Bleeding Armenia: Its history and horrors under the curse of Islam

by Augustus Warner Williams; M. Smbat Gabrielean

The review was over in an hour. The music ceased, silence reigned, the soldiers stood uncovered and the crowd also removed their caps. The voice of only one man was heard, that of the Bishop of Kischeneff saying a grand military Mass. For more than half an hour the soldiers, composed, expectant, reverently stood and listened. When the Mass was finished a low murmur ran through the crowd. Then a dead silence, and again the strong voice of the Bishop was heard not now engaged in prayer but in reading the Manifesto. In the midst of it sobs were heard and as men looked they saw the Emperor weeping like a child. It had been the pride and glory of the reign of Alexander that his reign had been of peace. He hoped to finish it without war, and now the fatal step had been taken, and who could tell its issue. This was not the spirit of a man eager, determined on conquest, lusting for martial fame and glory. There was not a dry eye within sound of the Bishop’s voice, but when he closed with the impressive words, “And now, invoking the blessing of God upon our valiant armies we give them the order to cross the Turkish frontier,” a wild and universal shout went up—a shout of exultation, triumph, relief, which ran through all the army over hill and plain till the whole air resounded with the glad acclaim. Some corps started at once for the frontier and the rest began rapidly preparing for the march—and by the 10th of May the Russian army, over two hundred thousand men, was posted along the banks of the Danube facing the forts, the fleets and the armies of the Porte which numbered one hundred and fifty thousand effective soldiers.

Not until June 27th did the main body of the Russians succeed in crossing the Danube, but it was most skillfully done and the march began for Constantinople. Already the hero of the war had been revealed in the person of General Skobeleff—the Custer of the Russian army and the youngest general in the army, with a strange and brilliant career which was to be most gloriously eclipsed by the successes of this campaign.

“He was a tall, handsome man with a lithe, slender, active figure, clear, blue eyes, a large prominent, but straight well-shaped nose, the kind of a nose it said Napoleon used to look for among his officers when he wished to find a general.” He was highly educated, speaking five languages fluently, and always had time even in his hardest campaigns for new books and reviews. He was every inch a soldier, and his great strength lay in the power and influence he had over his men. He was never weary of seeing that his men were well fed, warmly clothed and comfortable. He was always intelligible in his orders. He was the comrade of his men as well as their officer. When the passage of the Danube was made finally on the pontoon bridge, Skobeleff shouldered a musket like a private soldier and marched over with his men. Every officer under him was devoted to him. He treated them all as friends, but then every one of them was expected when occasion came to lay down his life as an example to his men. “Fear,” he said, “must cease when a man reaches the grade of captain.”

The British Mediterranean Fleet.

After the passage of the Danube, he was given the command of a division—was always at the front, in the thickest of every fight. He was a hero at Plevna, that stronghold commanding the pass through the Balkans, where Osman Pasha held the Russians at bay from July until December 11th. Three times the Russians had attacked it and been repulsed; twice in July and the third time in September. The great infantry assault was made on the 11th day of September, the fifth day of the bombardment.

On this last occasion Skobeleff’s duty was to take a redoubt on a certain Green Hill, which he regarded as the key to the Turkish position. He always rode a white horse and wore a white coat that he might be more conspicuous to his own men during a battle. With his usual address to his soldiers he despatched them to the redoubt. He knew well that he was sending many of them to their death. They knew it too, but advanced unflinchingly in the face of a fearful fire from cannon and from infantry. One company wavered and broke. Instantly Skobeleff was among them on his white charger. “Follow me,” he cried, “I will show you how to thrash the Turks. Close up there! Follow me my men. I will lead you myself. He who deserts me should be ashamed of himself! Now then, drummers—look alive.”

Meantime the Turks were seen everywhere torturing the wounded before despatching them. This roused the spirit of the Russians and they pushed on with fury. With fearful loss they captured the redoubt, and planted two Russian flags on it. Then Skobeleff, who had had two horses shot under him, started back for reinforcements.

In vain he pleaded for men. In vain he pleaded that the redoubt was the key of the position. He burst into tears. He visited the redoubt three or four times during the day to encourage them. Plevna would soon be taken. Victory would crown their efforts. For the honor and the glory of the Russian arms;—and they always replied with the same cheery shouts while their numbers were dwindling by hundreds. But the battle was against the Russians. One more effort must be made.

“Major Gortaloff, you will remain here in charge of the redoubt,” he said. “Can I depend on you? You must hold this at any price.” “I will remain or die, Your Excellency.” “Possibly I shall be unable to send you any reinforcements. Give me your word that you will not leave the redoubt.” “My honor is pledged. I will not leave this place alive.” The Major raised his hand as if taking an oath. Skobeleff embraced him. “God help you! Remember my men, there may be no reinforcements. Count only on yourselves. Farewell, heroes.” But as he took his last look at them—the finest troops of his division, he sighed. “Consecrated to death,” he said and thundered down the hill.