Osman knew his weak point as well as it was known by Skobeleff; but the Russian general—foolhardy, reckless, wild as he was—hesitated to attack.
But there is no man who can boast that he is free from the trammels of duty. 'Duty is a certainty,' says one of our great living preachers, and I think we often lose sight of that fact. Skobeleff had received orders to take the redoubt in the curve of the Loftcha road, and on the eleventh of September he made ready to obey. Whether it was a criminal blunder or a deliberate sacrifice of human life, it is not for us to say; nor must we blame the young general who, much against his will, sent his men forward to a certain death.
It was afternoon before the advance was made, and in many places the fog had lifted.
Theodore Trist, with that instinct of warfare which was his curse, had selected a spot on the hill behind the doomed fortification, and thence, or from near at hand, he witnessed that terrible day's work.
Failure was Skobeleff's bête noir. Success in this case was an absolute necessity. There was only one way of gaining it in face of the horrible fire which was waiting within the fortification. Like the waves of ocean the Russian general swept his men up at carefully selected intervals. No troops in the world could have advanced under such galling volleys—they were bound to waver and fall back. But at the moment of hesitation a fresh regiment came on at the charge with a wild shout, bearing on the others in front of them. Four regiments rushed on thus to their death—three thousand men in three hundred yards. In the redoubt the Turks fought with that calm, desperate fatalism which makes such grand soldiers of the followers of Mahomed.
Theodore Trist, standing on the scarp of a second redoubt two hundred and fifty yards to the rear, wrote rapidly in his book, his mouth quivering with excitement. At last he could stand it no longer.
'By God!' he exclaimed hoarsely, 'I have never seen anything like this!'
And shouting incoherently, he ran down the slope towards the redoubt.
At this moment Skobeleff came charging up at the head of his last reserve, a mere handful of sharpshooters. Trist saw the general fall and roll over with his stricken horse. A great throb seemed to choke him, and he barely realized that Skobeleff was on his feet again leading on his men, waving his sword and shrieking like a madman. A moment later the Englishman was borne uphill before a rushing mass of Turks, black with powder, voiceless, inhuman in their fury. The redoubt was lost!
But Trist did not give way to the general panic. The instinct of journalism was too strong in him, and he stood for a moment between the two redoubts looking on with practised eyes. He knew exactly how many men had been defending the position now lost, and was busy counting roughly the small number of fugitives. In certain corners of the redoubt the fight was still going on, but the Turks in there were no better than dead men.