Part 29

Pitblado, after his wound was dressed, was about to feed his horse, and placed the corn in a tin platter on the ground. While grooming the charger, he saw a large raven come to feed at the corn. Twice he threw a stone at it in vain--the greedy bird continued its repast obstinately. On the third occasion, armed with another stone, he ran towards it, on which the raven flew into a tree, where he croaked as angrily as if he had Elijah to feed as well as himself. At that moment a shell--a five-inch one---came whistling from the other side of the stream, and exploded on the very place Pitblado had left, disembowelling and killing his horse; so, in this instance, a raven was not the precursor of evil fortune, or, as Willie said, sadly, while contemplating his dying charger, "one hoodiecrow didna bode an ill wind."

At a future period I was fated to see more of the gallant Schleswiger who commanded the Russian reconnaissance at Bulganak; but there is an anecdote connected with his origin, and how he became a soldier, so creditable to human nature, and that which is dying fast among us, genuine love of home, that I may be pardoned relating it here, just as Beverley told it in our bivouac--especially as it is only to be found in the old _Utrecht Gazette_, or the scarcer memoirs of a Scottish soldier of fortune, Count Bruce, neither of which may be within the reader's reach. Prior to the conclusion of the dispute between Denmark and the ducal house of Gottorp, when the Muscovite troops were in Schleswig and Holstein, their cavalry were commanded by a general named Baur--a soldier of fortune, who had attained his rank by merit and bravery alone, his family and country being secrets to all save himself. His troops occupied Husum, a small seaport at the mouth of the Hever, while he, with his staff, lived in the old palace of the Duke Karl Peter of Gottorp, who became Emperor of Russia, and lorded it over the people with somewhat of a high hand. The little bailiwick was then a charming place. The green meadows were fertile and rich, and spotted by golden buttercups; the uplands were well tilled, and covered with wavy corn, or deep rich clover; the farmhouses, of red brick and bright, yellow thatch, were wondrously clean and pretty, their quaint porches covered with flowing trailers, and borders gay with gorgeous hollyhocks.

The windmills whirled gaily in the breeze, and the laden boats, their brown sails shining in the sun, floated lazily down the clear waters of the river towards the calm and dark blue sea that stretched in the distance far away--that sea where, as the Schleswigers aver, Waldemar and Paine Jager, the Wild Huntsman, and Gron Jette, were never tired of hunting and killing the mermaids, who sat on the slimy rocks, combing their hair, and singing in the moonshine. All was peaceful, and all so calm and rural, that the good men of Schleswig, their plump wives and pretty daughters, trembled at the woes that might be wrought among them by their bearded visitors from the Neva and the Wolga; and more than ever were they alarmed on hearing that the general of the Muscovites had sent for poor old Michel Baur, the miller by the wooden bridge, and also for his wife, who went with many misgivings to the palace of the duke, over which the standard with the cruel double eagle of the Czars was flying.

"Make yourselves easy, my good people," said the Russian general, kindly, as they entered the great hall, with eyes abashed and shrinking hearts; "I mean only to do you a service, so this day you shall dine with me."

Dine--dine with him--the general of the Muscovites? Did they hear aright, or did their ears deceive them? Then he set the goodman Michel and his goodwife Gretchen at table among the splendidly attired and brilliantly accoutred officers of his staff--those counts and colonels of Uhlans, hussars and cuirassiers, who gnawed their moustaches, and raised their fierce eyebrows superciliously, with wonder and inquiry, at proceedings so novel; while some of the younger laughed covertly at the terror and bewilderment of the worthy couple, who, however, ate heartily of dainties to which they were all unused, after their first alarm subsided. The Muscovite general, who sat between them, at the head of the table, with a kind smile on his handsome face--for handsome it was, though his hair was now thin and grey--asked Michel many questions about his family and household affairs--how the mill prospered and flour sold in the market.

Then Michel, who scarcely ventured to raise his eyes from the order, with the cross batons and crown of St. Andrew of Russia, which sparkled on the general's breast, told him that he was the eldest son of his father, who had been a miller at the same mill years and years ago, even when Frederick V. of Denmark, married to the Princess Louisa of Great Britain, was a boy.

"The eldest son, say you, Michel?"

"Yes, herr general," replied the miller, smoothing down his white hair nervously.

"Then you had, at least, a brother?"

"Yes, herr general; poor Karl. He disappeared."

"How?"

"Some said he became a soldier, others that he was spirited away by the fairies," said Gretchen.

"Many a prayer my good wife and I have said for Karl, though it is so long since he was lost; and in his memory we have named our only son Karl, too."

On hearing this, the Russian general became greatly moved, and, seeing that the astonishment of his officers at the interest he took in these humble rustics could no longer be repressed, he rose, and taking Michel and his wife by the hand--"Gentlemen," said he, "you know me but as a soldier of fortune, and have often been curious to learn who I am, whose breast the Emperor has covered with stars and orders, and whence I came. This village is my native place. In yonder crumbling mill by the wooden bridge I was born. This is my brother Michel, and Gretchen, his wife! I am Karl Baur, son of old Karl, the miller of Husum. Here was I _bairn_ ere I relinquished my miller's dusty coat to become a soldier. Oh, brother Michel, who then could have _spaed_[*] the present?" he added, in their old native dialect, as he embraced the wondering pair.

[*] Foretold.

"I was supposed to have been stolen on St. John's night by the golden-haired Stillevolk of the marshes, or the cranky old red-capped Trolds, who dwelt among the green holms; but it was not so. I became a hussar under Duke Karl Peter of Gottorp, and have risen to be what thou seest--general of cavalry under our father the Emperor! So drink a deep becker of our Danish beer, brother Michel; drink to the old times of our boyhood, and fear not. I know our patrimony is but one of the poor _Bauerhafen_, which are divided according to the number of ploughs; but to-morrow thy _hufe_ shall be a _Freihufen_, Michel, free of all burdens, even to the duke's bailiff or the King of Denmark."

Next day the general dined at the old mill, where he sat upon the same hard stool he had used in boyhood, supping his Schleswig _groute_ with a horn spoon from a wooden platter. In memory of the olden time, he placed a marble cross above his parent's grave. Three days after the trumpets were heard, and the army marched from Schleswig to return no more; but the general--the same General Bauer who served under Suwarrow in the famous campaigns of Italy--made a plentiful provision for his poor relatives, and sent the miller's only son, his namesake, Karl, to Court for his education, Karl rose to a high place in the household of the Czar, and it was his son, Karlovitch Bauer, who prepared so specious a trap for our advanced guard on the Bulganak--a trap happily rendered useless by the skill and foresight of our leader, the good and brave Lord Raglan.

*CHAPTER XXXVI.*

Let me go! The day is breaking, Morning bursts upon mine eye, Death this mortal frame is shaking; But the soul can never die!

Let me go! The day-star beaming, Gilds the radiant realms above; Full its glory on me streaming Lights me to the land of love! LAYS OF THE PIOUS MINSTRELS.

Wrapped in my cloak and blanket, I had fallen into an uneasy slumber, close by a fragment of ruined wall, the boundary, perhaps, of a deserted Tartar garden, when I was roused by Sergeant Stapylton of my troop.

"I beg pardon, sir, for disturbing you," said he, in an apologetic way; "but as I was returning from the river side with water for some of the wounded horses, I passed a Frenchwoman, as I take her to be, dying to all appearance, and thought, as she can't be left where she is, that if you would come and speak to her----"

"Of course," said I, springing up; "where is she?"

"Near a grove of olive trees--just a pistol-shot or so beyond our advanced sentries. You can pass me to the front, sir, as your guide."

Leaving the sleeping group of my brother officers, I accompanied Stapylton, with stiffened joints and chattering teeth. The morning was yet dark, but a red streak of light above the hilly ground that rose between our left flank and the Perekop road, showed where the dawn was about to break. All was still around me. Save the occasional neigh of a horse, scarcely a sound broke the silence of that place, where so many thousands of our soldiers were sleeping, or dozing as men may do, after reflecting that the night which was passing away might be their last in the land of the living, and that the coming day must find them face to face with danger, and--death! On the chill breeze of the September morning, I could hear the rush of the Bulganak over its stony bed, between which and our bivouac could be traced the line of our cavalry vedettes, seated, cloaked, in their saddles, with carbine on thigh, and the advanced sentinels, muffled in their great coats, standing motionless, with "ordered arms," and their faces turned to the southward, where all knew the enemy lay. Passing through the Light Brigade, where each man slept beside his horse, I stumbled over a sleeper, in whom I recognized a medical officer, and asked him to accompany us, which he did readily; and, guided by Stapylton, we proceeded towards the grove of olive trees.

As we quitted the bivouac, the medical officer said--"You perceive that vapour which is rising so steadily from the ground?"

"Yes," said I, with an irrepressible shudder; "I saw enough of it at Varna."

"You are right," he continued, in a low and impressive voice; "that pale, blue, fetid vapour is the cholera mist--always a bad sign. We shall have many cases on our lists ere sunset to-morrow, and Heaven knows they are full enough already. Nearly all the women and children of my regiment were buried on the roadside yesterday. A sick Frenchwoman, I think you said, sergeant?" he observed, recurring to the business in hand.

"Yes, sir," replied Stapylton, saluting.

"Strange! What should bring her here? The French are at present far away on our right, and in the rear. I presume you have heard of what took place this evening, Captain Norcliff?"

"Where?"

"At head-quarters."

"The little post-house on the Bulganak, where Lord Raglan passes the night?"

"Exactly. Marshal St. Arnaud, attended by Colonel Trochier, of the imperial army, rode up there to concert the plan of an attack to-morrow. So, whatever it is, our part in the play of to-morrow is already assigned us; and now, sergeant, your Frenchwoman."

"Is here, sir, to speak for herself, if she can, poor thing."

Close by the grove of olive trees, with a coarse blanket spread over her, lay the woman of whom Stapylton had spoken.

"Cholera!" said the surgeon, as he turned down the blanket, and knelt beside her; "cholera, and in the last stages, too. No pulse can be felt, the extremities cold and rigid, the face ghastly, the strength exhausted. I can be of no use here," he added to me, in a low voice. "A little time and all will be over."

From my hunting flask he poured a little brandy between the lips of the sufferer, who proved to be a _soeur de charite_, by her white coif and black serge dress; and, on drawing nearer, imagine what were my sensations on recognising, through the twilight of the coming day, the pale and convulsed features of Sister Archange--of Mademoiselle de Chaverondier! An exclamation of sorrow and astonishment burst from me. All the memory of her kindness when I lay sick in the house of the Armenian merchant at Varna; all her singleness of heart; all her purity and self-devotion; all the memory of her story, and of her own happy home amid the mountains of Beaujolais, and how and why she had devoted herself to Heaven and acts of charity; all her simple belief in magic and miracles, with her child-like love and piety; her regard for her brother Claude, the gallant officer of Canrobert's regiment, his wife, Cecile Montalle, and the cruel Lucrece, whose revenge wrought all their sorrow--all the memory of these things, I say, rushed upon me like a flood, as I stood, bewildered, by the side of the dying girl--dying like an outcast in that wild and savage place--and they deeply moved me. To leave her to die thus, untended and uncared for, was impossible. Yet what was to be done? How was I to succour her? Already the trumpets of the cavalry, and the ringing bugles of the infantry, were sounding the "rouse" and the "assembly," and the army was getting rapidly under arms--all the more rapidly that there were no tents to strike and no baggage to pack. Each man fell into the ranks on the ground where he had slept; the cavalry were mounting, the artillery were tracing their horses and limbering up, and long ere the Bay of Kalamita glittered in the rising sun, the whole British army was on the move towards the Alma.

My friend the surgeon, finding that he could do no more--that he had, perhaps, patients enough elsewhere--suggested, ere he departed, that she might be put into one of the _kabitkas_ of the ambulance corps; but, as he assured me that she could not live above an hour, I despatched Stapylton to explain the matter to Colonel Beverley; and in a few minutes he returned with Pitblado, Lanty O'Regan, my groom, and four other lancers and our horses, and with permission for me "to look after my sick friend; but, at all risks, not to be ten minutes' march behind the rear guard, as General Bosquet's division was already advancing rapidly on our right flank, and the French sister might be more properly handed over to her own people."

We lifted her into the olive thicket, out of the way of the passing troops; for already our advanced guard, under Lord Cardigan--"Prince Albert's Own," with their blue jackets and scarlet pelisses covered with glittering lace, and the 13th Light Dragoons--were once more splashing through the Bulganak, laughing and joking merrily, as if it were a fox that was to break cover in the Lincolnshire fens, and not the hordes of the southern and western Russias that were before them. By means of three barrel-hoops and a horse-sheet, we improvised something like that which the French term a day-tent, to hide her and her sufferings. Then the idea occurred to me as to what I could do if she survived beyond the time allotted to us by the colonel. Could I leave her in that wild place to die alone, and to lie unburied, save by the wolves and birds of prey? Alas! a very brief time now resolved all my doubts and fears. A little way apart from us, a silent and sympathetic group, my seven lancers stood, each by his horse's head, leaning on his lance, and awaiting me. If they conversed, it was in half whispers, for they sincerely pitied the girl, those French sisters of charity being the admiration of the whole army. I was bathing her lips with some diluted brandy, when she fully, and for the first time, recognised me. Then a little smile of joy passed over her ghastly face, and she began to speak, painfully, huskily, and at long intervals.

"It is my turn now; but I am dying, you see, _mon frere_," said she, "dying. Many of my sisters have died in the camp--but--but few thus."

"Few, indeed," said I, in a low, sad voice.

"In ardent prayers for the repose of my soul you find no solace. I say not this upbraidingly, yet the mortuary chants of the 'Dies Irae' and the 'De Profundis' will never be said for me, because I die--die thus!" she said, in a low and piercing voice, as she closed her eyes.

Perplexity was now added to my sorrow, for I knew not what the poor girl wished or meant; but I implored her to tell me how she came to be left thus alone and in illness. In the night when, asleep and weary, she had fallen unseen from a French ambulance cart, some scouting Cossacks had found and carried her off in mocking triumph; but, on finding that the deadly pestilence had seized her, they barbarously flung her into the Bulganak. She had crept ashore, and was making her way to our bivouac, when the progress of her illness became so rapid and destroying that she was reduced to the condition in which Stapylton found her. Such was the short story she told me, in long and painful intervals, her voice being at times so low that I had to place my ear close to her lips.

"And now," she added, with a divine smile, which brought back much of the wonderful beauty of her face, "I am so glad--so happy that I shall die!"

"Why, _ma soeur_?"

"Lest I should live longer; because, in doing so, I could scarcely fail in some way to offend heaven," replied the poor girl. "I confessed me two days ago--I die in peace, and forgive those Cossaques--_mon ami_--_mon frere_, I should say--you will close my eyes--you will see me buried--promise me that you will!"

I could only answer her by my tears; and strange it seemed that all around the thicket where this solemn scene was acting, and when the spirit of this good being was hovering between eternity and time, the thousands of our army, horse, foot, and artillery, with ammunition and stores, were pouring past in the bright morning sunshine, towards the passage of the Bulganak.

All around was instinct with the glitter and bustle of martial life; but within that olive grove was death, sublime humility, and suffering.

"Are you in pain now?" I asked, as this thought occurred to me.

"Oh, no--pain is long since passed away. If I could but live till three in the afternoon, I could then die more than ever happily."

"Why at three?"

"For at that time our Blessed Lord yielded up his soul on Calvary!" said she, with a voice of enthusiasm, while a strange brightness seemed to pass over all her face.

As she turned restlessly her eyes fell upon Sergeant Stapylton and the lancers, and beckoning them forward, she bestowed her blessing on each; and they listened with bowed heads, and took off their caps. I was deeply moved, and drew a pace or two aside.

"Heaven has always been so good to me," she muttered, in broken English, as the sergeant placed his cloak as a pillow under her head; "because, as you must know, _messieurs les soldats_, my mother dedicated me to heaven, and I am a child of the Holy Virgin."

Poor Stapylton, a worthy but stolid John Bull, looked rather bewildered by this information; but my Irish groom understood her.

"Thrue for you, miss," said Lanty, wiping his eyes with the worsted tassels of his yellow sash. "Oh, it's fast she's goin' to glory, the poor cratur. Oh, never a ha'porth she thinks of herself; but it is us she's prayin' for, boys."

"Other souls than mine shall pass away to-day, for ere nightfall a great battle is to be fought--I know that."

At that moment, through an opening in the olive trees, we saw a regiment of infantry marching past in close column of subdivisions, with the band in front, colours flying, and bayonets gleaming in the sun. It was our 88th, of gallant memory, with Colonel Shirley riding at the head of the column, and the drums and fifes made the blue welkin ring to the air of "The Young May Moon." She looked wistfully at the defiling ranks; there was so much of life there, so much of death here! Then, clasping her white hands, which were so thin and tremulous, and, closing her eyes, she began to repeat a little prayer in Latin, for those who were to fall on both sides--the Russians as well as the English.

Of that prayer I can only remember a single sentence--

"_O clementissime Jesu, amator animarum, lava in sanguine Tuo peccatores totius mundi, nunc positos in agonia et hodie morituros._"[*]

[*] "O most merciful Jesus, lover of souls, wash in Thy blood the sinners of the whole world who are now in their agony and are to die this day!"

Then, whispering something of her "mother who was in heaven, kneeling for her before the Mother of God," the pure spirit of this French girl passed out into the black night of eternity. We stood for a time silent, and nothing roused us but our rear-guard defiling to the front from the right of troops, and then the orders of the colonel recurred to me. Were I to live a thousand years I shall never forget the calm and soothing, yet sorrowful, impression made upon me by this poor girl's death. I closed her eyes, and their long, dark lashes fell over the pale cheek, from which they never more would rise, and she lay under the poor horse-rug, looking so calm, with a peaceful and beautiful expression on her sweet dead face. Her hands were now folded on her breast; her black ebony crucifix had fallen from them; but Lanty O'Regan replaced it gently, and kindly closed the stiffening fingers round it, and there was a big sob in Lanty's throat as he did so. Death brought back all the strange loveliness of other days to Sister Archange; and I could not behold her lying there, looking so peaceful, so white and still, without feeling my heart very full indeed. For when I saw so much self-devotion, poverty, and charity united with peace and goodwill to all mankind--to Christian and Osmanli, to friend and foe alike--it seemed to me truly that of such as she was the kingdom of God. I kissed the dead girl's forehead as we drew the horse-rug over her, and prepared for her interment, as we had not a moment to lose.

The soil was soft, and we had only our sword-blades and hands to dig with; but we contrived to scoop a hole about three feet deep. Reverently, as if she had been their sister, my comrades laid her in it, and then we heaped the mould above her. She lies in that little thicket of olives, about a mile from Bulganak, and sleeps in what is called unconsecrated earth; though the ashes of that sister of charity might bring a blessing on the city of the Sultan. We now mounted, put our horses to full speed, and soon passing our rear-guard, came up with our brigade, and rejoined the regiment. By this time the whole army was on the march to force the position of the Alma, and already our right flank was almost united to the left of the French column under General Bosquet, as the allies advanced together.

*CHAPTER XXXVII.*

News of battle!--news of battle! Hark, 'tis ringing down the street! And the archways and the pavement Bear the clang of hurrying feet. News of battle!--who hath brought it? News of triumph! Who should bring Tidings from our noble army? Greetings from our gallant king? LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH CAVALIERS.

While these events were occurring by the shore of the Euxine, brown autumn was spreading her sober tints upon the Scottish woods; and one seldom sees the country more attractive than when its beauty is decaying, and a soothing sadness mingles with our delight.

The long grass is dank in the shady places, for there the dew falls early at eve, and lingers long after sunrise; and now in Calderwood Glen the dark leaves of the chestnuts were varied by the golden yellow of the lime tree, whose frail leaves are among the earliest to whirl before the gusty autumn wind.