During the early part of my stay in Plevna, I had my quarters in a small Bulgarian house which was nearly a mile away from the general hospital, so far, indeed, that I afterwards moved into a more convenient spot, and my little house was given over to the French journalist Olivier Pain. My first landlord—who was landlord in name only, for of course I never paid him any rent—was a Bulgarian, and his daughter was one of the few pretty women that I ever saw in Bulgaria. Conversation, however, was restricted by linguistic limitations, for I knew scarcely any Bulgarian, and the only word of English that she could say was "London." Wherever I saw that girl, she would show her white teeth with a charming smile, flash her big black eyes, and with beautiful irrelevance ejaculate "London!" Whether she knew what London meant I cannot say, but her limited vocabulary expressed more in its way than the gushing phrases of many more brilliant conversationalists. When she said "London" with a bright air of welcome and a frank smile as I came home at night tired out with the day's work, I knew that she meant, "Good evening, doctor; I hope you haven't had a very bad day to-day; and see, here is your pilaf and coffee ready." When she uttered the word with a backward turn of the head as she passed out of the door and a pretty coquettish glance, it was very evident that she was really saying, "Good night now, doctor; pleasant dreams to you, and I hope a Russian shell won't find you in the morning." My domestic arrangements, however, which were very primitive and did not include much preparation of eatables, were mainly attended to by my Circassian servant, who proved himself to be a very handy fellow.
Hassib Bey instituted the excellent plan of getting all the medical staff to meet at nine o'clock every morning at the administrative block, where the main hospital was placed; and after breakfasting on coffee, pilaf, and eggs when I could get them, I used to ride up to the rendezvous. Hassib Bey and Reif Bey, his next in command, used to meet us all there, and the whole lot of us used to have a smoke together for half an hour or so, and discuss any interesting cases that we had to deal with. If we had any complaint to make about the food supplied to the hospitals, or if we wanted anything extra in the way of appliances, our representations were listened to on the spot. It was a capital idea, and worked very well indeed.
After the first rush of work was over, I had my own hospital to attend to. This was a two-story Bulgarian house, the ground floor of which was unoccupied, while upstairs there were three large rooms, in which I had about twenty-five patients. Beds and blankets were provided, and I was able to make the sufferers fairly comfortable. Two Turkish soldiers were allotted to me to act as hospital orderlies, and they proved apt pupils at their work. I trained them to act as dressers and nurses, and found that they carried out their novel duties excellently. We had a good many deaths at first, and news was always conveyed to the Moslem priests, who came and laid out the dead, wrapping the bodies in white linen sheets, and taking them away for burial in the Turkish burial-ground. Good, nourishing food was provided for the convalescents, who had plenty of beef-tea, soup, pilaf, eggs, and bread; and possessing as they did an extraordinary recuperative faculty and constitutions unimpaired by intemperance, a very fair percentage recovered.
CHAPTER VII
THE SECOND BATTLE OF PLEVNA (JULY 30).
Talks with my Patients—A Candid Kurd—Grim Confessions—How he killed his Enemy—Dr. Robert's Cave of Refuge—He loses his Dinner—The Spy's Death—Canards in the Town—The Second Battle of Plevna—I take a Hand—Turkish Women as Water-carriers—A Woman shot in Action—My Veiled Patient—Osman Pasha's Bay Cob—A Sign of Hot Fighting—The Attack on the Village of Grivitza—Czetwertinski and his Cigarette—Retreat of the Russian Infantry—A Cavalry Pursuit—Mustapha Bey waves his Sword—I join in the Charge—An Exultant Ride—The Retreat sounded—We retire—A sauve qui peut—Horrible Fears—The Ride through the Maize-field—Our Infantry Panic-struck—Osman Pasha's Method of rallying Men—A Timely Reinforcement—The Day is ours—Tremendous Russian Losses—Russian Physique compared with Turkish—Wounded Horses on the Battle-field—Back in the Hospital—Many Operations—Osman Pasha decorated—The Muchir makes a Speech—I shift my Quarters again—Bulgarian Hospitality—A Youthful Friend—A Terrific Rainstorm—The Tutchenitza runs a Banker—A Ghastly Find in a Gooseberry Bush.
Although I could speak Turkish sufficiently to make myself understood for ordinary purposes, I found myself in difficulties when my patients began to talk to me about their private affairs, or to go into long accounts of their adventures on the battle-field. Sometimes, however, I was able to gather a few startling illustrations of the ferocity with which the engagement had been fought.
One of my patients was the colonel of a Kurdish regiment, a magnificent specimen of a man, who had been shot in the thigh by a rifle-bullet. The ball had entered the left thigh on the outside, passed clean through it, and also through the right thigh, making four distinct wounds, which had occasioned a great deal of hæmorrhage with inflammatory conditions and high temperature. I refrain from giving this patient's name as he may be still alive, and he probably would not desire to remember the incident which he related to me.
He told me that he received his wound in the height of the action, and became for a while unconscious. When he came to himself, he commenced to crawl on his hands and knees towards the Turkish lines, and on his way he came to a Russian officer lying wounded on the ground. I give the story now in his own words. "I saw him lying there before me," whispered my patient to me as I dressed his wounds, "and the impulse to kill him came into my mind. I suppose he read my purpose in my face, for he pointed to his wound, and then he held up his hands to me as if to ask for quarter. As I crawled over on my hands and knees, I knelt over him and pointed to my own wounds in reply. Then I drew my revolver and shot him through the head. My servant, who had come to look for me, was close behind me. He was a Kurd, and he took his long Kurdish knife and cut off the Russian's head before he was dead. The air made a gurgling, bubbling sound as the knife went through the windpipe. The Russian officer had a long fair beard. He was a fine man, and I shall never forget his face. You are horrified. Well, it was war. I was not a man then, I was a wild beast. I killed him as he lay there because he was in my power. If I had been in the same position, he would have killed me. It was destiny."