed with extasy this splendid landscape, so
different from the sober hues and melancholy graces of our native
scenery. When we quitted Macedonia, the fertile but low plains of
Thrace afforded fewer beauties; yet our journey continued to be
interesting. An advanced guard gave information of our approach, and
the country people were quickly in motion to do honour to Lord Raymond.
The villages were decorated by triumphal arches of greenery by day, and
lamps by night; tapestry waved from the windows, the ground was strewed
with flowers, and the name of Raymond, joined to that of Greece, was
echoed in the _Evive_ of the peasant crowd.
When we arrived at Kishan, we learnt, that on hearing of the advance of
Lord Raymond and his detachment, the Turkish army had retreated from
Rodosto; but meeting with a reinforcement, they had re-trod their
steps. In the meantime, Argyropylo, the Greek commander-in-chief, had
advanced, so as to be between the Turks and Rodosto; a battle, it was
said, was inevitable. Perdita and her child were to remain at Kishan.
Raymond asked me, if I would not continue with them. “Now by the fells
of Cumberland,” I cried, “by all of the vagabond and poacher that
appertains to me, I will stand at your side, draw my sword in the Greek
cause, and be hailed as a victor along with you!”
All the plain, from Kishan to Rodosto, a distance of sixteen leagues,
was alive with troops, or with the camp-followers, all in motion at the
approach of a battle. The small garrisons were drawn from the various
towns and fortresses, and went to swell the main army. We met baggage
waggons, and many females of high and low rank returning to Fairy or
Kishan, there to wait the issue of the expected day. When we arrived at
Rodosto, we found that the field had been taken, and the scheme of the
battle arranged. The sound of firing, early on the following morning,
informed us that advanced posts of the armies were engaged. Regiment
after regiment advanced, their colours flying and bands playing. They
planted the cannon on the tumuli, sole elevations in this level
country, and formed themselves into column and hollow square; while the
pioneers threw up small mounds for their protection.
These then were the preparations for a battle, nay, the battle itself;
far different from any thing the imagination had pictured. We read of
centre and wing in Greek and Roman history; we fancy a spot, plain as a
table, and soldiers small as chessmen; and drawn forth, so that the
most ignorant of the game can discover science and order in the
disposition of the forces. When I came to the reality, and saw
regiments file off to the left far out of sight, fields intervening
between the battalions, but a few troops sufficiently near me to
observe their motions, I gave up all idea of understanding, even of
seeing a battle, but attaching myself to Raymond attended with intense
interest to his actions. He shewed himself collected, gallant and
imperial; his commands were prompt, his intuition of the events of the
day to me miraculous. In the mean time the cannon roared; the music
lifted up its enlivening voice at intervals; and we on the highest of
the mounds I mentioned, too far off to observe the fallen sheaves which
death gathered into his storehouse, beheld the regiments, now lost in
smoke, now banners and staves peering above the cloud, while shout and
clamour drowned every sound.
Early in the day, Argyropylo was wounded dangerously, and Raymond
assumed the command of the whole army. He made few remarks, till, on
observing through his glass the sequel of an order he had given, his
face, clouded for awhile with doubt, became radiant. “The day is ours,”
he cried, “the Turks fly from the bayonet.” And then swiftly he
dispatched his aides-de-camp to command the horse to fall on the routed
enemy. The defeat became total; the cannon ceased to roar; the infantry
rallied, and horse pursued the flying Turks along the dreary plain; the
staff of Raymond was dispersed in various directions, to make
observations, and bear commands. Even I was dispatched to a distant
part of the field.
The ground on which the battle was fought, was a level plain—so level,