AMONG THE COSSACKS.
McKay was in His tent next morning finishing dressing when his servant brought him a piece of crumpled paper and said there was a messenger waiting to see him. The paper was the pass given the day before to Valetta Joe; its bearer was a nondescript-looking ruffian, in a long shaggy cloak of camel's hair, whose open throat and bare legs hinted at a great scantiness of wardrobe beneath. He wore an old red fez, stained purple, on the back of his bullet-head; he had a red, freckled face, red eyebrows, red eyes, red hair, and a pointed red beard, both of which were very ragged and unkempt.
"Have you got anything to tell me?" asked McKay, sharply, in English; and when the other shook his head he tried him in French, Spanish, and last of all in Italian.
"News," replied the visitor, at length, laconically; "ten dollars."
McKay put the money in his hand and was told briefly—
"To-morrow—sortie—Woronzoff Road."
And this was all the fellow would say.
McKay passed on this information to his chief, but rather doubtfully, declining to vouch for it, or say whence it had come.
It was felt, however, that no harm could be done in accepting the news as true and preparing for a Russian attack. The event proved the wisdom of this course. The sortie was made next night. A Russian column of considerable strength advanced some distance along the Woronzoff Road, but finding the English on the alert immediately retired.
The next piece of information that reached McKay from the same source, but by a different messenger, was more readily credited. He learnt this time that the Russians intended to establish a new kind of battery in front of the Karabel suburb.
"What kind?" asked McKay.
The messenger, a hungry-looking Tartar who spoke broken English, but when encouraged explained himself freely in Russian, said—
"Big guns; they sink one end deep into the ground, the other point very high."
"I understand. They want to give great elevation, so as to increase the range."
"Yes, you see. They will reach right into your camp."
Again the information proved correct. Within a couple of days the camps of the Third and Fourth Divisions, hitherto deemed safe from the fire of the fortress, were disturbed by the whistling of round-shot in their midst. The fact was reported in due course to headquarters.
"You see, sir, it is just what I was told," said McKay to General Airey.
"Upon my word, you deserve great credit. You seem to have organised an intelligence department of your own, and, what is more to the purpose, your fellow seems always right."
McKay was greatly gratified at this encouragement, and eager to be still more useful. He visited the Maltese baker again, and urged him to continue supplying him with news.
"Trust to Joe. Wait one little bit; you know plenty more."
Several days passed, however, without any fresh news. Then a new messenger came, another Tartar, a very old man with a flowing grey beard, wearing a long caftan like a dressing-gown to his heels, and an enormous sheepskin cap that came far down over his eyes, and almost hid his face. He seemed very decrepit, and was excessively stupid, probably from old age. He looked terribly frightened when brought to McKay's tent, stooping his shoulders and hanging his head in the cowering, deprecating attitude of one who expects, but would not dare to ward off, a blow.
He was tongue-tied, for he made no attempt to speak, but merely thrust forward one hand, making a deep obeisance with the other. There was a scrap of paper in the extended hand, which McKay took and opened curiously. A few lines in Italian were scrawled on it.
"The Russians are collecting large forces beyond the Tchernaya," ran the message. "Expect a new attack on that side."
"Who gave you this?" asked McKay, in Russian.
The old fellow bowed low, but made no answer.
He repeated the question in Italian and every other language of which he was master, but obtained no reply. The man remained stupidly, idiotically dumb, only grovelling lower and more abjectly each time.
"What an old jackass he is! I shall get nothing out of him, I'm afraid. But it won't do to despise the message, wherever it comes from. Take him outside," he said to his orderly, "while I go and see the general." "You have no idea where this news comes from?" was General Airey's first inquiry.
"The same source, I don't doubt; but of course I can't vouch for its accuracy."
"It might be very important," the general was musing. "I am not sure whether you know what we contemplate in these next few days?"
"In the direction of the Tchernaya, sir?"
"Precisely. Now that the Sardinian troops have all arrived, Lord Raglan thinks we are strong enough to extend our position as far as the river."
"I had heard nothing of it, sir?"
"If this news be true, the Russians appear to be better informed than you are, McKay."
"And are preparing to oppose our movement?"
"That's just what I should like to know, and what gives so much importance to these tidings. I only wish we could verify them. Where is your messenger? Who is he?"
"A half-witted old Tartar; you will get nothing out of him, sir. I have been trying hard this half-hour."
"But you know where the news comes from. Could you not follow it up to its source?"
"I will do so at once, sir;" and within half-an-hour McKay was in his saddle, riding down to Balaclava.
Valetta Joe was in his shop, distributing a batch of newly-baked bread to a number of itinerant vendors, each bound to retail the loaves in the various camps.
McKay waited until the place was clear, then accosted the baker sharply.
"What was the good of your sending that old numbskull to me?"
"He give you letter. You not understand?"
"Yes, yes, I understand; but I want to be certain it is true."
"When Joe tell lies? You believe him before; if you like, believe him again."
"But can't you tell me more about it? How many troops have the Russians collected? Since when? What do they mean to do?"
"You ask Russian general, not me; I only know what I hear."
"But it would be possible to tell, from the position of the enemy, something of their intentions. I could directly if I saw them."
"Then why you not go and look for yourself?" asked Joe, carelessly; but there was a glitter in his eyes which gave a deep meaning to the simple question.
"Why not?" said McKay, whom the look had escaped. "It is well worth the risk."
"I'll help you, if you like," went on Joe, with the same outwardly unconcerned manner.
"Can you? How?"
"Very easy to pass lines. You put on Tartar clothes same as that old man go to you to-day. He live near Tchorgaun; he take you right into middle of Russian camp."
"When can he start?" asked McKay eagerly, accepting without hesitation all the risks of this perilous undertaking.
"To-night, if you choose. Come down here by-and-by; I have everything ready."
McKay agreed, and returned to headquarters in all haste, where he sought out his chief and confided to him his intentions.
"You are really prepared to penetrate the enemy's lines? It will be a daring, dangerous job, McKay. I should be wrong to encourage you."
"It is of vital importance, you say, that we should really know what the enemy is doing beyond the Tchernaya. I am quite ready to go, sir."
"Lord Raglan—all of us—indeed, will be greatly indebted to you if you can find out. But I do not like this idea of the disguise, McKay. You ought not to go under false colours."
"I should probably learn more."
"Yes; but do you know what your fate would be if you were discovered?"
"I suppose I should be hanged, sir," said McKay, simply.
"Hanged or shot. Spies—everyone out of uniform is a spy—get a very short shrift at an enemy's hand. No; you must stick to your legitimate dress. I am sure Lord Raglan would allow you to go under no other conditions."
"As you wish, sir. Only I fear I should not be so useful as if I were disguised."
"It is my order," said the general, briefly; and after that there was nothing more to be said.
McKay spent the rest of the afternoon at his usual duties, and towards evening, having carefully reloaded his revolver, and filled his pockets with Russian rouble notes, which he obtained on purpose from the military chest, he mounted a tough little Tartar pony, used generally by his servant, and trotted down to the hut-town.
Valetta Joe heard with marked disapprobation McKay's intention of carrying out his enterprise without assuming disguise.
"You better stay at home: not go very far like that."
"Lend me a greggo to throw over my coat, and a sheepskin cap, and I shall easily pass the Cossack sentries. Where is my guide?"
"Seelim—Jee!" shouted Joe, and the old gentleman who had visited McKay that morning came ambling up from the cellar below.
"Is that old idiot to go with me? Why, he speaks no known tongue!" cried McKay.
"Only Tartar. You know no Tartar? Well, he understand the stick. Show it him—so," and Joe made a motion of striking the old man, who bent submissively to receive the blow.
"Does he know where he is to take me? What we are going to do?"
"All right. You trust him: he take you past Cossacks." Joe muttered a few unintelligible instructions to the guide, who received them with deep respect, making a low bow, first to Joe and then to McKay.
"I give him greggo and cap: you put them on when you like."
McKay knew that he could only pass the British sentries openly, showing his uniform as a staff officer, so he made the guide carry the clothes, and the two pressed forward together through Kadikoi, towards the formidable line of works that now covered Balaclava.
He skirted the flank of one of the redoubts, and, passing beyond the intrenchments, came at length to our most advanced posts, a line of cavalry vedettes, stationed at a considerable distance apart.
"I am one of the headquarter staff," he said, briefly, to the sergeant commanding the picket, "and have to make a short reconnaissance towards Kamara. You understand?"
"Are we to support you, sir?"
"No; but look out for my coming back. It may not be till daybreak, but it will be as well, perhaps, to tell your men who I am, and to expect me. I don't want to be shot on re-entering our own lines."
"Never fear, sir, so long as we know. I will tell the officer, and make it all right."
McKay now rode slowly on, his guide at his horse's head. They kept in the valleys, already, as night was now advancing, deep in shade, and their figures, which could have been clearly made out against the sky if on the upper slopes, were nearly invisible on the lower ground.
It was a splendid summer's evening, perfectly still and peaceful, with no sounds abroad but the ceaseless chirp of innumerable grasshoppers, and the faint hum of buzzing insects ever on the wing. Only at intervals were strange sounds wafted on the breeze, and told their own story; the distant blare of trumpets, and the occasional "thud" of heavy cannon, gun answering gun between besiegers and besieged. As they fared along, McKay once or twice inquired, more by gesture than by voice, how far they had to go.
Each time the guide replied by a single word—"Cossack"—spoken almost in a whisper, and following by his placing finger on lip.
Half-a-mile further, the guide motioned to McKay to dismount and leave his horse, repeating the caution "Cossack!" in the same low tone of voice.
McKay, who had now put on the greggo and sheepskin cap, did as he was asked, and the two crept forward together, having left the horse tethered to a bush, the guide explaining by signs that they would presently come back to it.
A little farther and he placed his hand upon McKay's arms, with a motion to halt.
"H—sh!" said the old man, using a sound which has the same meaning in all tongues, and held up a finger.
McKay listened attentively, and heard voices approaching them. Instinctively he drew his revolver and waited events. The voices grew plainer and plainer, then gradually faded away.
"Cossack!" repeated the guide, and McKay gathered that these were a couple of Cossack sentries, from whose clutches he had narrowly escaped.
Again our hero was urged forward, and this time with all speed. The guide ran, followed by McKay, for a couple of hundred yards, then halted suddenly. What next? He had thrown himself on the ground, and seemed closely examining it; in this attitude he crept forward cautiously.
The movement was presently explained. A slight splash told of water encountered. He had been in search of the river, and had found it. This was the Tchernaya—a slow sluggish stream, hidden amidst long marshy grass, and everywhere fordable, as McKay had heard, at this season of the year.
The guide now stood up and pointed to the river, motioning McKay to enter it and cross.
Our hero stepped in boldly, and in all good faith, expecting his guide to follow. But he was half-way towards the other bank, and still the old man had made no move.
Why this hesitation?
McKay beckoned to him to come on. The guide advanced a step or two, then halted irresolute.
McKay grew impatient, and repeated his motion more peremptorily. The guide advanced another step and again halted. He seemed to suffer from an invincible dislike to cold water.
"Is he a cur or a traitor?" McKay asked himself, and drew his revolver to quicken the old man's movements, whichever he was.
The sight of the weapon seemed to throw the guide into a paroxysm of fear. He fell flat on the ground, and obstinately refused to move.
All this time McKay was in the river, up to his knees, a position not particularly comfortable. Besides, valuable time was being wasted—the night was not too long for what he had to do. Hastily regaining the bank, he rejoined the guide where he lay, and kicked him till he stood erect.
"You old scoundrel!" cried McKay, putting his revolver to his head. "Come on! do you understand? Come on, or you are a dead man!"
The gesture was threatening, not that McKay had any thought of firing. He knew a pistol-shot would raise a general alarm. Still the old man, although trembling in every limb, would not move.
"Come on!" repeated McKay, and with the idea of dragging him forward he seized him fiercely by the beard.
To his intense surprise, it came off in his hand.
"Cursed Englishman!" cried a voice with which he was perfectly familiar, and in Spanish. "You are at my mercy now. You dare not fire; your life is forfeited. The enemy is all around you. I have betrayed you into their hands."
"Benito! Can it be possible?" But McKay did not suffer his astonishment to interfere with his just revenge.
"On your knees, dog! Say your prayers. I will shoot you first, whatever happens to me."
"You are too late!" cried Benito, wrenching himself from his grasp, and whistling shrilly as he ran away.
McKay fired three shots at him in succession, one of which must have told, for the scoundrel gave a great yell of pain.
The next instant McKay was surrounded by a mob of Cossacks and quickly made prisoner.
They had evidently been waiting for him, and the whole enterprise was a piece of premeditated treachery, as boldly executed as it had been craftily planned.
McKay's captors having searched his pockets with the nimbleness of London thieves, and deprived him of money, watch, and all his possessions, proceeded to handle him very roughly. He had fought and struggled desperately, but was easily overpowered. They were twenty to one, and their wild blood was aroused by his resistance. He was beaten, badly mauled, and thrown to the ground, where a number of them held him hand and foot, whilst others produced ropes to bind him fast. The brutal indignities to which he was subjected made McKay wild with rage. He addressed them in their own language, protesting vainly against such shameful ill-usage.
"Hounds! Miscreants! Sons of burnt mothers! Do you dare to treat an English officer thus? Take me before your superior. Is there no one here in authority? I claim his protection."
"Which you don't deserve, scurvy rogue," said a quiet voice. "You are no officer—only a vile, disreputable spy."
"I can prove to you—"
"Bah! how well you speak Russian. We know all about you; we expected you. But enough: we must be going on."
"I don't know who you may be," began McKay, hotly, "but I shall complain of you to your superior officer."
"Silence!" replied the other, haughtily. "Have I not told you to hold your tongue? Fill his mouth with clay, some of you, and bring him along."
This fresh outrage nearly maddened McKay.
"You shall carry me, then," he spluttered out, from where he still lay upon the ground.
"Ah! we'll see. Get up, will you! Prick him with the point of your lance, Ivanovich. Come, move yourself," added the officer, as McKay slowly yielded to this painful persuasion, "move yourself, or you shall feel this," and the officer cracked the long lash of his riding-whip.
"You shall answer for this barbarity," said McKay "I demand to be taken before the General at once."
"You shall see him, never fear, sooner than you might wish, perhaps."
"Take me at once before him; I am not afraid."
"You will wait till it suits us, dog; meanwhile, lie there."
They had reached a rough shelter built of mud and long reeds. It was the picket-house, the headquarters of the troop of Cossacks, and a number of them were lying and hanging about, their horses tethered close by.
The officer pointed to a corner of the hut, and, giving peremptory instructions to a couple of sentries to watch the prisoner, for whom they would have to answer with their lives, he disappeared.
Greatly dejected and cast down at the failure of his enterprise, and in acute physical pain from his recent ill-usage and the tightness of his bonds, McKay passed the rest of the night very miserably.
Dawn came at length, but with it no relief. On the contrary, daylight aggravated his sufferings. He could see now the cruel scowling visages of his captors, and the indescribable filth and squalor of the den in which he lay.
"Get up!" cried a voice; but McKay was too much dazed and distracted by all he had endured to understand that the command was addressed to him.
It was repeated more arrogantly, and accompanied by a brutal kick.
He rose slowly and reluctantly, and asked in a sullen voice—
"Before his Excellency. Step out, or must we prick you along?"
A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large camp. They passed through many lines of tents, and halted presently before a smart marquee.
The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with the order—
"March him in!"
McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and another in the centre of the cap. At a button-hole on his breast, however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.
There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created things.
"So"—he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that day, to show their aristocratic superiority—"you have dared, wretch, to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in half-an-hour."
"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.
"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking spy—taken in the very act! You!"
"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be browbeaten or abashed.
"Where is your uniform?"
"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the greggo, which he still wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches with their broad red stripe.
"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the general,—for such was the officer's rank,—turning to one of his staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke in Russian.
"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."
"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment that, in English officers, I expect."
"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.
"How and when did you learn it?"
"I do not choose to say. What can that matter?"
Again the staff-officer interposed and whispered something in the general's ear.
"Of course; I had forgotten." Then, turning to McKay, he went on: "What is your name?"
"McKay."
"Your Christian names in full?"
"Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay."
"Exactly. Stanislas Alexandrovich McKay. I knew your father when he was a captain in the Polish Lancers; was he not?"
"I cannot deny it."
"He was a Russian, in the service of our holy Czar, and you, his son, are a Russian too."
"It is false! I am an Englishman. I have never yielded allegiance to the Czar."
"You will find it hard to evade your responsibility. It is not to be put on or off like a coat. You were born a Russian subject, and a Russian subject you remain!"
"I bear a commission in the army of the British Queen. I dare you to treat me as a Russian now!"
"We will treat you as we find you, Mr. McKay: as an interloper disguised for an improper purpose within our lines."
"What shall you do with me?" asked McKay, in a firm voice, but with a sinking heart.
"Hang you like a dog to the nearest tree. Or, stay! out of respect for your father, whom I knew, and if you prefer it, you shall be shot."
"I am in your power. But I warn you that, if you execute me, the merciless act will be remembered throughout Europe as an eternal disgrace to the Russian arms."
This bold speech was not without its effect. The general consulted with his staff, and a rather animated discussion followed, at the end of which he said—
"I am not to be deterred by any such threats: still, it will be better to refer your case to my superiors. I shall send you into Sebastopol, to be dealt with as Prince Gortschakoff may think fit, only do not expect more at his hands than at mine. Rope or rifle—one of them will be your fate. See he is sent off, Colonel Golopine, will you? And now take him away."
McKay was marched out of the marquee, still under the escort of Cossacks. But outside he was presently handed over to a fresh party; they brought up a shaggy pony—it might have been the fellow of the one he had left behind the previous night—and curtly bade him mount. When, with hands still tied, he scrambled with difficulty into his saddle, they tied his legs together by a long rope under the pony's belly, and, placing him in the centre of the escort, they started off at a jog-trot in the direction of the town.