Farewell to Sanda Pasha—A Scuffle, and an Unexpected Meeting.
Some time after the events narrated in the last chapter I was seated in an apartment of Sanda Pasha’s residence in Adrianople, the Turkish city next in importance to Constantinople.
My health had returned, and, although still somewhat weak, I felt sufficiently strong to travel, and had once or twice urged my kind host, who was fast recovering from his wound, to permit me, if possible, to return to the Russian lines. I had had from him, of course, a full account of the fall of Plevna, and I had also learned from another source that Nicholas had been desperately wounded; but the latter information was a mere rumour, which only rendered me the more anxious to get away.
The Pasha’s chief secretary, who spoke Russian well, informed me at this time of some of the doings of his countrymen in the city and neighbourhood. I could hardly credit him, but English “correspondents” afterwards confirmed what he said. The daily executions of Bulgarians on the slightest pretexts, without trial, were at that time so numerous that it seemed as if the Turks had determined to solve the question of Bulgarian autonomy by killing or banishing every male in the province. In one instance fifteen Bulgarian children, the youngest of whom was ten years of age, and the eldest fifteen, were condemned to hard labour for life. It was said, but not proved I believe, that these young people had committed murder and contributed to the insurrection. At this time there were over 20,000 refugees in Adrianople, all of whom were women and children whose protectors had either been massacred or forced to join the army.
The secretary evidently rejoiced in the slaying and otherwise getting rid of Bulgarian men, but he seemed to have a slight feeling of commiseration for the helpless refugees, among whom I had myself witnessed the most heart-rending scenes of mental and physical suffering.
Wherever I wandered about the town there were groups of these trembling ones, on whose pallid faces were imprinted looks of maniacal horror or of blank despair. Little wonder! Some of them had beheld the fathers, brothers, lovers, around whom their heart-strings twined, tortured to death before their eyes. Others had seen their babes tossed on spear-points and bayonets, while to all the future must have appeared a fearful prospect of want and of dreary sighing for a touch of those “vanished hands” that had passed from earth for ever.
“Philanthropic societies,” said the secretary, “have done great things for Turkey and for Russia too. Had it not been for the timely aid sent out by the charitable people in England and other countries, it is certain that many thousands of these refugees would already have been in their graves.”
I did not like the tone or looks of this secretary. He was an oily man, with a touch of sarcasm.
“Doubtless there are many of them,” I returned sharply, “who wish that they had fallen with their kindred. But you say truth: the tender-hearted and liberal ones of England and elsewhere have done something to mitigate the horrors of war, and yet there is a party among us who would draw the sword, if they were allowed, and add to the number of these wretched refugees. A pretty spectacle of consistency, truly, is presented by war! If we English were to join the Turks, as of course you wish us to do, and help you to maintain your misrule, to say nothing of the massacres which have been and still are going on around us, we should have to keep our philanthropic societies at work still longer, and thus we should be seen cutting men down with one hand and binding them up with the other,—roaring like fiends as we slaughter sires, and at the same time, with the same voice, softly comforting widows and fatherless children. Oh, sir, if there is a phrase of mockery on the face of this earth, it is the term ‘civilised warfare’!”
Before the secretary had time to reply the Pasha entered, accompanied by Lancey.