A brother officer and myself crossed one day by the steamer which plied from Scutari to Galata, and there hired a caique. We were bound for the sweet waters of Europe. We were taken up the Golden Horn, and then floated past green hills and picturesque-looking cottages. All round us were hundreds of gilded caiques laden with handsome women in glittering attire, and boats whose Greek crews sang in wild chorus. As we proceeded onward the river became narrow, and we arrived at the sweet waters of Europe. It was a fairy scene. Graceful forms in lovely dresses were dotted here and there on the green grass under the shade of the trees, very transparent veils concealing their faces, their long fringed eyes beaming upon us, for the unbelievers were in high favour at that time. We passed also stately Turks, gay Frenchmen, steady-looking Britons, and wonderful Cinderella coaches. A gilded carriage approached, drawn by four black horses, covered with silver trappings; this was followed by a line of other gilded coaches surrounded by armed blacks. A lovely woman glittering with diamonds, her face barely concealed by the thin gauze she wore, was in the stately equipage. This was the Sultan’s wife. In the third carriage following hers was seated a most beautiful girl, by whose charms my brother officer was quite struck. Though he was jostled by the armed blacks, pushed by the escort, knocked by the Turks, he still kept as close as possible to No. 3 carriage. There are many old women at the valley of sweet waters who sell bouquets. One came near and offered some flowers to my brother-officer, who took them, and, watching his opportunity, presented them to this Nourmahal. She smiled and placed them in her bosom, and, taking a rose from the bouquet, held it towards my friend, and then pressed the flower to her lips, on perceiving which the armed blacks began to swagger offensively. The escort of lancers closed up, and, as the carriages were moving away, she rolled her handkerchief up and threw it at my bewildered friend. She then held a looking-glass towards him and pressed it in her arms, thus ending the romance as far as I know, for the gilded coaches and prancing escort all moved on and gradually faded from our sight.
CHAPTER IV.
IN TURKEY AND THE CRIMEA.
ENCHANTING SCENE—LOSS OF BAGGAGE HORSES—SIR GEORGE BROWN’S ORDER—IDENTIFICATION OF LOST HORSES—DEALINGS WITH THE PEASANTRY—FORAGING—CHOLERA IN BULGARIA—DISAGREEABLE MISTAKE—DR. SHEGOG—DEVOTION TO HIS WORK AND SUDDEN DEATH—DEATH OF AN OFFICER—EMBARKATION AT VARNA—THE BLACK SEA FLEET—KIND SOLDIERS—OUR FIRST SCARE IN THE CRIMEA—KINDNESS OF LORD RAGLAN—AN OUTLYING PICQUET—STORY OF A CONNAUGHT RANGER—CAPTURE OF BALACLAVA—A SERIOUS MISTAKE.
CHAPTER IV.
An the 29th of May, 1854, we embarked on board the Cambria, and on the 30th arrived at Varna, where we encamped for a few days. On the 5th of June we changed our ground. Our tents were pitched on a height between two lakes. The hills all around us were covered with young trees in beautiful foliage, and on our right was a valley, through which a broad river flowed. The green hills were dotted everywhere with white tents, and curling smoke was stealing out of the woods from many a bivouac fire. It was an enchanting sight. Some of our baggage horses had been stolen, but a few had been recovered. As there was a difficulty, however, in recognising them, Sir George Brown, the general of the light division, issued an order that each animal belonging to the different regiments forming the light division should have some identifying mark, so that, if any of them were stolen, their recovery might be facilitated.
The adjutant of the Connaught Rangers, Arthur Maule, gave orders to his batman to have his initials burnt on his horse’s hind-quarters. I suppose Paddy did not know what initials meant, for Maule, on proceeding with his batman to inspect his nag, found B. R. beautifully clipped and burnt on the charger’s hind-quarters.
‘What does B. R. mean?’ said the astonished officer. ‘My initials are A. M.’
‘Arrah, sure, sir,’ replied the rather offended groom, ‘B. R. stands for British Army.’
The peasantry were much alarmed at our approach at first; but they very soon found out that we were willing to pay freely for the produce of their farms, and in process of time they actually walked through our camp shouting out what they had for sale. One poor man I heard crying out, in a very loud voice, ‘Bono Johnny. Bono bad eggs!’ the result, no doubt, of some wag’s tuition. Colonel Sanders, of the 19th Regiment, and myself rode out one day to forage among the villages, whose inhabitants were generally pleased to provide us with whatever they possessed for a consideration.
This day we had been very successful, and our appearance would have surprised those at home, who think officers of the Army the most luxurious of men. Colonel Sanders had become possessor of several fresh eggs, which he placed in his pockets. I was the proud owner of a duck and two hens, which were put in front of me on the baggage pony I was riding. We got on very well at first; but my duck became obstreperous, and the hens struggled, so my nag began to kick, and roused Colonel Sanders’ charger to do likewise—alas! for the colonel’s coat, where now the pomp and circumstance of glorious war? ‘Oh! the eggs are all smashed!’ was the colonel’s most distressing announcement. We rode into camp very curious specimens of the British soldier. Sanders went away to pass a mauvais quart d’heure with his batman, and I was received with joy by my servant, Hopkins, who expressed his delight in the following forcible, if not very elegant terms: