But the day of battle was not longer to be delayed—that day which was to win the renown a soldier covets for the gallant strangers who led the Turkish forces. On the 29th of September, before daybreak, one of the advanced sentries of the chief battery, nearest to the enemy, heard a sound in the distance, something like the rumbling of wheels and the tramp of infantry. Kmety was soon on the spot. He applied his ear to the ground, and recognised the rumble of artillery-wheels; while still the measured tread of infantry was heard advancing nearer and nearer up the valley. The night was moonless, and very dark. Again all was silent. The Zebek riflemen look well to their percussion caps; the word is passed to the artillery-men, “peshref” (grape); the advanced posts creep into the lines with the ominous words “Ghiaour gueliur” (The infidels are coming). A dark mass, faintly seen through the gloom, is observed. It is moving; it is a column of men! A gun is pointed in the direction, the match is applied, and a hissing shower of grape flies into the mass. An unearthly scream of agony from mangled human frames follows the thunder of the gun, when both are drowned by a loud hurrah which rises on all sides, and soon the whole line of breastworks is assailed in front and flank. All surprise is at an end. The Russians advance in close column on the breastworks and redoubts, while some Russian batteries, well placed on a commanding eminence opposite, pour shot, shell, and grape into the redoubts. Steadily each column advances, while grape, round-shot, and musketry are pelted into them. They still rush on; their officers, with wondrous self-devotion, charge in front, and, single-handed, leap into the redoubts only to fall pierced with bayonets. Their columns, rent and torn, retire to reform. Meantime, on the left flank and rear of the position, the breastworks are carried; a number of tents are occupied by Russian troops, while their officers, ignorant that the redoubts are closed, flatter themselves that the position is won. Kmety now, however, hastily gathers together a formidable body of his best troops; Teesdale turns some guns towards the rear and works them vigorously; Kmety’s riflemen pour into these partially victorious Russians a continued and well-directed fire, which holds them in check, and woefully thins their ranks. Meantime, the son has risen, and shows each position of the enemy. A sulphurous cloud envelops the scenes of fiercest conflict, while reserves in formidable numbers crown the distant slopes. Fresh columns of the enemy charge again and again the front line of breastworks and batteries, from which they are at first driven back: they are received with a deadly and withering fire; and thus the fight continues. But this is not the only struggle going on. The line of breastworks and forts protecting the heights on the north of the town are attacked simultaneously by overpowering numbers, and being defended only by a weak force, mainly of Laz irregulars, are carried and occupied by Russian troops, who pile arms and wait for further orders; while the Russian artillery-men employ their time in busily shelling the town, which they now command. Meantime, General Williams from the centre of the camp is watching events. He despatches a body under Kherim Pasha, which appears suddenly on the flank of a large body of Russians now gaining ground in the rear of the Turks on the chief battery. A loud yell arises of triumph and vengeance. Baba Kherim waves his sword; his troops pour a volley into the enemy; Kmety and his men, hitherto overpowered, raise a responsive cheer: they rush on, crying, “Sungu! sungu!” (The bayonet! the bayonet!) Teesdale pours fresh grape into the staggering masses; the Russians waver—they give way—the havoc slacks not. The Turkish artillery hurl round-shots into these columns of brave and devoted men. Captain Thompson, on the extreme east, is with might and main working a heavy gun, and keeping the enemy in check. Once, and once only, there is a slight sign of giving way, but General Williams despatching reinforcements, changes the backward into a forward movement. The loud hurrahs of the Russian hosts are mingled with the yells of the Turks, who tight like tigers, charging repeatedly with the bayonet. White-turbaned citizens are seen plunging into the fight, hewing with their scimitars; athletic and savage Lazistan mountaineers fight with the clubbed rifle, or hurl stones at the advancing foe, while the latter, ever obedient to a stern discipline, advance again and again to the deadly batteries, and are blown from the very mouths of the guns. Strong proof is there of the excellence of Colonel Lake’s batteries. For seven and a half hours the furious contest rages; when about mid-day the Russian columns are seen running down the hill, their cavalry and artillery steadily protecting their retreat. A confused mass of citizens follows them with the utmost temerity, firing into their retreating ranks. But where was the Turkish cavalry? Two thousand horsemen would have destroyed the Russian army, but none remain. The enemy reform, and march off unmolested.
The victory was complete, and the brave garrison looked forward with hope to relief, but relief did not come—cholera did, and famine. The provisions decreased, and many soldiers died of starvation, of cholera, sometimes fifty in a night. News, however, came that Selim Pasha had landed at Trebizond, and was advancing to their succour, and so our brave countrymen resolved not to yield. Still the relief did not come. Famine, disease, and death stalked round the camp. Human endurance could last no longer. The 25th of November arrived, and General Williams and his aide-de-camp, Teesdale, rode over, under a flag of truce, to the Russian camp, to propose a capitulation. They were well received by the humane Mouravieff. Terms most honourable to the brave garrison were speedily arranged; private property was to be respected; the troops were to march out with colours and music, and surrender themselves prisoners; “and write,” said the Russian General to his secretary, “that in admiration of the noble and devoted courage displayed by the army of Kars, the officers shall be allowed to retain their swords, as a mark of honour and respect.”
Thus was Kars defended chiefly by the wisdom, courage, and perseverance of a few Englishmen, gallantly supported by the Turkish troops; and thus it fell, not before the arms of Russia, but in consequence of the mismanagement, roguery, and pusillanimity of Turkish generals and officials. It would be difficult to point out to young soldiers an example more worthy of imitation than that set by the gallant officers who have been mentioned in these pages.
Story 13--Chapter I.
STORY THIRTEEN—The Doomed Ship.
“You see me now an old and careworn man, with my few scanty locks white as the driven snow; my eyes dim, my cheeks hollow, my shrunk and tottering limbs scarce able to support my bent and emaciated body; my blood languid, and flowing slowly round my heart; my voice weak and tremulous as a child’s; all my faculties deranged but memory, and that alone survives to tell me who I am. Memory, mysterious, inscrutable power,—gladly would I have escaped its painful influence! Alas! it cannot be. Thought alone, while every other faculty has departed, will pursue me to the grave.
“I was not always thus, young man. Ah! once my blood coursed freely through my veins as yours, my limbs were stout and strongly knit, my muscles were firmly strung, my figure was tall and graceful, and with my arm few dared to compete. No one ever cared a second time to tempt my anger; my eye was bright and piercing as an eagle’s, and my voice was clear and powerful, so that it might be heard amid the raging of the fiercest storm. My heart never beat with fear; aloft, no one was more active, or would so readily spring to the weather earing, when, in the strongest tempest, the last reef was to be taken in the topsails. Ah! young man, you look incredulous. I have stood securely on the main truck when landsmen could scarcely keep their feet on deck. I have hung by one hand suspended to a single rope, tossing to and fro in mid air. I have swum for miles on the foaming bosom of the ocean. I have contended with the wild beast of the desert. I have stood amid showers of bell and grape when my shipmates have been falling thickly around. I have with a few daring comrades fought hand to hand against overpowering numbers on an enemy’s deck. I have faced death in a hundred shapes, and I never trembled; yet now I bend even before the summer’s breeze. Worthless and miserable as I am, I have loved, truly and devotedly, ay, and have been loved too in return. The eye of beauty has sparkled, her lip has smiled sweetly on me, her heart has beat with tender emotions; when I drew near, those lips have uttered words of tenderest endearment for my ear alone. I have been young, strong, handsome, and bold;—I am now old and broken, loathsome and nerveless. Learn a moral, young man. To this all must come whose span of life is lengthened out like mine; then do the work to which you have been called while you have strength. Remember that this life, whether passed in sunshine and in calm, or amid cloud and storm, is like a voyage, speedily over, and that while it lasts every man on board is bound to do his duty, nor like a coward skulk idly below. Vain and bitter are the regrets of age, and if all men did but feel the importance of acting their parts faithfully towards their Maker and their fellow-men, what an amount of misery and anguish would be saved them in their latter days! how different would he the world they are sent to inhabit!