Under the Red Dragon: A Novel

grave-studded valley of Inkermann were growing dim and blue, I found myself again at sea, on board the Kangaroo--a crowded transport (or rather a floating hospital)--speeding homeward, and bidding "a long good-night to the Crimea," to the land of glory and endurance. Sebastopol seemed a dream now, but a memory of the past; and a dream, too, seemed my new life when I lay on my couch at the open port, and saw the crested waves flying past, as we sped through them under sail and steam. Onward, onward, three hundred miles and more across the Euxine, to where the green range of the Balkan looks down upon its waters, and where the lighthouses of Anatolia on one side, and those of Roumelia on the other, guide to the long narrow channel of Stamboul; but ere the latter was reached--and on our starboard bow we saw the white waves curling over the blue Cyanean rocks, where Jason steered the Argonauts--we had to deposit many a poor fellow in the deep; for we had four hundred convalescent and helpless men on board, and only one surgeon, with scarcely any medicines or comforts for them, as John Bull, if he likes glory, likes to obtain it _cheap_. It was another case of Whig parsimony; so every other hour an emaciated corpse, rolled in a mud-stained greatcoat or well-worn blanket, without prayer or ceremony of any kind, was quietly dropped to leeward, the 32-pound shot at its heels making a dull plunge in that huge grave, the world of water, which leaves no mark behind. I gladly left the Kangaroo at Pera, and, establishing myself at the Hôtel d'Angleterre, wrote from thence to Sir Madoc that I should take one of the London liners at Malta for England, and to write me to the United Service Club in London; that all my plans for the future were vague and quite undecided; but I was not without hope of getting some military employment at home. The Frankish hotel was crowded by wounded officers, also _en route_ for England or France, all in sorely faded uniforms, on which the new Crimean medals glittered brightly. As all the world travels nowadays, I am not going to "talk guide-book," or break into ecstasies about the glories of Stamboul as viewed from a distance, and not when floundering mid-leg deep in the mud of its picturesque but rickety old thoroughfares; yet certainly the daily scene before the hotel windows was a singular one; for there were stalwart Turkish porters, veritable sons of Anak; stagey-looking dragomen, with brass pistols and enormous sabres in wooden sheaths; the Turk of the old school in turban, beard, slippers, and flowing garments; the Turk of the new, whom he despised, close shaven, with red fez and glazed boots; water-carriers; Osmanli infantry, solemn, brutal, and sensual, jostled by rollicking British tars and merry little French Zouaves; and for a background, the city of the Sultans, with all its casements, domes, and minarets glittering in the unclouded sunshine. Two light cavalry subs, who had ridden in the death ride at Balaclava, and bore some cuts and slashes won therein, three others of the Light Division, and myself, agreed to travel homeward together; and pleasant days we had of it while skirting the mountainous isles of Greece, Byron's "Isles of Greece, where burning Sappho loved and sung," and the tints of which seemed all brown or gray as we saw them through the vapour exhaled in summer from the Ægean Sea, with their little white villages shadowed by trees, their rocks like sea-walls, crowned here and there by the columns, solitary and desolate, of some temple devoted to the gods of other days--"a country rich in historic reminiscence, but poor as Sahara in everything else." And so on by Malta and old Gib; and exactly fourteen days after leaving the former we were cleaving the muddy bosom of Father Thames; and that night saw me in my old room at "the Rag," with the dull roar of mighty London in my ears; and after the rapid travelling I went to sleep, as addled as a fly could be in a drum. CHAPTER LVIII.--HOME. The comfort and splendour of the fashionable club-house, the tall mirrors, the gilded cornices, the soft carpets, the massive furniture, the powdered and liveried waiters gliding noiselessly about, all impressed me with a high sense of the intense snugness of England and of _home_, after my airy tent, with its embankment of earth for shelter, its smoky funnel of mess-tins, and the tiny trench cut round it to carry away the rainwater. Then I was discussing a breakfast which, after my Crimean experience, seemed a feast fit for Lucullus or Apicius, and listening with something of a smile to the rather loud conversation of some members of the club--wiry old Peninsulars, Waterloo and India men, who were certain "the service was going to the devil," and who drew somewhat disparaging comparisons between the way matters had been conducted by our generals and those of the war under Sir John Moore, Lynedoch, Hill, and "the Iron Duke;" and to me it seemed that the old fellows were right, and that after forty years of peace we had learned nothing new in the art of campaigning. "Captain Hardinge, a gentleman for you, sir," said a waiter, presenting me with a card on a silver salver; and I had barely time to look at it ere Sir Madoc Lloyd, in top-boots and corded breeches as usual--his ruddy sunburnt face, his white hair and sparkling dark eyes, in his cheery breezy way the same as ever--entered, hat and whip in hand, and welcomed me home so warmly, that for a moment he drew the eyes of all in the room upon us. He had breakfasted two hours before--country time--and had a canter round the Park. He was in town on Parliamentary business, but was starting that afternoon for Craigaderyn. I should accompany him, of course, he added, in his hearty impetuous way. Then ere I could speak,-- "God bless my soul!" he exclaimed. "Poor Harry! till I have seen you I could not realise the idea of your being mutilated thus! No more hunting, no more shooting, no more fishing----" "And no more dancing, the ladies would add," said I, smiling. "And no more soldiering." "Unless the Queen kindly permits me." "Gad! I think you have had enough of it!" "And--and Miss Lloyd and Dora?" "Are both well and looking beautiful. There are not many girls in Wales like my girls. A seaside trip has brought back the bloom to Winny's cheeks; and as for Dora, she never loses it." "And why did Miss Lloyd refuse an offer so eligible as that of Sir Watkins Vaughan?" I asked, after a pause. "Can't for the life of me say," replied Sir Madoc, rubbing his chin, and turning to the decanter as a waiter set some dry sherry and biscuits before us. "And why would not my little friend Dora have her Guardsman?" "Can't say that, either. Perhaps she hated a 'swell' with an affected 'yaw-haw' impediment in his speech. Girls are so odd; but mine are dear girls for all that. I'll telegraph to Owen Gwyllim to have the carriage awaiting us at Chester; and we shall leave town before luncheon-time, if you have no other plans or engagements." "I have neither; but--but, Sir Madoc, why so soon?" I asked, as certain passages in my later visits to Craigaderyn gave me a twinge of compunction. "Now that I think of it, I had an idea of taking a run down to Lewes in Sussex," said I. "Lewes in Sussex--a dreary place, though in a first-rate coursing country. I've ridden there with the Brighton Hunt. What would take you there--before coming to us, at least?" I coloured a little, and said, "I have a friend there, among the Russian prisoners." "By Jove, I think you've had enough of those fellows! Nonsense, Harry! We shall start without delay. Why waste time and money in London?" said Sir Madoc, who never liked his plans or wishes thwarted. "I have just to give a look at a brace of hunters at Tattersall's for Vaughan, and then I am with you. Down there, with our fine mountain breezes, our six-months' Welsh mutton, and seven-years' cliquot, we'll make a man of you again. I can't get you an arm, Harry; but, by Jove, it will go hard with us if we don't get you _two_ belonging to some one else!" I laughed at this idea; and so that evening saw me again far from London, and being swept as fast as the express could speed along the North-Western line towards Chester. I had quite a load of Russian trophies--such were then in great request--for Sir Madoc: sabres, muskets, and bayonets; glazed helmets of the 26th and Vladimir Regiments, a Zouave trumpet (with a banner attached), trod flat as a pancake under the feet of the stormers as they poured into the Malakoff. There, too, were several rusty fragments of exploded shells, hand-grenades, and the last cannon-shot fired from the Mamelon Vert. For Winifred and Dora I had mother-of-pearl trunks of rare essences and perfumes; slender gilt vials of attar of roses; daintily-embroidered Turkish slippers, with turned-up toes, and bracelets of rose-pearls from Stamboul; Maltese jewelry, lace, veils, and as many pretty things as might have stocked a little shop in the Palais Royal or the Burlington Arcade. The month was June, and my spirits became more and more buoyant, as in the open carriage we bowled along between the green mountains and the waving woodlands. Now the mowers, scythe in hand, were bending over the fragrant and bearded grass; the ploughmen were turning up the fallow soil; the squirrels were feasting in the blossom; the sheep were being driven to fold; and the crow was flying aloft, ere he sought his nest "in the rooky wood." It was a thorough English June evening: the air pure, the sunshine bright, and casting the shadows of the mountains far across the vales and fresh green meadows; the blackbird, thrush, and linnet sang on every tree, and a glow of happiness came over me; for all around the land looked so peaceful and so lovely, the gray smoke curling up from copse and dingle to mark where stood those "free fair homes of England," of which Mrs. Hemans sang so sweetly. Sir Madoc was discoursing on the cultivation of turnips and mangold wurzels, and on the mode of extirpating annual darnel-grass, coltsfoot, wild charlock, and other mysterious plants to me unknown; and I heard him as one in a dream, when we entered the long lime avenue. How pleasant and picturesque looked the old house of the Tudor times at the end of that long leafy vista, with all its tinted oriels, its gilded vanes, and quaint stone finials! The woodbine, clematis, and ivy, hops and honeysuckle, all blended in luxuriant masses, aspiring to peep in at the upper windows. Craigaderyn, so redolent of fruit and flowers, of fresh sweet air, of bright green leaves, of health and every bracing element--a hearty old house, where for generations the yule log had blazed, and the holly-branch and the mistletoe hung from the old oak roof, when the snow lay deep on Carneydd Llewellyn; where the boar's head was served up in state at Christmas, and at Michaelmas the goose; where so many brides had come home happy, and so many old folks, full of years and honour, gone to the vault of the old church among the hills; where lay all the line of Lloyd, save the luckless Sir Jorwerth Du; and where--. But here my somewhat discursive reverie was interrupted by the carriage being pulled sharply up at the perron before the entrance; and Owen Gwyllim, with his wrinkled face beaming, and his white head glistening in the sunshine, hastened down to open the door, arrange the steps, and shake the only hand the Russians had left me. "Where are the young ladies?" asked Sir Madoc, impatiently glancing up at all the windows. "Gone for a ride so far as Llandudno, with Miss Vaughan." "Alone?" "No, Sir Madoc, attended by Spurrit, the groom. They were gone before