One morning, just as I finished my round in the hospital, I was summoned by an orderly to attend Tewfik Bey, and when I reached his tent I found three men from the Arab regiment standing there under a strong guard. Their arms had been taken from them, and each man had a hole through the index-finger of the right hand. Tewfik Bey desired me to decide whether the appearance of the injuries indicated that they had been self-inflicted; and when I learnt from him that if I answered in the affirmative the men would be instantly shot, I declined to take the responsibility, and requested that a small medical board might be appointed to deal with the matter. Tewfik assented, and invited me into his tent to wait while an orderly fetched two other surgeons. Presently Weinberger and Kustler arrived, and we three, after inspecting the prisoners, retired to a little distance to consult. There could be no doubt whatever about the fact, for the mutilated finger in each case was blackened with gunpowder, showing that the man had placed his finger on the top of his rifle-barrel and pulled the trigger, probably with a piece of string. The three men watched us as we sat at a little table under a tree and drew up a short report confirming that the injuries were self-inflicted. I presented the report to Tewfik, who was smoking a cigarette nonchalantly in front of his tent; and as soon as he had read it, he ordered out three firing parties of twelve men each, six of each squad having their rifles loaded with ball, and six with blank cartridge. A sergeant stepped up and bandaged the eyes of the culprits, who were placed on their knees in a row a few yards distant from each other. A few moments were granted to them to say their prayers, then a naked sword-blade flashed in the sunlight, a quick word of command rang out, a volley startled the camp, and the victims fell dead riddled with bullets. It was a sharp remedy, but a sure one, and after that we had no more malingerers.
Osman Pasha was a strict disciplinarian, and the splendid order which he maintained in Plevna all through the campaign was really remarkable. At first the Bulgarian shop-keepers wanted to close their shops; but the commander-in-chief compelled them to keep them open, promising that any attempt at looting by the soldiery would be promptly and severely punished. A military police force was organized for the protection of the townspeople, and the soldiery were given to understand that any excesses would be visited by the only penalty known to the martial code in war-time—the penalty of death. Owing to this decisive action, the Bulgarian population regained confidence, and carried on their respective businesses without let or hindrance. For several days, indeed, after the first battle the spoils of war stripped from the dead Russians on the field of action by the roving and predatory Circassians were on sale in every bazaar. One could buy good Russian great-coats for a few piastres, while boots, caps, and arms all had a ready sale. A large number of crosses in bronze, silver, or gold were taken from the dead Russians, and exposed for sale in the bazaars. It was strange to go shopping in the narrow, malodorous Plevna by-streets, and watch the chaffering that was going on over the poor small personal effects of the brave fellows who lay out yonder on the slopes of the Janik Bair. Many of the Russians had gone into action with the photographs of their wives or sweethearts in little leather cases, which they carried in an inside pocket next to the heart; and the Circassians, prowling round the field on the first night after the battle, robbed the corpses of these simple treasures, and bandied them from hand to hand with brutal jests round the bazaars next day.
The simple faith which is such a dominant feature in the Russian national character was strikingly exemplified in some of the articles found upon the dead bodies. I saw a Circassian offering for sale a little painting of the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus, which he had taken, according to his own statement, from the body of a dead Russian, a mere fair-haired lad, who had been killed by a bayonet thrust in the hand-to-hand fighting. The painting was done on a wooden plaque about one foot long by six inches wide, and was evidently of great age, probably at least two hundred years old, from its appearance. It was found beneath the tunic of the dead boy, and was perhaps a family treasure given to him by his mother before he went away to the war. There is at least no doubt that it was worn as a charm against danger. But the simple faith of the Russian mother could not save her son in the grim reality of battle, and the steel of the infidel Turk pierced the sacred figure of the Virgin before it reached the soldier's heart.
Many of the Russians wore steel plates covered with chamois leather over the region of the heart. These plates would stop a rifle-bullet in those days, although the ball from a more modern Lee-Metford, Lebel, or Mauser rifle would have pierced them like tinder.
No scruples were shown in appropriating the valuables of the enemy; and the Jews in Plevna made a handsome profit by buying Russian roubles for a few piastres apiece from the Circassians and Bashi-Bazouks who had gone through the pockets of the dead, and by taking the foreign coin away to the ordinary markets of exchange.
I bought a Russian signet ring in the bazaar one morning from a Circassian. It lies before me on the table now, and brings back vivid memories. It is a heavy gold ring, with a large red stone like a cornelian, carved with the figure of Æsculapius, easily recognizable from the traditional accessories of the snakes and the cock. It was surely a curious coincidence that the figure of this legendary founder of medical science should have fallen into the hands of one of his own disciples!
Of course Osman Pasha strongly discountenanced this looting of the dead; but it was impossible to control the predatory instincts of the Circassians, and in spite of the prospect of instant death if detected they continued to prowl round the battle-field in search of treasures. One night five of them were taken red-handed, and hanged at daybreak pour encourager les autres; but Osman Pasha's attention was so much taken up with the necessary work of fortification, that the looting went on afterwards just the same.
To show, however, that the Muchir, far from oppressing the Bulgarian inhabitants in the manner imputed to him by contemporary press writers, was always throughout the siege absolutely fair towards them, one significant incident may be mentioned for which I can vouch, as I was myself a witness of it. One morning, while I was passing by the yard of a Bulgarian butcher, I found an altercation going on between the Bulgarian and a free-lance from one of the Circassian irregular bodies. Although I could not understand what was said, I was able to gather that the Circassian wanted some meat, which the Bulgarian would not give him. After a minute or two of heated argument, the Circassian drew his revolver and shot the Bulgarian in my presence, the bullet entering the man's foot. I reported the matter to Osman Pasha personally, and he ordered the instant arrest of the Circassian; but the man was never seen again. Recognizing that death would be the penalty of his act if he were discovered, he escaped from Plevna that night, and we saw no more of him. The butcher died from his wound.
There was plenty of work for the men of all ranks to do between the 20th of July and the 30th. We never knew when another attack might be launched; and though the Russians had disappeared from sight, our scouts used occasionally to bring in word that they had seen detachments as near as five miles off. Our men were working away as busily as bees fortifying outposts, digging entrenchments, and building redoubts on the cordon of hills that formed the natural rampart of the town. They also had to complete the work of burying the dead, and as the Russians had left us all their dead to inter as well as our own this was no light task. When I had finished my morning's work in the hospital, I used to call on Dr. Robert and borrow one of his smart little black cobs for a ride out to the hills to see how our fellows were getting on with their labours. I often watched the burial squads at work, as I sat there on the black cob puffing a cigarette in the glorious summer weather, and saw them dragging the scattered bodies together into a little heap, and then digging a trench to hold them. Sometimes they would put twenty or thirty into one trench when they came on a patch where the troops had fallen thickly, and sometimes a dead soldier lying far away from his comrades would be buried in a lonely grave by himself. The Russian and Turkish dead were always kept distinct, for the Moslem will not sleep by the Giaour, even in the grave.
As I rode over the crest of the hills four or five days after the battle, and down to the hollow where the Russian lines received the hottest of the Turkish fire, I saw that in most cases the Russian dead had not been buried deep enough; now and then, indeed, scarcely more than the three handfuls of dust prescribed by the old poet had been thrown over the corpse, which protested with a faint, sickly odour at these maimed funeral rites.