CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE GROTTO
It is not _all_ fighting, though, before Sebastopol. Without coincidingentirely with the somewhat Sancho Panza-like philosophy which affirmsthat the "latter end of a feast is better than the beginning of a fray,"there is many a gallant fellow who has not the slightest objection totake his share of both; and from the days of Homer's heavy-handedheroes, down to those of the doughty Major Dugald Dalgetty himself, agood commissariat has always been considered essential to the success ofall warlike enterprise. Every campaigner knows what a subject ofspeculation and excitement is afforded by the prospect of "what he willhave for dinner," and the scantiness of that meal, together with thedifficulty of providing for it, seems but to add to the zest with whichit is enjoyed. Many a quaint incident and laughable anecdote is relatedof the foraging propensities of our allies, particularly the Zouaves,who had learned their trade in Algeria, and profited by the lessons oftheir Khabyle foe. The Frenchman, moreover, knows how to _cook_ adinner _when_ he has filched it, which is more than can be said for ourown gallant countrymen.
Had it not been for Fortnum and Mason--names which deserve to beimmortalised, and which will ever be remembered with gratitude by theBritish army--our heroes would indeed have been badly off for luxuriousliving on that bracing and appetite-giving plateau. Yet, thanks to theenergy of this enterprising firm, Amphitryons were enabled to indulgetheir taste for hospitality, and guests to admire and criticise themerits of the very commendable delicacies placed before them.
A dinner-party at Sebastopol, just out of cannon-shot, had somethinginexpressibly enlivening in its composition. There was no lack of news,no lack of laughter, no lack of eatables and drinkables, above all, nolack of hunger and thirst. The same faces were to be seen around theboard that might have been met with at any dinner-table in London, butwhite neckcloths and broadcloth had given place to tawny beards andtarnished uniforms, whilst the bronzed countenances and high spirits ofthe party formed an exhilarating contrast to the weary looks and vapidconversation which makes London society, in its own intrinsicattractions, the stupidest in the world.
The sun's last rays are lighting up that well-known hill where sleeps"the bravest of the brave," he whose name will go down to our children'schildren coupled with Inkermann, as that of Leonidas with Thermopylae.He whose fall evoked a deed of chivalry such as minstrel and troubadoursnatched from oblivion in the olden time, and handed down to us for abeacon along the pathway of honour. Had they ever a nobler theme thanthis? A chief falls, surrounded and overpowered, in his desperateattempt to retrieve the fortunes of a day that he deems all but lost.His friend and comrade, faint and mangled, turns once more into thebattle, and bestrides the form of the prostrate hero. One to ten, thebreathless and the wounded against the fresh and strong, but the heartof an English gentleman behind that failing sword, beat down andshattered by the thirsty bayonets. An instant the advance is checked.An instant and they might both have been saved. Oh, for but onehalf-dozen of the towering forms that are even now mustering to therescue! They are coming through the smoke! Too late--too late! thelion-hearted chieftain and the gentle, chivalrous warrior are down,slain, trampled, and defaced, but side by side on the bed of honour; andthough the tide sweeps back, and the broken columns of the Muscovite aredriven, routed and shattered, to the rear, _their_ ears are deaf to theshout of victory, _their_ laurel wreaths shall hang vacant and unworn,for they shall rise to claim them no more.
The setting sun is gilding their graves--the white buildings ofSebastopol smile peacefully in his declining rays--the sea is blushingviolet under the rich purple of the evening sky. The allied fleets aredotted like sleeping wild-fowl over the bosom of the deep; one solitarysteamer leaves its long dusky track of smoke to form a stationary cloud,so smooth is the water that the ripple caused by the sunken ships can beplainly discerned in the harbour, and the Russian men-of-war stillafloat look like children's toys in the distance of that clear, calmatmosphere. The bleak and arid foreground, denuded of vegetation, andtrampled by a thousand footmarks, yet glows with the warm orange hues ofsunset, and the white tents contrast pleasingly with here and there thericher colouring of some more stationary hut or storehouse. It is anevening for peace, reflection, and repose; but the dull report of a68-pounder smites heavily on the ear from the town, and a smartsoldier-servant, standing respectfully at "attention," observes, "TheGeneral is ready, sir, and dinner is upon the table."
In a grotto dug by some Tartar hermit out of the cool earth areassembled a party of choice spirits, who are indeed anchorites innothing but the delight with which they greet the refreshing atmosphereof their banqueting-hall. A flight of stone steps leads down into thiswell-contrived vault, in so hot a climate no contemptible exchange forthe stifling interior of a tent, or even the comparative comfort of awooden hut thoroughly baked through by the sun. A halting figure oncrutches is toiling painfully down that staircase, assisted, with many ajest at their joint deficiencies, by a stalwart, handsome Guardsman, amodel of manly strength and symmetry, but lacking what he is pleased toterm his "liver wing." They are neither of them likely to forget theCrimea whilst they live. Ere they reach the bottom they are overtakenby a cavalry officer with jingling spurs and noisy scabbard, who, havinghad a taste of fighting, such as ought to have satisfied most men, atBalaklava, is now perpetually hovering about the front, disgusted withhis enforced idleness at Kadikoi, and with a strong impression on hismind--which he supports by many weighty arguments--that a few squadronsof Dragoons would be valuable auxiliaries to a storming party, and thata good swordsman on a good horse can "go anywhere and do anything."
"I think we are all here now," says the host; "Monsieur le General,shall we go to dinner?"
The individual addressed gives a hearty affirmative. He is a stout,good-humoured-looking personage, with an eagle eye, and an extremelytight uniform covered with orders and decorations. He is not yet toofat to get on horseback, though the privations of campaigning seem toincrease his rotundity day by day, and he expects ere long to go tobattle, like an ancient Scythian, in his war-chariot. By that time hewill be a marshal of France, but meanwhile he pines a little for theopera, and enjoys his dinner extremely. He occupies the seat of honouron the right hand of his host. The latter bids his guests welcome infrank, soldier-like style; and whilst the soup is handed round, andthose bearded lips are occupied with its merits, let us take a lookround the table at the dozen or so of guests, some of whom are destinedere long to have their likenesses in every print-shop in merry England.First of all the dinner-giver himself--a square, middle-sized man, witha kindling eye, and a full, determined voice that suggests at once thehabit of command--a kindly though energetic manner, and a countenanceindicative of great resolution and clear-headedness; perhaps the bestdrill in the British army, and delighting much in a neat touch of paradetactics even before an enemy. Many a Guardsman nudged his comrade witha grin of humorous delight when, on a certain 20th of September, his oldcolonel coolly doubled a flank company in upon the rear of itsbattalion, and smiled to see the ground it would otherwise have occupiedploughed and riddled by the round-shot that was pouring from the enemy'sbatteries in position on the heights above the Alma. The Britishsoldier likes coolness above all things; and where in command of foreigntroops an officer should rave and gesticulate and tear his hair toelicit a corresponding enthusiasm from his men, our own phlegmaticAnglo-Saxons prefer the quiet smile and the good-humoured "_Now_, mylads!" which means so much.
On the left, and facing the Frenchman, sits a middle-ageddecided-looking man, somewhat thoughtful and abstracted, yet giving hisopinions in a clear and concise manner, and with a forcible tone andarticulation that denote great energy and firmness of character. Hisname, too, is destined to fill the page of history--his future is brightand glowing before him, and none will grudge his honours and promotion,for he is endeared to the army by many a kindly action, and it has beenexertion for t
heir welfare and watching on their behalf, that havewasted his strong frame with fever, and turned his hair so grey in soshort a time. Soldier as he is to his heart's core, he would fain beoutside in the sunset with his colours and his sketch-book, arresting onits pages the glorious panorama which is even now passing away; but heis listening attentively to his neighbour, a handsome young man in theuniform of a simple private of Zouaves, and is earnestly occupied in"getting a wrinkle," as it is termed, concerning the interior economyand discipline of that far-famed corps. The Zouave gives him all theinformation he can desire with that peculiarly frank and fascinatingmanner which is fast dying out with the _ancien regime_, for though aprivate of Zouaves he is a marquis of France, the representative of oneof the oldest families in the Empire, and a worthy scion of hischivalrous race. Rather than not draw the sword for his country, he hasresigned his commission in that body of household cavalry termed "TheGuides," and entered as a trooper in the Chasseurs d'Afrique: a displayof martial enthusiasm for which he has been called out from the ranks ofhis original corps and publicly complimented by the Empress Eugenieherself. Arrived in the Crimea, he found his new comrades placed inenforced idleness at far too great a distance from active operations tosuit his taste, and he forthwith exchanged once more into the Zouaves,with whom he took his regular share of duty in the trenches, and he isnow enjoying a furlough of some six hours from his quarters, to dinewith an English general, and cultivate the _entente cordiale_ whichflourishes so vigorously on this Crimean soil. Alas for the gallantspirit, the graceful form, the warm noble heart! no bird of ill omenflew across his path as he came to-day to dinner, no warning note ofimpending death rang in his ears to give him notice of his doom.To-night he is as gay, as lively, as cheerful as usual; to-morrow hewill be but a form of senseless clay, shot through the head in thetrenches.
Meanwhile the champagne goes round, and is none the less appreciatedthat although there is an abundance of bottles, there is a saddeficiency of glasses. A light-hearted aide-de-camp, well accustomed toevery emergency, great or small, darts off to his adjoining tent, fromwhich he presently returns, bearing two tin cups and the broken remainsof a coffee-pot; with these auxiliaries dinner progresses merrily, and afat turkey--how obtained it is needless to inquire--is soon reduced to askeleton. A little wit goes a long way when men are before an enemy; andas the aide-de-camp strongly repudiates the accusation of havingpurloined this hapless bird, jokes are bandied about from one toanother, every one wishing to fasten on his neighbour the accusation ofknowing how to "make war support war."
The English officers are a long way behind their allies in this usefulaccomplishment; and the French general shakes his jolly sides as herelates with much gusto sundry Algerian experiences of what we shouldterm larceny and rapine, but which his more liberal ideas seem toconsider excusable, if not positively meritorious.
"The best foragers I had in Algeria," says he, "were my best soldierstoo. If I wanted fresh milk for my coffee, I trusted to the same menthat formed my storming parties, and I was never disappointed in onecase or the other. In effect, they were droll fellows, my ZouavesIndigenes--cunning too, as the cat that steals cream; the Khabyles couldkeep nothing from them. If we entered their tents, everything of valuewas taken away before you could look round. To be sure we could carrynothing with us, but that made no difference. I have seen the men windshawls round their waists that were worth a hundred louis apiece, andthrow them aside on a hot day on the march. There was one Khabyle chiefwho was very conspicuous for the magnificent scarlet cashmere which hewore as a turban. On foot or on horseback, there he was, alwaysfighting and always in the front. Heaven knows why, but the men calledhim Bobouton, and wherever there was a skirmish Bobouton was sure to bein the thick of it. One day I happened to remark 'that I was tired ofBobouton and his red shawl, and I wished some one would bring me theturban and rid me of the wearer.' A little swarthy Zouave, named Pepe,overheard my observation. '_Mon Colonel_,' said he, with a mostceremonious bow,' to-morrow is your _jour de fete_--will you permit meto celebrate it by presenting you with the scarlet turban of Bobouton?'I laughed, thanked him, and thought no more about it.
"The following morning, at sunrise, I rode out to make a reconnaissance.A party, of whom Pepe was one, moved forward to clear the ground.Contrary to all discipline and _ordonnance_, my droll little friend hadmounted a magnificent pair of epaulettes. Worn on his Zouave uniform,the effect was the least thing ridiculous. As I knew of no epaulettes inthe camp besides my own, I confess I was rather angry, but the enemyhaving opened a sharp fire upon my skirmishers, I did not choose tosacrifice an aide-de-camp by bidding him ride on and visit Pepe withcondign punishment; so, reserving to myself that duty on his return, Iwatched him meanwhile through my glass with an interest proportioned tomy regard for my epaulettes, an article not too easily replaced inAlgeria. Nor were mine the only eyes that looked so eagerly on theflashing bullion. Bobouton soon made his appearance from behind a rock,and by the manner in which he and Pepe watched, and, so to speak,'stalked' each other, I saw that a regular duel was pending between thetwo. In fine, after very many manoeuvres on both sides, the Zouaveincautiously exposed himself at a distance of eighty or ninety paces,and was instantaneously covered by his watchful enemy. As the smokecleared away from the Khabyle's rifle, poor Pepe sprang convulsively inthe air, and fell headlong on his face. 'Tenez!' said I to myself,'there is Pepe shot through the heart, and I shall never see myepaulettes again.'
"The Khabyle rushed from his hiding-place to strip his fallenantagonist. Already his eyes glittered with delight at the idea ofpossessing those tempting ornaments--already he was within a few feet ofthe prostrate body, when 'crack!' once more I heard the sharp report ofa rifle, and presto, like some scene at a carnival, it was Bobouton thatlay slain upon the rocks, and Pepe that stood over him and stripped himof the spoils of war. In another minute he unrolled the red turban atmy horse's feet. '_Mon Colonel_,' said he, 'accept my congratulationsfor yourself and your amiable family. Accept also this trifling tokenof remembrance taken from that incautious individual who, like the mousein the fable, thinks the cat must be dead because she lies prostratewithout moving. And accept, moreover, my thanks for the loan of thesehandsome ornaments, without the aid of which I could not have procuredmyself the pleasure of presenting my worthy colonel with the shawl of_ce malheureux Bobouton_.' The rascal had stolen them out of my tentthe night before, though my aide-de-camp slept within two paces of me,and my head rested on the very box in which they were contained."
"Alas! we have no experiences like yours, General," says a tall,handsome colonel of infantry, with the Cape and Crimean ribbons on hisbreast; "wherever we have made war with savages, they have had nothingworth taking. A Kaffre chief goes to battle with very little on besideshis skin, and that is indeed scarce worth the trouble of stripping.When we captured Sandilli, I give you my word he had no earthly articleupon his person but a string of blue beads, and yet he fought like awildcat to make his escape."
"Your health, my friend," replies the General, clinking his glass withthat of his new acquaintance. "You have been in Caffraria? Ah! Ishould have known it by your decorations. Are they not a fierce andformidable enemy? Is it not a good school for war? Tell me,now"--looking round the table for an explanation--"why do you notreserve South Africa, you others, as we do the northern shore, to makeof it a drill-ground for your soldiers and a school for your officers?It would cost but little--a few hundred men a year would be the onlyloss. Bah!--a mere trifle to the richest and most populous country inthe world. I do not understand your English _sang-froid_. Why do younot establish _your_ Algeria at the Cape?"
Many voices are immediately raised in explanation; but it is difficultto make the thorough soldier--the man who has all his life been themilitary servant of a military Government--understand how repugnantwould be such a proceeding to the feelings of the British people--howcontrary to the whole spirit of their constitution. At length, withanother glass of champagn
e, a new light seems to break in upon him."Ah!" says he, "it would not be approved of by _Le Times_; now Iunderstand perfectly. We manage these matters better with us. _Peste!_if we go to war, there it is. We employ our _Gazettes_ to celebrate ourvictories. Your health, _mon General_; this is indeed a wearisomebusiness in which we are engaged--a life totally brutalising. Withoutchange, without manoeuvring, and without pleasure: what would you? Itrust the next campaign in which we shall meet may be in a civilisedcountry--the borders of the Rhine, for instance; what think you?--where,instead of this barbarian desert, you find a village every mile, and agood house in every village, with a bottle of wine in the cellar, asmoked ham in the chimney, and a handsome Saxon _blonde_ in the kitchen.'_A la guerre, comme a la guerre, n'est ce pas, mon General?_'"
The company are getting merry and talkative; cigars are lit, and coffeeis handed round; the small hours are approaching, and what Falstaffcalls the "sweet of the night" is coming on, when the tramp and snort ofa horse are heard at the entrance of the grotto, a steel scabbard ringsupon the stone steps, and although the new-comer's place at one end ofthe table has been vacant the whole of dinner-time, he does not sit downto eat till he has whispered a few words in the ear of the Englishgeneral, who receives the intelligence with as much coolness as it isimparted.
In five minutes the grotto is cleared of all save its customaryoccupants. The French general has galloped off to his head-quarters;the English officers are hurrying to their men; each as he leaves thegrotto casts a look at an ingenious arrangement at its mouth, which, bymeans of a diagram formed of white shells, each line pointing to aparticular portion of the attack, enables the observer to ascertain atonce in which direction the fire is most severe. The originator of thissimple and ingenious indicator meanwhile sits down for a mouthful offood. He has brought intelligence of the sortie already described, andwhich will turn out the troops of all arms in about ten minutes; but inthe meantime he has five to spare, and, being very hungry, he makes thebest use of his time. As the light from the solitary lamp brings intorelief that square, powerful form--that statue-like head, with itsfearless beauty and its classical features--above all, the frank, kindlysmile, that never fades under difficulties, and the clear, unwaveringeye that never quails in danger,--any physiognomist worthy of the namewould declare "that man was born to be a hero!" And the physiognomistwould not be mistaken.