CHAPTER XII.

AT WORK.

I have often wondered why blasphemy is excusable when it is spoken from a throne. It seems to me that many crimes have been deliberately set forth upon paper under the exculpating heading of, 'In the name of God--Amen. We,' etc., etc. This thought cannot well escape suggestion while perusing a declaration of war. It is a subterfuge--a mean attempt to assign the responsibility to One who is mightier than princes or potentates. God does not declare war--it is man.

On the twenty-fourth day of April, eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, the Czar of all the Russias gave forth to his people that, bowing his head to the evident desire of the Almighty, he reluctantly declared war against the Ottoman Empire. There was much rhetoric about Christian nations suffering beneath the lash of Mohammedan hatred; stories were told of shocking cruelties practised upon an oppressed people, coldly worded statements were made of misgovernment, misappropriation, theft. And the remedy to all these was, if it may please you, war! From the formal declaration, with its pharisaical self-laudation, its rolling periods and mock reluctance, fourteen letters might have been selected, and set in order so as to spell a single word in which lay the explanation of it all. That word was--'Constantinople.'

Before the official opening of hostilities, Russia was prepared, and Turkey (despite a long warning) but half ready, as usual. The Russian troops entered Roumania and Turkish Armenia at once, the inhabitants of both countries, with Oriental readiness, receiving them as deliverers. The day following the declaration of war saw the occupation of the town of Galatz.

Theodore Trist had, as he told Brenda he intended, taken up his quarters in this small town upon the Danube, and actually passed through its streets in the midst of the Northern troops unsuspected. When the conquerors had shaken down into their new quarters, and military discipline was beginning to make itself felt throughout the city, he discreetly vanished, and, crossing the Danube in a small boat, made his way South. At this time England began to receive the benefit of a brilliantly conceived and steadily executed plan of transmitting news. Trist and his two lieutenants appeared to haunt the entirety of the Ottoman Empire. One of them appeared to find himself invariably within reach of any spot where events of interest might be occurring. And from this time until the end of the great war this ceaseless flow of carefully-sifted information continued to set eastward to Paris and London. The first official notice taken was an imperial decree, forbidding the admittance into Russia of the French and English journals to which Trist was attached as war-correspondent. This heavy punishment in no way affected the equanimity of these mistaken organs, of which the circulation in the Northern empire had never attained a height worth consideration or even mention. A sackful of copies under private addresses had been the utmost limit, and out of these the majority were usually lost in transmission with that patient, bland persistency by means of which the Russian Government usually succeeds in quelling any private and individual attempt to learn what the world is saying. It is remarkable how little is known in England of the method of procedure in a country so near at hand as Russia. I verily believe that Hong Kong is better known than Moscow, Valparaiso than Tver. It is, for instance, a matter of surprise to many intelligent English men and women to learn that our newspapers are, with one or two exceptions, forbidden entrance into the Czar's dominions. And in the case of those exceptions there is no circulation--each copy comes under a private cover, with the probability of being opened several times on the way. Moreover, objectionable paragraphs, or, in the case of illustrated journals, sketches in any way connected with the seamy side of Slavonic life, are ruthlessly obliterated with a black pad. The transmission of news is virtually in the hands of the Government, with the natural result that all untoward events are hushed up, while pleasant things are glorified to the infinite profit of those in office. Respecting the progress of humanity, the events of the outer world, and the march of civilization, the whole of the vast continent of Russia is kept in the dark. Even with _our_ marvellous facilities, the transmission of news over such vast tracts of land, across such stupendous plains, would be a matter of some difficulty; it is, therefore, easy to arrest the progress of thought, and force back men's brains into the apathetic, voiceless endurance of brutes.

Under these circumstances it will be readily understood that the views of the great English critic were looked upon with fear and dislike; additionally so, perhaps, because no one could accuse him of partiality or political bias. He studied war as an art, whereas the Russian staff had in most cases taken it up as a profession.

During the months that followed many brave men came to the front; but few reputations were made, whereas a number were lost. Gourko and Skobeleff proved that their personal courage, their calm assumption of a terrible responsibility, was something almost super-human; but as strategists they came within measurable distance of failure. The one has the stain of three thousand lives lost in one bold march upon his military reputation--namely, the crossing of the Balkans; while the other, the wild, half-mad Skobeleff, will have it remembered against him that two thousand of his 'children' fell in the storming of one redoubt, and three thousand more perished in attempting to hold it.

But in fairness to these reckless soldiers, it must be kept in mind that the Russians played, in a literal as well as metaphorical sense, an uphill game. They had to storm heights, 'rush' redoubts, and advance on trenches against the Berdan rifle in the hands of the Turk. Just as each man knows his own business best, so have we all our special way of fighting. The Russians are not brilliant at the attack, because they are too reckless of life, and in the excitement of the moment expose themselves with criminal prodigality; whereas there is no finer defender of a fortified position than the Turk.

Again, Skobeleff and Gourko were hampered by being in too constant and frequent communication with the royal amateur soldiers in their comfortable quarters on the Danube.

At first the Russians seemed to carry all before them, and the chronic unreadiness of the enemy was a matter for laughter. Having successfully crossed the Danube towards the end of June, driving the Turks before them step by step to Matchin, the campaign was looked upon as a mere parade. But Theodore Trist, retreating slowly from the Danube before the advance of the Northern army, held a different opinion.

'At present,' he wrote in the second week in July, 'everything seems to be against us. But the time is coming when some good men will force their way to the fore; and the power of individual influence over an ill-disciplined but well-armed horde like this is incalculable. Sulieman Pasha is said to be coming with his hardened troops, and from him great things may be expected. He is a good soldier, with an energy which is rendered more striking by its rarity in this country. When last I saw him he was spare in figure, much browned by exposure, singularly active, and as hard as nails. In appearance he is unlike a Turk, being fair, with ruddy hair and quick eyes. His men are more like a band of hill-robbers than a trained army, for they possess no distinct uniform; but they are full of fight. His staff is ludicrously informal, possessing no fine titles, and being entirely destitute of gold braid. The Turks are a strange mixture of impassibility and stubbornness. At times their fatalism gives way to an overwhelming strength of purpose, almost defying fate, and it is quite within the bounds of possibility that a trifling error on the part of the Russians may turn the tide suddenly upon them, and a disastrous retreat to the Danube will follow.'

By the time that the letter from which the above is extracted arrived in England, the far-seeing correspondent's prophecy had in part fallen true. The tide of fortune had set in in favour of the Moslem, and although a retreat was not as yet whispered of, it was held certain by experts that more men were absolutely required by the Russians in order to continue the campaign.

At this time the name of a hitherto unknown town in the north of Bulgaria was constantly on men's tongues. Until now no one had ever heard of Plevna, which, nevertheless, was destined to be the chief topic of conversation throughout all the civilized world for many months to come. The genius of one man raised this small city from its obscurity to a proud place in the annals of warfare, and the defence of Plevna will ever stand forth as a proof of the influence of one strong individuality over a whole army; and, one might almost say, upon the march of events.

Of course it is easy to state that much depended upon chance, but it is not only in warfare that we all have to wait upon chance. Those who step in quickly when fortune leaves the gate ajar are the winners in the war we are engaged in here below. Had Krüdener occupied Plevna when he received the order to do so, Osman Pasha might have died without leaving his mark upon the sands of time. But the Russian delayed, and the Turk stepped in. Osman saw at once the great strategetic value of Plevna, and Krüdener, the man of many mistakes, was outwitted.

'I see,' wrote Trist at this time in a private letter to his editor, which was not published until later, 'a subtle change in the atmosphere of events. It seems to me that the tide is turning. I will now attach myself definitely to the fortunes of Plevna. The time has come for me to give up my ubiquitous endeavours; to watch one spot only. My colleagues are splendid fellows, full of dash and energy; on them you must now depend for the other movements of the campaign. Osman is here, and Skobeleff is in this part of the country as far as I can learn--there is a feverish restlessness among the Russians, which suggests his presence. With these two men face to face Plevna will become historical, if it is not so already, for it will mark, firstly, the greatest military bungle of the age (Krüdener's neglect); secondly ... who knows? Osman is a wonderful fellow--that is all I can tell you now. I remain here, and if we are surrounded I will stick to Plevna _until the end_.'

The recipient of this letter, sitting in his quiet little room in Fleet Street, looked at the last words again. They were underlined with a firm dash, and immediately below followed the simple signature. About the entire letter there was a straightforward sense of purpose--a feeling, as it were, that this man knew what he was doing, and was ready to face the consequence of every action. The editor shook his vast head from side to side with a quiet and tolerant smile.

'The fever is upon him,' he said. 'It is a thousand pities that he is not a soldier.'

Then he leant forward and took an envelope from the stationery case upon the table in front of him. Into this he slipped the folded letter, addressing it subsequently to Mrs. Wylie, at Wyl's Hall, Wyvenwich.

On the last day of July, Prince Schahofsky and Baron Krüdener attacked Plevna. A combination had been intended, but Krüdener was again in fault. He was not ready at the hour appointed, and Schahofsky was led into the fatal error of attacking a superior force of Turks in a fortified position. The result of this was the loss of almost the whole of his fine army corps. The Russian soldiers charged gallantly but foolishly upon a literal wall of fire, for there is no man steadier in a trench than the fatalist. In some years, when the quick-firing rifle is perfected, there will be no such thing as carrying a breastwork at the point of the bayonet, for no man will live to stand up within forty yards of the position held. Even at Plevna, against an imperfect rifle in the hands of a half-trained, badly fed, poorly-accoutred soldier, the slaughter was terrible, and the result small. Only Skobeleff succeeded in really and literally carrying an intrenchment by the bayonet; and had he not been half mad with excitement and wholly carried away by the wild lust of battle, he would never have attempted it, for the men literally crawled over heaps of their slain comrades. The terrible work of the quick-firing rifle was only too apparent.

After the first assault upon Plevna the Russians settled down to a long siege, and heavy artillery was brought to bear upon the ill-fated town from every point of vantage on the surrounding hills. Step by step the northern foe crept up towards the town, until the sombre-clad figures within the redoubts were almost recognisable from the Russian lines.

Finally, it was one day announced that the last communication had been cut off and Plevna was surrounded. Like some sullen prisoner in the hands of a ruthless enemy, the fortress stood grimly silent, and all the world wondered pitifully what terrible tragedy might be working out its latest chapters within that small circle of blood-stained steel.

Vague reports reached England that there could not now be any food in Plevna. The garrison must be starving. Women and children were--thank God!--but few; for Osman had sent them away. Day by day the fall of this unforeseen, unsuspected stronghold was predicted, but day after day the dingy Crescent hung in the morning breeze, and every point was guarded.

The editor of the great English newspaper sat in his little room in Fleet Street and watched events from afar. No word reached him, for Plevna was silent, but he displayed no anxiety.

'Wait!' he said to all inquirers. 'Wait a bit. Trist is in there, and when the time comes he will astonish us all. One can always rely implicitly on Trist!'