CHAPTER XXX
THE GOLDEN HORN
"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?" The speaker was a Greek of the lowestclass, depraved and dirty, with a flexibility of limb and cunning ofcountenance only to be seen in the present representatives of that racewho once furnished the sculptor with his glorious ideal of godlikestrength and intellectual beauty. I longed to kick him--the climate ofConstantinople is provocative of irritation, and I felt that with mybushy beard, my Oriental demeanour, my acquaintance with Turkish habitsand proficiency in the language, it was irritating to be called"Johnny," and asked to "see the bazaar," as though I had been thesmoothest and ruddiest ensign, disembarked for a day's leave from yondercrowded troop-ship, an innocent lamb frisking in the sun on my way up tothe shambles before Sebastopol.
Yes, I was pretty well acclimatised in Turkey now. A year and more hadpassed over my head since I had left Vienna, the morning after thatmemorable ball at the Redouten-Saal, and what changes had that yearbrought forth! Sir Harry Beverley was gathered to his fathers, and aninvestigation into that worthy gentleman's affairs had explained muchthat was hitherto incomprehensible in his conduct as to his daughter'smarriage and his connection with Ropsley. The latter had played hisgame scientifically throughout. He was aware that on a propersettlement being made, by marriage or otherwise, for his daughter, SirHarry would obtain the fee-simple of certain property which, until suchan event, he only held in trust for the young lady's benefit; and asthese were the sole funds to which the far-seeing Guardsman could lookto liquidate Sir Harry's debts to himself, incurred no one knew exactlyhow, it was his object to expedite as speedily as possible the marriageof my early love. As she was an heiress he would have had no objectionto wed her himself, and indeed, as we have already seen, had enteredinto terms with her father for the furtherance of this object. Thatscheme was, however, defeated by her own determination, and it had longbeen apparent to my mind that Constance had only married my old friendVictor to escape from the dreadful alternative of becoming Ropsley'swife: that such an alliance promised but ill for the future happiness ofboth I could not conceal from myself, and yet so selfish is the humanheart, so difficult is it to shake the "trail of the serpent" from offthe flowerets of our earthly love, I could not regret as I ought to havedone that the two people whom most I cared for in the world, should notbe as devoted to each other as is essential to the happiness of thosewhom the tie of marriage has bound indissolubly together.
Ah! she was Countess de Rohan now, living at Edeldorf in all that stateand luxury which she was so well calculated to adorn; and I, what had Idone since we parted for ever at the masquerade? Well, I had striven tofulfil her wishes--to rise to honour and distinction, to be worthy ofher friendship and esteem. Fame I had gained none, but I had done myduty. Omar Pasha, my kind patron, who had never forgotten the childthat sympathised with him at Edeldorf, had expressed himself satisfiedwith my services; and 'Skender Bey, drunk or sober, never passed mewithout a cordial grasp of the hand. For more than a year I had sharedthe fortunes of the Turkish commander and the Turkish army. I had seenthe merits of those poor, patient, stanch, unflinching troops, and theshortcomings of their corrupt and venal officers. I knew, none better,how the Turkish soldier will bear hunger, thirst, privation, ill-usage,and arrears of pay without a murmur; how, with his implicit faith indestiny, and his noble self-sacrifice in the cause of God and theSultan, he is capable of endurance and effort such as put the ancientSpartan to the blush--witness the wan faces, the spectral forms, gaunt,famine-stricken and hollow-eyed, that so doggedly carried out thebehests of the tameless defender of Kars. I had seen him starved andcheated that his colonel might gormandise--ay! and, in defiance of theProphet, drink to intoxication of the forbidden liquid--and I wonderednot, as none who knew the nation need wonder, that Russian gold willwork its way to the defeat of a Turkish army far more swiftly than allthe steel that bristles over the thronging columns of the Muscovite.Keep the Pasha's hands clean, or make it worth his while to be faithfulto his country--forbid the northern eagle from spreading his wing overthe Black Sea, and you may trust the Turkish soldier that not a Russianregiment ever reaches the gates of Constantinople. All this I had seen,and for long I was content to cast in my lot with this brave people,struggling against the invader; but my own countrymen were in armsscarce two hundred miles off, the siege of Sebastopol was draggingwearily on from day to day--I felt that I would fain be under the dearold English flag, would fain strike one blow surrounded by the kindlyEnglish faces, cheered by the homely English tongues. She was morelikely to hear of me, too, if I could gain some employment with theEnglish army; and this last argument proved to me too painfully what Ihad vainly striven to conceal from myself, how little these long monthsof trials, privations, and excitement had altered the real feelings ofmy heart. Would it be always so? Alas, alas! it was a weary lot!
"Johnny, want to see the bazaar?" He woke me from my day-dream, but Ifelt more kindly towards him now, more cosmopolitan, more charitable.In such a scene as that, how could any man, a unit in such a throng,think only of his own individual interests or sufferings?
Never since the days of the Crusaders--ay, scarcely even in thatromantic time, was there seen such a motley assemblage as now crowdedthe wooden bridge that traverses the Golden Horn between bustling,dirty, dissonant Pera, and stately, quiet, dignified Stamboul, those twosuggestive quarters that constitute the Turkish capital. On that bridgemight be seen a specimen of nearly every nation under the sun--theEnglish soldier with his burly, upright figure, and staid,well-disciplined air; the rakish Zouave, with his rollicking gait, andprofessed libertinism of demeanour, foreign to the real character of theman. Jauntily he sways and swaggers along, his hands thrust into thepockets of his enormous red petticoat trousers, his blonde hair shavedclose _a la Khabyle_, and his fair complexion burnt red by an Africansun long before he came here, "en route, voyez-vous," to fill the ditchof the Malakhoff. "Pardon," he observes to a tall, stately Persian,fresh from Astracan, whom he jostles unwittingly, for a Frenchman isnever impolite, save when he really _intends_ insult; thefire-worshipper, in his long sad-coloured robes and high-pointed cap,wreathes his aquiline nose into an expression of statelyastonishment--for a Persian, too, has his notions of good breeding, andis extremely punctilious in acting up to them. His picturesque costume,however, and dignified bearing, are lost upon the Zouave, for a gilded_araba_ is at the moment passing, with its well-guarded freight, and theaccursed Giaour ogles these flowers of the harem with an impudentpertinacity of truly Parisian growth. The beauties, fresh from theirbath, attempt, with henna-tinted fingers, to draw their thin veilshigher over their radiant features, their bed-gown-looking dressestighter round their plump forms; an arrangement which by some fatalityinvariably discloses the beauties of face and figure more liberally thanbefore. Here a Jew, in his black dress and solemn turban, is countinghis gains attentively on his fingers; there an Armenian priest, withsquare cap and long dusky draperies, tells his prayers upon hissandal-wood beads. A mad dervish, naked to the loins, his hair knottedin elf-locks, his limbs macerated by starvation, howls out his unearthlydirge, to which nobody seems to pay attention, save that Yankee skipperin a round hat, fresh from Halifax to Balaklava, who is much astonished,if he would only confess it, and who sets down in his mental log-bookall that he sees and hears in this strange country as an "almightystart." Italian sailors, speaking as much with their fingers as theirtongues, call perpetually on the Virgin; whilst Greeks, Maltese, andIonian Islanders scream and gesticulate, and jabber and cheat wheneverand however they can. Yonder an Arab from the desert stalks grim andhaughty, as though he trod the burning sands of his free, boundlesshome. Armed to the teeth, the costly shawl around his waist bristlingwith pistols and sword and deadly yataghan, he looks every inch thetameless war-hawk whose hand is against every man, and every man's handagainst him. Preoccupied as he is, though, and ill at ease, for he hasleft his steed in a st
able from whence he feels no certainty thatpriceless animal may not be stolen ere he returns; and should he losehis horse, what will his very life avail him then? Nevertheless he cansneer bitterly on that gigantic Ethiopian--a slave, of course--whostruts past him in all the borrowed importance of a great man'sfavourite. At Constantinople, as at New Orleans,--in the City of theSultan as in the Land of the Free--the swarthy skin, the flattenedfeatures, and the woolly hair of the negro denote the slave. That is atall, stalwart fellow, though, and would fetch his price in SouthCarolina fast enough, were he put up for sale to the highest bidder.Such a lot he need not dread here, and he leads some half-dozen of hiscomrades, like himself, splendidly dressed and armed, with a confident,not to say bellicose air, that seems to threaten all bystanders withannihilation if they do not speedily make way for his master the Pasha.And now the Pasha himself comes swinging by at the fast easy walk of hismagnificent Turkish charger, not many crosses removed from the pureblood of the desert. The animal seems proud of its costlyaccoutrements, its head-stall embossed with gold, and housings sown withpearls, nor seems inclined to flag or waver under the goodly weight itcarries so jauntily. A gentleman of substantial proportions is thePasha; broad, strong, and corpulent, with the quiet, contented air ofone whose habitual life is spent amongst subordinates and inferiors. Heis a true Turk, and it is easy to trace in his gestures anddemeanour--haughty, grave and courteous--the bearing of the dominantrace. His stout person is buttoned into a tight blue frock-coat, on thebreast of which glitters the diamond order of the Medjidjie, and a fezor crimson skull-cap, with a brass button in the crown, surmounts hisbroad, placid face, clean and close shaved, all but the carefullytrimmed black moustache. A plain scimitar hangs at his side, and thelong chibouques, with their costly amber mouthpieces, are carried by thepipe-bearer in his rear. The cripple asking for alms at his horse'sfeet narrowly escapes being crushed beneath its hoofs; but in Turkeynobody takes any trouble about anybody else, and the danger being past,the cripple seems well satisfied to lie basking in the sun on those warmboards, and wait for his destiny like a true Mussulman as he is. Loudare the outcries of this Babel-like throng; and the porters of Galatastagger by under enormous loads, shouting the while with stentorianlungs, well adapted to their Herculean frames. Water-carriers andsweetmeat-venders vie with each other in proclaiming the nature of theirbusiness in discordant tones; a line of donkeys, bearing on theirpatient backs long planks swaying to and fro, are violently addressed bytheir half-naked drivers in language of which the poetic force isequalled only by the energetic enunciation; and a string of Turkishfiremen, holloaing as if for their lives, are hurrying--if an Osmanlican ever be said to hurry--to extinguish one of those conflagrationswhich periodically depopulate Pera and Stamboul.
The blue sparkling water, too, is alive with traffic, and is indeedanything but a "silent highway." Graceful caiques, rowed by theirlightly-clad watermen--by far the most picturesque of all the dwellersby the Bosphorus--shoot out in all directions from behind vessels ofevery rig and every tonnage; the boatmen screaming, of course, on everyoccasion, at the very top of their voices. All is bustle, confusion,and noise; but the tall black cedars in the gardens of theSeraglio-palace tower, solemn and immovable, into the blue cloudlesssky, for there is not a breath of air stirring to fan the scorchingnoon, and the domes and minarets of Stamboul's countless mosques glitterwhite and dazzling in the glare. It is refreshing to watch the rippleyonder on the radiant Bosphorus, where the breeze sighs gently up fromthe sea of Marmora--alas! we have not a chance of it elsewhere; and itis curious to observe the restless white sea-fowl, whom the Turksbelieve to be the lost souls of the wicked, scouring ever along thesurface of the waters, seemingly without stay or intermission, duringthe livelong day. It is ominous, too; mark that enormous vulture poisedaloft on his broad wing, like a shadow of evil impending over thedevoted city. There are few places in the world so characteristic asthe bridge between Galata[#] and Stamboul.
[#] The suburb of Pera lying next the Bosphorus, a locality combiningthe peculiarities of our own Smithfield, St. Giles's, and Billingsgatein their worst days. There is another bridge across the Golden Horn,higher up; but its traffic, compared to that of its neighbour, is asthat of Waterloo to London Bridge.
And now the traffic is brought to a stand-still, for the huge fabric hasto be opened, and swings back on its hinges for the passage of somemighty craft moving slowly on to the inner harbour to refit. It is awork of time and labour: the former article is of considerably lessvalue to our Moslem friends than the latter, and is lavishedaccordingly; but though business may be suspended for the nonce, noiseincreases tenfold, every item of the throng deeming the present anopportune moment at which to deliver his, her, or its opinion on thingsin general. Nimble fingers roll the fragrant cigarette, and dissonantvoices rise above the white spiral smoke into the clear bright air.Close behind me I recognise the well-known Saxon expletive adjuring_Johnny_ to "drive on,"--said "Johnny" invariably returning a blessingfor a curse, but "driving on," if by that expression is meant activityand progress, as little as may be. Turning round, I confront a floridSaxon face, with bushy beard and whiskers, surmounting a square formthat somehow I think I have seen before. "Scant greeting serves in timeof strife," and taking my chance of a mistake, I salute my neighbourpolitely.
"Mr. Manners, I believe? I am afraid you do not recollect me."
"_Major_ Manners, sir; _Major_ Manners--very much at your service," isthe reply, in a tone of mild correction. "No; I confess you have theadvantage of me. And yet--can it be? Yes, it is--Vere Egerton!"
"The same," I answered, with a cordial grasp of the hand; "but it isstrange we should meet here, of all places in the world."
"I always told you I was born to be a soldier, Egerton," said the usher,with his former jaunty air of good-humoured bravado; "and here I amamongst the rest of you. Bless me, how you're grown! I should not haveknown you had you not spoken to me. And I--don't you think I amaltered, eh? improved perhaps, but certainly altered--what?"
I glanced over my friend's dress, and agreed with him most cordially asto the _alteration_ that had taken place in his appearance. The eyegets so accustomed to difference of costume at Constantinople, that itis hardly attracted by any eccentricity of habit, however uncommon; butwhen my attention was called by Manners himself to his exterior, I couldnot but confess that he was apparelled in a style of gorgeousmagnificence, such as I had never seen before. High black riding-bootsof illustrious polish, with heavy steel spurs that would have becomePrince Rupert; crimson pantaloons under a bright green tunic,single-breasted, and with a collar _a la guillotine_, that showed off togreat advantage the manly neck and huge bushy beard, but at the sametime suggested uncomfortable ideas of sore throats and gashingsabre-strokes; a sash of golden tissue, and a sword-belt, new and richlyembroidered, sustaining a cavalry sabre nearly four feet long,--all thiswas more provocative of admiration than envy; but when such a _toutensemble_ was surmounted by a white beaver helmet with a red plume,something of a compromise between the head-dress of the champion atAstley's and that which is much affected by the Prince Consort, thegeneral effect, I am bound to confess, became striking in the extreme.
"I see," said I; "I admire you very much; but what is it?--the uniform,I mean. Staff corps? Land Transport? What?"
"Land Transport, indeed!" replied Manners, indignantly. "Not a bit ofit--nothing half so low. The Bashi-Bazouks--Beatson's Horse--whateveryou like to call them. Capital service--excellent pay--the officers ajovial set of fellows; and really--eh now? confess, a magnificentuniform. Come and join us, Egerton--we have lots of vacancies; it's thebest thing out."
"And your men?" I asked, for I had heard of these Bashi-Bazouks andtheir dashing leader. "What sort of soldiers are they?--can you dependupon them?"
"I'd lead them anywhere," replied my enthusiastic friend, whoseexperience of warfare was as yet purely theoretical. "The finestfellows you ever saw; full of confidence in their officers, and su
chhorsemen! Talk of your English dragoons! why, _our_ fellows will rideup to a brick wall at a gallop, and pull up dead short; pick a glove offthe ground from the saddle, or put a bullet in it when going by as hardas they can lay legs to the ground. You should really see them underarms. _My opinion is_, they are the finest cavalry in the world."
"And their discipline?" I continued, knowing as I did something of thesewild Asiatics and their predatory and irregular habits.
"Oh, discipline!" answered my embryo warrior; "bother the discipline! wemustn't begin by giving them too much of that; besides, it's nonsense todrill those fellows, it would only spoil their _dash_. They behave verywell in camp. I have been with them now six weeks, and we have only hadone row yet."
"And was that serious?" I asked, anxious to obtain the benefit of suchlong experience as my friend's.
"Serious"--replied Manners, thoughtfully; "well, it was serious; pistolskept popping off, and I thought at one time things were beginning tolook very ugly, but the chief soon put them to rights. They positivelyadore him. I don't know whether he punished the ringleaders. However,"added he, brightening up, "you must expect these sort of things withIrregulars. It was the first time I ever was shot at, Egerton; it's nothalf so bad as I expected: we are all dying to get into the field.Hollo! they have shut the bridge again, and I must be getting on. Whichway are you going?--to the Seraskerat? Come and dine with me to-day atMessirie's--Salaam!"
And Manners strutted off, apparently on the best of terms with himself,his uniform, and his Bashi-Bazouks. Well! he, too, had embarked on thestormy career of war. It was wonderful how men turned up atConstantinople, on their way to or from the Front. It seemed as ifsociety in general had determined on making an expedition to the East.Dandies from St. James's-street were amusing themselves by amateursoldiering before Sebastopol, and London fine ladies were to be seenmincing about on the rugged stones of Pera, talking bad French to theastonished Turks with a confidence that was truly touching. It wasEurope invading Asia once more, and I could not always think Europeshowed to advantage in the contrast. A native Turk, calm, dignified,kindly, and polite, is a nobler specimen of the human race than abustling French barber or a greedy German Jew; and of the two latterclasses Pera was unfortunately full even to overflowing. Well, it wasrefreshing to have crossed the bridge at last--to have left behind onethe miserable attempt at Europeanism, the dirt, the turmoil, and thediscomfort of Pera, for the quiet calm, the stately seclusion, and thevenerable magnificence of Stamboul.