"Wull, p'raps I shall, now I've got 'un; I'm a Yarkshermun, I am." And with this, munching to his infinite satisfaction that drum-stick as he went, he turned on his heel and rejoined his oxen.
On inquiry we found him to be a Yorkshire ne'er-do-weel, who, after many vicissitudes, had somehow enlisted in the Cossack contingent.
Before the siege was over, however, we had more than forgiven the unexpected appropriation of the succulent drum-stick.
One night—one of the most severe of that terrible winter—when such little wood as was obtainable was almost too damp to ignite, myself and several other correspondents were sitting in sorry plight round an apology for a camp fire, half frozen, and utterly demoralised, in a condition, in fact, of benumbed misery, which I at least have never before or since experienced. Save for the lurid glare of Plevna, like a smouldering volcano in the distance, and the tread now and again of a sentry in the crisp snow, we might have been, as indeed we in some senses were, in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Presently, however, a sound broke the stillness of the night—a sound which caused our hearts to throb, and circulated anew the blood in our half-frozen veins, a sound which spoke to each of "England, home, and beauty," of a welcome in store for us in the old country, of hopes realised, and promises fulfilled—that sound took the form of music, and probably the most acceptable form music, at such a moment, could take; for, proceeding from a rough reed pipe, there floated across to us on the cold night air the welcome old strains of "Home, sweet home:" sympathetically, exquisitely rendered, it seemed literally to resuscitate us. Yes, indeed, we had each of us something to live for, much to be thankful for, and when afterwards we ascertained the player to have been none other than our Yorkshire Cossack, it was pleasant to reflect that if he had once played the dickens with our dinner he had more than recompensed us with "Home, sweet home."
"HOME, SWEET HOME."
Although we were sometimes in such sorry plight as I've referred to, Conigsby was well pleased to mix with the Muscovites; he had previously been accredited to the Turks, and at Philippopolis, Adrianople, and elsewhere, had been frequently warned that the strong Russian bias of his letters to The Times boded him no good; indeed, that "a cup of black coffee," as poison is politely termed by the Moslems, was in active preparation for him.
Loth to accept these hints, it's more than probable he would never have come to Plevna at all, had not a very forcible argument been presented to him. It happened thus:—The representative of Printing House-square—quite innocent of coming events—rose one morning rather earlier than usual. His room seeming unusually dark, he proceeded at once to draw up the blind, when, to his intense horror, he suddenly found himself face to face with a corpse—the corpse of a Bulgarian traitor—which, during the night, had been hoisted by means of pulleys outside his bedroom window. The Turks, to say the least of it, had a design on his appetite for breakfast. This gentle reminder was sufficient for him; he quite understood now how matters stood, and so exchanged as soon as possible to the Russian lines.
His successor, whose views, alas! were also Russophile, sent only a limited number of despatches to The Times. It was café noir that did it. I think he was buried at Scutari.
I have heard it remarked by some stay-at-home critics of war that they "don't know what fear is," that they are, in other words, ready-made heroes for whom there is, unfortunately, no scope. To such I would recommend some of the minor emergencies of a campaign as tests worth trying. Personally, I am quite willing to confess to having experienced at times painfully unpleasant qualms, and fully believe that to do so is only human. Overcoming fear is declared by some to be heroic, and individual acts of unselfish bravery under such circumstances cannot certainly be too generously commended; but defend me from the untried swash-buckler who "doesn't know what fear is." Let him, as soon as occasion serves, take a dose of ignominious retreat—one dose before bedtime will be found quite sufficient. Let him experience a retreat, say, down a rugged mountain defile in Spain, with the enemy in comparatively close proximity on a parallel ridge, a deep gorge between them, pouring in a deadly fire on retreating artillery and cavalry. This I experienced once not far from San Sebastian. "Everyone for himself, and the devil take the hindmost." I cite the apt quotation of my old friend Edmund O'Donovan, of The Daily News, who was there at the time. There was a tooth and nail illustration of that proverb then I shall never forget: panic reigned supreme, each struggling in mad confusion to be first out of the fray, yelling, shouting, hooting in their frenzy, even to the free use of the butt ends of carbines and revolvers, anything, in short, to clear the way for that best beloved and all-important "Number One."