The Interpreter: A Tale of the War

  "It is true, Janum;[#] may Allah confound them!" replies Mustapha,spitting in parenthesis between his teeth: "but they have brave hearts,these Giaours, and cunning heads, moreover, for their own devices. Whatgood Moslem would have thought of sending his commands by wire, fasterthan they could be borne by the horses of the Prophet?"

  [#] "Oh my soul!" a colloquial term equivalent to the French "Mon cher."

  "Magic!" argues the other trooper; "black, unholy magic! There is butone Allah!"

  "What filth are you eating?" answers Mustapha, who is of a practicalturn of mind. "Have not I myself seen the wire and the post, and do Inot know that the Padisha sends his commands to the Ferik-Pasha by theletters he writes with his own hand?"

  "But you have never seen the letter," urges his comrade, "though youhave ridden a hundred times under the lines."

  "Oh, mulehead, and son of a jackass!" retorts Mustapha, "do you not knowthat the letter flies so fast along the wire, that the eye of man cannotperceive it? They are dogs and accursed, these Giaours; but, by myhead, they are very foxes in wit."

  "I will defile their graves," observes his comrade; and forthwith theyproceeded to release the entangled charger, who has by this time nearlyeaten his ill-starred neighbour; and I overhear this philosophicaldisquisition, as I proceed for orders to the Green Tent of Iskender Bey,commandant of the small force of cavalry attached to Omar Pasha's armyin Bulgaria.

  As I enter the tent, I perceive two men seated in grave discussion,whilst a third stands upright in a respectful attitude. A _chaoosh_, orSerjeant, is walking a magnificently caparisoned bay Arab up and down,just beyond the tent-pegs; while an escort of lancers, with two or threemore led horses, and a brace of English pointers, are standing a fewpaces off. The upright figure, though dressed in a Turkish uniform,with a red fez or skull-cap, I have no difficulty in recognising asVictor de Rohan. He grasps my hand as I pass, and whispers a few wordsin French, while I salute Iskender Bey, and await his orders.

  My chief is more than three parts drunk. He has already finished thebest portion of a bottle of brandy, and is all for fighting, right orwrong, as, to do him justice, is his invariable inclination. To and frohe waves his half-grizzled head, and sawing the air with his right hand,mutilated of half its fingers by a blow from a Russian sabre, he repeatsin German--

  "But the attack! Excellency; the attack! when will you let me loosewith my cavalry? The attack! Excellency! the attack!"

  The person he addresses looks at him with a half-amused, half-provokedair, and then glancing at Victor, breaks into a covert smile, which heconceals by bending over a map that is stretched before him. I haveample time to study his appearance, and to wonder why I should have asort of vague impression that I have seen that countenance before.

  He is a spare, sinewy man, above the middle height, with his figuredeveloped and toughened by constant exercise. An excellent horseman, apractised shot, an adept at all field-sports, he looks as if no labourwould tire him, no hardships affect his vigour or his health. His smallhead is set on his shoulders in the peculiar manner that always denotesphysical strength; and his well-cut features would be handsome, were itnot for a severe and somewhat caustic expression which mars the beautyof his countenance. His deep-set eye is very bright and keen; itsglance seems accustomed to command, and also to detect falsehood under athreefold mask. He has not dealt half a lifetime with Asiatics to failin acquiring that useful knack. He wears his beard and moustache shortand close; they are

  Grizzled here and there, But more with toil than age,

  and add to his soldierlike exterior. His dress is simple enough; itconsists of a close-fitting, dark-green frock, adorned only with theorder of the Medjidjie, high riding-boots, and a crimson fez. A curvedTurkish sabre hangs from his belt, and a double-barrelled gun of Englishworkmanship is thrown across his knees. As he looks up from his map,his eye rests on me, and he asks Victor in German, "Who is that?"

  "An Englishman, who has joined your Excellency's force as anInterpreter," answered my friend, "and who is now attached to IskenderBey. I believe the Bey can give a good account of his gallantry on morethan one occasion."

  "The Bey," thus appealed to, musters up a drunken smile, and observes,"A good swordsman, your Excellency, and a man of many languages. Sobertoo," he adds, shaking his head, "sober as a Mussulman, the firstquality in a soldier."

  His Excellency smiles again at Victor, who presents me in due form, notforgetting to mention my name.

  The great man almost starts. He fixes on me that glittering eye whichseems to look through me. "Where did you acquire your knowledge oflanguages?" he asks. "My aide-de-camp informs me you speak Hungarianeven better than you do Turkish."

  "I travelled much in Hungary as a boy, Excellency," was my reply."Victor de Rohan is my earliest friend: I was a child scarcely out ofthe nursery when I first made his acquaintance at Edeldorf."

  A gleam of satisfaction passed over his Excellency's face. "Strange,strange," he muttered, "how the wheel turns;" and then pulling out asmall steel purse, but slenderly garnished, he selected from a few othercoins an old silver piece, worn quite smooth and bent double. "Do youremember that?" said he, placing it in my hand.

  The gipsy troop and the deserter flashed across me at once. I was soconfused at my own stupidity in not having recognised him sooner, that Icould only stammer out, "Pardon, your Excellency--so long ago--a merechild."

  He grasped my hand warmly. "Egerton," said he, "boy as you were, therewas heart and honour in your deed. Subordinate as I then was, I sworenever to forget it. I have never forgotten it. You have made a friendfor life in Omar Pasha."

  I could only bow my thanks, and the General added, "Come to me athead-quarters this afternoon. I will see what can be done for you."

  "But, Excellency, I cannot spare him," interposed Iskender Bey. "I havehere an English officer, the bravest of the brave, but so stupid Icannot understand a word he says. I had rather be without sword orlance than lose my Interpreter. And then, Excellency, the attackto-morrow--the attack."

  Omar Pasha rose to depart. "I will send him back this evening withdespatches," said he, saluting his host in the Turkish fashion, touchingfirst the heart, then the mouth, then the forehead--a courtesy which theold fire-eater returned with a ludicrous attempt at solemnity.

  "De Rohan," he added, "stay here to carry out the orders I have givenyou. As soon as your friend can be spared from the Bey, bring him overwith you, to remain at head-quarters. Salaam!" And the General was onhis horse and away long before the Turkish guard could get under arms topay him the proper compliments, leaving Iskender Bey to return to hisbrandy-bottle, and my old friend Victor to make himself comfortable inmy tent, and smoke a quiet chibouque with me whilst we related all thathad passed since we met.

  Victor was frank and merry as usual, spoke unreservedly of his _liaison_with Princess Vocqsal, and the reasons which had decided him on seeing acampaign with the Turkish army against his natural enemies, theRussians.

  "I like it, _mon cher_," said he, puffing at his chibouque, and talkingin the mixture of French and English which seemed his natural language,and in which he always affirmed _he thought_. "There is liberty, thereis excitement, there is the chance of distinction; and above all, thereare _no women_. It suits my temperament, _mon cher: voyez-vous, je suisphilosophe_. I like to change my bivouac day by day, to attach myselfto my horses, to have no tie but that which binds me to my sabre, noanxieties but for what I shall get to eat. The General does all thethinking--_parbleu!_ he does it _a merveille_; and I--why, I laugh and Iride away. Fill my chibouque again, and hand me that flask; I thinkthere is a drop left in it. Your health, Vere, _mon enfant_, and _vivela guerre_!"

  "_Vive la guerre!_" I repeated; but the words stuck in my throat, for Ihad already seen something of the miseries brought by war into apeaceful country, and I could not look upon the struggle in which wewere engaged with quite as much indifference as my volatile friend.

>   "And you, Vere," he resumed, after draining the flask, "I heard you werewith us weeks ago; but I have been absent from my chief on areconnaissance, so I never could get an opportunity of beating up yourquarters. What on earth brought you out here, my quiet, studiousfriend?"

  I could not have told him the truth to save my life. Any one but _him_,for I always fancied she looked on him with favouring eyes, so I gavetwo or three false reasons instead of the real one.

  "Oh," I replied, "everything was so changed after my poor father'sdeath, and Alton was so dull, and I had no profession, no object inlife, so I thought I might see a little soldiering. When they found Icould speak Turkish, or rather when I told them so, they gave me everyfacility at the War Office; so I got a pair of jack-boots and arevolver, and here I am."

  "But Omar will make you something better than an Interpreter," urgedVictor. "We must get you over to head-quarters, Vere. Men rise rapidlyin these days; next campaign you might have a brigade, and the followingone a division. This war will last for years; you are fit for somethingbetter than a Tergyman."[#]

  [#] An Interpreter.

  "I think so too," I replied; "though, truth to tell, when I came outhere I was quite satisfied with my present position, and only thirstedfor the excitement of action. But this soldiering grows upon one,Victor, does it not? Yet I am loth to leave Iskender too; the old Lionstretched me his paw when I had no friends in Turkey, and I believe I amuseful to him. At least I must stay with him now, for we shall beengaged before long, I can tell you that."

  "_Tant mieux_," retorted Victor, with flashing eyes; "old Brandy-facewill ram his cavalry into it if he gets a chance. Don't let him ridetoo far forward himself, Vere, if you can help it, as he did when he cuthis own way through that troop of hussars, and gave them another exampleof the stuff the Poles are made of. The Muscov nearly had him thattime, though. It was then he lost the use of half his fingers, and gotthat crack over the head which has been an excuse for drunkenness eversince."

  "Drunk or sober," I replied, "he is the best cavalry officer we have;but make yourself comfortable, Victor, as well as you can. I recommendyou to sleep on my divan for an hour or two; something tells me we shalladvance to-night. To-morrow, old friend, you and I may sleep on aharder bed."

  "_Vive la guerre!_" replied Victor, gaily as before; but ere I hadbuckled on my sabre to leave the tent, the chibouque had fallen from hislips, and he was fast asleep.

  My grey Arab, "Injour,"[#] was saddled and fastened to a lance; myfaithful Bold, who had accompanied me through all my wanderings, and whohad taken an extraordinary liking for his equine companion, was ready tobe my escort; a revolver was in my holster-pipe, a hunch of black breadin my wallet, and with my sabre by my side, and a pretty accurate ideaof my route, I experienced a feeling of light-heartedness andindependence to which I had long been a stranger. Poor Bold enjoyed hismaster's society all the more that, in deference to Moslem prejudices, Ihad now banished him from my tent, and consigned him to the company ofmy horses. He gambolled about me, whilst my snorting horse, shaking hisdelicate head, struck playfully at him with his fore-feet, as the dogbounded in front of him. Bad horseman as I always was, yet in a deepdemi-pique Turkish saddle, with broad shovel stirrups and a severeTurkish bit, I felt thoroughly master of the animal I bestrode, and Ikeenly enjoyed the sensation. "Injour" was indeed a pearl of his race.Beautiful as a star, wiry and graceful as a deer, he looked all over thepriceless child of the desert, whose blood had come down to him from thevery horses of the Prophet, unstained through a hundred generations.Mettle, courage, and endurance were apparent in the smooth satin skin,the flat sinewy legs, the full muscular neck, broad forehead, shapelymuzzle, wide red nostril, quivering ears, and game wild eye. He couldgallop on mile after mile, hour after hour, with a stride unvarying andapparently untiring as clockwork; nor though he had a heavy man on hisback did his pulses seem to beat higher, or his breath come quicker,when he arrived at the head-quarters of the Turkish army than when hehad left my own tent an hour and a half earlier, the intervening time,much to poor Bold's distress, having been spent at a gallop. There wasevidently a stir in Omar Pasha's quarters. Turkish officers were goingand coming with an eagerness and alacrity by no means natural to thosefunctionaries. An English horse, looking very thin and uncomfortable,was being led away from the tent, smoking from the speed at which he hadbeen ridden. The sentry alone was totally unmoved and apathetic; adevout Mussulman, to him destiny was destiny, and there an end. Had theenemy appeared forty thousand strong, sweeping over his very camp, hewould have fired his musket leisurely--in all probability it would nothave gone off the first time--and awaited his fate, calmly observing,"Kismet![#] there is but one Allah!"

  [#] The Pearl.

  [#] Destiny.

  More energetic spirits are fortunately within those green canvas walls;for there sits Omar Pasha, surrounded by the gallant little band offoreigners, chiefly Englishmen, who never wavered or hesitated for aninstant, however desperate the task to be undertaken, and whom, it isbut justice to say, the Turks were always ready to follow to the death.Very different is the expression on each countenance, for a council ofwar is sitting, and to-day will decide the fate of many a grey-coatedMuscov and many a turbaned servant of the Prophet. A Russian prisonerhas moreover just been brought in, and my arrival is sufficientlyopportune to interpret, with the few words of Russian I have alreadypicked up, between the unfortunate man and his captors. If he prove tobe a spy, as is more than suspected, may Heaven have mercy on him, forthe Turk will not.

  Omar Pasha's brow is contracted and stern. He vouchsafes me no look orsign of recognition as he bids me ask the prisoner certain pertinentquestions on which life and death depend.

  "What is the strength of the corps to which you belong?"

  The man answers doggedly, and with his eyes fixed on the ground, "Twentythousand bayonets."

  Omar Pasha compares his answer with the paper he holds in his hand. Ifancy he sets his teeth a little tighter, but otherwise he moves not amuscle of his countenance.

  "At what distance from the Danube did you leave your General'shead-quarters?"

  The prisoner pretends not to understand. My limited knowledge of hislanguage obliges me to put the question in an involved form, and heseems to take time to consider his answer. There is nothing about theman to distinguish him from the common Russian soldier--a mere militaryserf. He is dressed in the long, shabby, grey coat, the greasy boots,and has a low overhanging brow, a thoroughly Calmuck cast of features,and an intensely stupid expression of countenance; but I remark that hishands, which are nervously pressed together, are white and slender, andhis feet are much too small for their huge shapeless coverings.

  His eye glitters as he steals a look at the General, whilst he answers,"Not more than an hour and a half."

  Again Omar consults his paper, and a gleam passes over his face likethat of a chess-player who has checkmated his adversary.

  "One more question," he observes, courteously, "and I will trouble youno longer. What force of artillery is attached to your General's _corpsd'armee_?"

  "Eight batteries of field-cannon and four troops of horse artillery,"replies the prisoner, this time without a moment's hesitation; but thesweat breaks out on his forehead, for he is watching Omar Pasha'scountenance, and he reads "death" on that impassible surface.

  "It is sufficient, gentlemen," observes the General to the officers whosurround him. "Let him be taken to the rear of the encampment and shotforthwith."

  The prisoner's lip quivers nervously, but he shows extraordinary pluck,and holds himself upright as if on parade.

  "Poor devil!" says a hearty voice in English; and turning round, I see agood-looking, broad-shouldered Englishman, in the uniform of abrigadier, who is watching the prisoner with an air of pity andcuriosity approaching the ludicrous. "Excellence," says he, in somewhatbroken German, "will you not send him to me? I will undertake that hespreads no false reports about the camp. I will answer for
his safetyin my hands; he must not be permitted to communicate with any one, evenby signs; but it is a pity to shoot him, is it not?"

  "I would do much to oblige you, Brigadier," replied Omar, with frankcourtesy; "but you know the custom of war. I cannot in this instancedepart from it--no, not even to oblige a friend;" he smiled as he spoke,and added in Turkish to an officer who stood beside him, "March him out,and see it done immediately. And now, gentlemen," he proceeded, "wewill arrange the plan of attack. Mr. Egerton, your despatches areready; let them reach Iskender Bey without delay. There will be workfor us all to-morrow."

  At these words a buzz of satisfaction filled the tent; not an officerthere but was determined to win his way to distinction _coute quicoute_. I felt I had received my dismissal, and bowed myself out. As Ileft the tent, I encountered the unfortunate Russian prisoner marchingdoggedly under escort to the place of his doom. When he caught sight ofme he made a mechanical motion with his fettered hand, as though toraise it to his cap, and addressed me in French, of which language hehad hitherto affected the most profound ignorance.

  "Comrade," said he, "order these men to give me five minutes. We areboth soldiers; you shall do me a favour."

  I spoke to the "mulazim"[#] who commanded the guard. He pointed out anopen space on which we were entering, and observed, "The Moscov hasreached his resting-place at last. Five minutes are soon gone. What amI that I should disobey the Tergyman? Be it on my head, Effendi."

  [#] Lieutenant.

  The Russian became perfectly composed. At my desire his arms wereliberated, and the first use he made of his freedom was to shake mecordially by the hand.

  "Comrade," said he, in excellent French, and with the refined tone of aneducated man, "we are enemies, but we are soldiers. We are civilisedmen among barbarians; above all, we are Christians among infidels.Swear to me by the faith we both worship that you will fulfil my lastrequest."

  His coolness at this trying moment brought the tears into my eyes. Ipromised to comply with his demand so far as my honour as a soldierwould permit me.

  He had stood unmoved surrounded by enemies, he had heard hisdeath-warrant without shrinking for an instant; but my sympathy unmannedhim, and it was with a broken voice and moistened eyes that heproceeded.

  "I am not what I seem. I hold a commission in the Russian army.Disguised as a private soldier I crossed the river of my own free will.I have sacrificed myself willingly for my country and my Czar. He willknow it, and my brother will be promoted. The favour I ask you is notrifling one." He took a small amulet from his neck as he spoke; it wasthe image of his patron saint, curiously wrought in gold. "Forward thisto my mother, she is the one I love best on earth. _Mother_," herepeated, in a low, heartbreaking voice, "could you but see me now!"

  I had fortunately a memorandum-book in my pocket. I tore out a leaf andhanded him a pencil. He thanked me with such a look of gratitude as Inever saw before on mortal face, wrote a few lines, wrapped the amuletin the paper, and inscribed on it the direction with a hand far steadierthan my own. As he gave it me, the mulazim coolly observed, "Effendi!the time has expired," and ordered his men to "fall in." The Russiansqueezed my hand, and drew himself up proudly to his full height, whilsthis eye kindled, and the colour came once more into his cheek. As Imounted my horse, he saluted me with the grave courteous air with whicha man salutes an antagonist in a duel.

  I could not bear to see him die. I went off at a gallop, but I had notgone two hundred paces before I heard the rattle of some half-dozenmuskets. I pulled up short and turned round. Some inexplicablefascination forced me to look. The white smoke was floating away. Iheard the ring of the men's ramrods as they reloaded; and where theRussian had stood erect and chivalrous while he bid me his lastfarewell, there was nothing now but a wisp of grey cloth upon theground.

  Sick at heart, I rode on at a walk, with the bridle on my horse's neck.But a soldier's feelings must not interfere with duty. My despatcheshad to be delivered immediately, and soon I was once more speeding awayas fast as I had come. An hour's gallop braced my nerves, and warmedthe blood about my heart. As I gave Injour a moment's breathing time, Isummoned fortitude to read the Russian's letter. My scholarship wasmore than sufficient to master its brief contents. It was addressed tothe Countess D----, and consisted but of these few words: "Consolethyself, my mother; I die in the true faith."

  He was a gallant man and a good.

  "If this is the stuff our enemies are made of," thought I, as I urgedInjour once more to his speed, "there is, indeed--as Omar Pasha told usto-day--there is, indeed, 'work cut out for us all.'"