‘Clumsy fool!’ cried Kirchoff furiously to the man with the carbine, ‘you have shot Ivan and the prisoner is unhurt.’
Jack was dragged back to his prison, where he was punched, thumped, struck with the butt-end of whips, and cruelly kicked, being left insensible at last on the slimy, filthy floor. He revived presently to find that swarms of rats were running over his hands and face, when, aching in every limb and feeling ready to die, he crawled to the heap of straw, and there, amidst the rats, vermin, and innumerable slimy, creeping things, he passed the night.
The following morning the journey was continued, and on the second night they had reached Perekop which was if anything more dirty than Simpheropol. After their arrival Jack saw no more of Kirchoff and his Cossacks, a party of Dragoons taking charge of him. From Perekop they went on, marching leisurely, Jack being well treated. Near the Sea of Azov they passed the Putrid Sea, a stinking, sickening, dreadful place, the very picture of desolation.
For a week they proceeded through a cold, bleak, inhospitable country, lodging each night at prisons which varied only in their degrees of filthiness. At last they arrived at Meritipol, and there Jack was lodged in prison, and saw no more of his escort of Dragoons. The days passed drearily until at last a whole troop of French prisoners of war arrived. Many of them were confined in the same large apartment with Jack, and from them he was able to learn something of the state of affairs before Sebastopol.
The French soldiers had made the whole journey from Sebastopol on foot and were worn out with fatigue. Their boots were in shreds; many of them were sick and ill, and all of them were in a very despondent state. When Jack spoke to them in their native language, and told them he was an English prisoner of war, several of them embraced him and wept copiously. Poor fellows, most of them were conscripts, and their hearts were not in their profession. The prisoners mostly belonged to the 22nd of the line; but there were some Zouaves, who seemed of sterner mould, and two Chasseurs d’Afrique.
These latter, when they found out Jack was one of the Light Brigade heroes, insisted upon kissing him on both cheeks and declaring everlasting friendship. One, who was a sous-officier, spoke English, and was very fond of airing his knowledge. Talking of the charge, he declared it was the finest thing the world had seen.
‘But, mon ami,’ he said, ‘it was foolish—oh, so ver foolish; and if it had not been for the 4th Chasseurs d’Afrique, hélas! you poor English—pouf, you would no more any of you remain alive.’
From this man, whose name was Alphonse Bluet, Jack heard of the arrival of reinforcements, the progress of the siege, and the succession of Pelissier the ‘Man of Iron’ to the command of the French. He also learnt that the whole of the prisoners were on their way to some place farther north, where numbers of both French and English soldiers were already in confinement.
The French prisoners were in too exhausted a condition to march farther for the present, so a long halt was made at Meritipol. Their treatment was strict, but not rigorous, and about a fortnight passed away when they were joined by a fresh batch of prisoners, and when they were brought in Jack was both pained and pleased to hear sturdy English voices. The men were mostly fresh from England, belonging to the infantry of the line, and with one or two sailors had been captured during a Russian sortie.
There was a marked difference in the demeanour of the French and English. The latter were far more cheerful; and, though prisoners, plainly showed their guards they would stand no nonsense. They were consequently treated with a great deal more consideration by the Russians, many of the latter showing a disposition to be quite friendly.