In the Track of the Troops

Chapter Thirteen.

Shews what Sometimes Happens in the Track of Troops

“Why, Nicholas,” I exclaimed, looking round the inn, “I have been here before. It is—it must be—the very place where, on my way up, I saw a famous wrestling-match. Did I ever tell you about it?”

“Never; but come along, I must finish one part of my duty here without delay by paying a visit. You can tell me about the wrestling-match as we walk together.”

I described the match with great interest, for my heart warmed towards the chief actor and his family, and as I proceeded with the narration I observed with some satisfaction that the road we were following led in the direction of the cottage of Dobri Petroff. As we drew near to the path that diverged to it I resolved, if possible, to give Nicholas, who was evidently interested in my narrative, a surprise by confronting him unexpectedly with the blacksmith and his family.

“Nicholas,” I said, “you see that cottage on the hillside? I have a great desire to pay its inmates a visit. Have you any objection to turn aside just for a few minutes?”

Nicholas gave me a look of surprise and laughed.

“None in the world, Jeff, for it happens that I particularly wish to visit the cottage myself.”

“You do? Why—what—”

“Well, finish your question, Jeff; why should it seem strange to you that I want to visit a Bulgarian family?”

“Why, because, Nick, this is the cottage of the very blacksmith about whom I have been speaking, and I wanted to give you a surprise by introducing him to you.”

“His name?” asked Nicholas quickly.

“Dobri Petroff.”

“The very man. How strange! You have already given me a surprise, Jeff, and will now add a pleasure and a service by introducing me to him, and, perhaps, by using your powers of suasion. It is no breach of confidence to tell you that part of my business here is to secure the services of this man as a guide over the Balkans, with the passes of which we have been told he is intimately acquainted. But it is said that he is a bold independent fellow, who may dislike and refuse the duty.”

“He won’t dislike it at all events,” said I. “He has no love for the Turks, who have treated him shamefully, just because of that same bold and independent spirit.”

“Well, come, we shall see,” rejoined my friend.

In a few minutes we had come to a turn in the path which brought the cottage full into view, and I experienced a sudden shock on observing that part of it—that part which had been the forge—was a blackened ruin. I was at the same moment relieved, however, by the sight of Ivanka and little Dobri, who were playing together in front of the uninjured part of the cottage.

Next moment the tall handsome form of the blacksmith appeared stooping under the doorway as he came out to receive us. I noticed that there was an expression of trouble on his countenance, mingled with a look of sternness which was not usual to him. He did not recognise me at first, and evidently eyed Nicholas—as a Russian officer—with no favour.

As we drew near, the stern look vanished, and he sprang forward with a glad smile to seize and shake my hand. At the same moment Ivanka’s black eyes seemed to blaze with delight, as she ran towards me, and clasped one of my legs. Little Dobri, bereft of speech, stood with legs and arms apart, and mouth and eyes wide open, gazing at me.

“All well?” I asked anxiously.

“All well,” said the blacksmith; then, with a glance at the forge—“except the—; but that’s not much after all.—Come in, gentlemen, come in.”

We entered, and found Marika as neat and thrifty as ever, though with a touch of care about her pretty face which had not been there when I first met her.

A few words explained the cause of their trouble.

“Sir,” said Petroff, addressing me, but evidently speaking at Nicholas, “we unfortunate Bulgarians have hard times of it just now. The Turk has oppressed and robbed and tortured and murdered us in time past, and now the Russian who has come to deliver us is, it seems to me, completing our ruin. What between the two we poor wretches have come to a miserable pass indeed.”

He turned full on Nicholas, unable to repress a fierce look.

“Friend,” said Nicholas gently, but firmly, “the chances of war are often hard to bear, but you ought to recognise a great difference between the sufferings which are caused by wilful oppression, and those which are the unavoidable consequences of a state of warfare.”

“Unavoidable!” retorted the blacksmith bitterly. “Is it not possible for the Russians to carry supplies for their armies, instead of demanding all our cattle for beef and all our harvests for fodder?”

“Do we not pay you for such things?” asked Nicholas, in the tone of a man who wishes to propitiate his questioner.

“Yes, truly, but nothing like the worth of what you take; besides, of what value are a few gold pieces to me? My wife and children cannot eat gold, and there is little or nothing left in the land to buy. But that is not the worst. Your Cossacks receive nothing from your Government for rations, and are allowed to forage as they will. Do you suppose that, when in want of anything, they will stop to inquire whether it belongs to a Bulgarian or not? When the war broke out, and your troops crossed the river, my cattle and grain were bought up, whether I would or no, by your soldiers. They were paid for—underpaid, I say—but that I cared not for, as they left me one milch-cow and fodder enough to keep her. Immediately after that a band of your lawless and unrationed Cossacks came, killed the cow, and took the forage, without paying for either. After that, the Moldavians, who drive your waggon-supplies for you—a lawless set of brigands when there are no troops near to watch them,—cleaned my house of every scrap that was worth carrying away. What could I do? To kill a dozen of them would have been easy, but that would not have been the way to protect my wife and children.”

The man laid his great hand tenderly on Ivanka’s head, while he was speaking in his deep earnest voice; and Nicholas, who was well aware of the truth of his remarks about the Cossacks and the waggon-drivers of the army, expressed such genuine feeling and regret for the sufferings with which the household had been visited, that Petroff was somewhat appeased.

“But how came your forge to be burned?” I asked, desiring to change the drift of the conversation.

The question called up a look of ferocity on the blacksmith’s face, of which I had not believed it capable.

“The Turks did it,” he hissed, rather than said, between his teeth. “The men of this village—men whom I have served for years—men by whom I have been robbed for years, and to whose insults I have quietly and tamely submitted until now, for the sake of these,” (he pointed to his wife and children)—“became enraged at the outbreak of the war, and burned my workshop. They would have burned my cottage too, but luckily there is a good partition-wall between it and the shop, which stayed the flames. No doubt they would have despoiled my house, as they have done to others, but my door and windows were barricaded, and they knew who was inside. They left me; but that which the Turks spared the Russians have taken. Still, sir,” (he turned again full on Nicholas), “I must say that if your Government is honest in its intentions, it is far from wise in its methods.”

“You hate the Turks, however, and are willing to serve against them?” asked Nicholas.

The blacksmith shook his shaggy locks as he raised his head.

“Ay, I hate them, and as for—”

“Oh, husband!” pleaded Marika, for the first time breaking silence, “do not take vengeance into your own hands.”

“Well, as to that,” returned Dobri, with a careless smile, “I have no particular desire for vengeance; but the Turks have taken away my livelihood; I have nothing to do, and may as well fight as anything else. It will at all events enable me to support you and the children. We are starving just now.”

Nicholas hastened to assure the unfortunate man that his family would be specially cared for if he would undertake to guide the Russian columns across the Balkan mountains. Taking him aside he then entered into earnest converse with him about the object of his mission.

Meanwhile I had a long chat with his wife and the little ones, from whom I learned the sad details of the sufferings they had undergone since we last met.

“But you won’t leave us now, will you?” said little Ivanka pitifully, getting on my knee and nestling on my breast; “you will stay with father, won’t you, and help to take care of us? I’m so frightened!”

“Which do you fear most, dear?” said I, smoothing her hair—“the Turks or the Cossacks?”

The child seemed puzzled. “I don’t know” she said, after a thoughtful pause. “Father says the Turks are far, far worst; but mother and I fear them both; they are so fierce—so very fierce. I think they would have killed us if father had been away.”

Nicholas did not find it hard to persuade the blacksmith. He promised him a tempting reward, but it was evident that his assurance that the wife and family would be placed under the special care of the authorities of the village, had much greater effect in causing the man to make up his mind than the prospect of reward.

It was further arranged that Petroff should accompany us at once.

“Ready,” he said, when the proposal was made. “I’ve nothing left here to pack up,” he added, looking sadly round the poor and empty room. In less than an hour arrangements had been made with the chief man of the village for the comfort and safeguard of the family during the blacksmith’s absence.

It was bright noontide when we were again prepared to take the road.

“Oh, Dobri,” said Marika, as in an angle of the inn-yard she bade her husband farewell, “don’t forget the Saviour—Jesus—our one hope on earth.”

“God bless you, Marika; I’ll never forget you,” returned Petroff, straining his young wife to his heart.

He had already parted from the children. Next moment he was in the saddle, and soon after was galloping with the troop to which we were attached towards the Balkan mountains.

Chapter Fourteen.

Tells More of what Occasionally Happens in the Track of Troops

As we advanced towards the high lands the scenery became more beautiful and picturesque. Rich fields of grain waved on every side. Pretty towns, villages, and hamlets seemed to me to lie everywhere, smiling in the midst of plenty; in short, all that the heart of man could desire was there in superabundance, and as one looked on the evidences of plenty, one naturally associated it with the idea of peace.

But as that is not all gold which glitters, so the signs of plenty do not necessarily tell of peace. Here and there, as we passed over the land, we had evidences of this in burned homesteads and trampled fields, which had been hurriedly reaped of their golden store as if by the sword rather than the sickle. As we drew near to the front these signs of war became more numerous.

We had not much time, however, to take note of them; our special service required hard riding and little rest.

One night we encamped on the margin of a wood. It was very dark, for, although the moon was nearly full, thick clouds effectually concealed her, or permitted only a faint ray to escape now and then, like a gleam of hope from the battlements of heaven.

I wandered from one fire to another to observe the conduct of the men in bivouac. They were generally light-hearted, being very young and hopeful. Evidently their great desire was to meet with the enemy. Whatever thoughts they might have had of home, they did not at that time express them aloud. Some among them, however, were grave and sad; a few were stern—almost sulky.

Such was Dobri Petroff that night. Round his fire, among others, stood Sergeant Gotsuchakoff and Corporal Shoveloff.

“Come, scout,” said the corporal, slapping Petroff heartily on the shoulder, “don’t be down-hearted, man. That pretty little sweetheart you left behind you will never forsake such a strapping fellow as you; she will wait till you return crowned with laurels.”

Petroff was well aware that Corporal Shoveloff, knowing nothing of his private history, had made a mere guess at the “little sweetheart,” and having no desire to be communicative, met him in his own vein.

“It’s not that, corporal,” he said, with a serious yet anxious air, which attracted the attention of the surrounding soldiers, “it’s not that which troubles me. I’m as sure of the pretty little sweetheart as I am that the sun will rise to-morrow; but there’s my dear old mother that lost a leg last Christmas by the overturning of a sledge, an’ my old father who’s been bedridden for the last quarter of a century, and the brindled cow that’s just recovering from the measles. How they are all to get on without me, and nobody left to look after them but an old sister as tall as myself, and in the last stages of a decline—”

At this point the scout, as Corporal Shoveloff had dubbed him, was interrupted by a roar of laughter from his comrades, in which the “corporal” joined heartily.

“Well, well,” said the latter, who was not easily quelled either mentally or physically, “I admit that you have good cause for despondency; nevertheless a man like you ought to keep up his spirits—if it were only for the sake of example to young fellows, now, like André Yanovitch there, who seems to have buried all his relatives before starting for the wars.”

The youth on whom Shoveloff tried to turn the laugh of his own discomfiture was a splendid fellow, tall and broad-shouldered enough for a man of twenty-five, though his smooth and youthful face suggested sixteen. He had been staring at the fire, regardless of what was going on around.

“What did you say?” he cried, starting up and reddening violently.

“Come, come, corporal,” said Sergeant Gotsuchakoff, interposing, “no insinuations. André Yanovitch will be ten times the man you are when he attains to your advanced age.—Off with that kettle, lads; it must be more than cooked by this time, and there is nothing so bad for digestion as overdone meat.”

It chanced that night, after the men were rolled in their cloaks, that Dobri Petroff found himself lying close to André under the same bush.

“You don’t sleep,” he said, observing that the young soldier moved frequently. “Thinking of home, like me, no doubt?”

“That was all nonsense,” said the youth sharply, “about the cow, and your mother and sister, wasn’t it?”

“Of course it was. Do you think I was going to give a straight answer to a fool like Shoveloff?”

“But you have left a mother behind you, I suppose?” said André, in a low voice.

“No, lad, no; my mother died when I was but a child, and has left naught but the memory of an angel on my mind.”

The scout said no more for a time, but the tone of his voice had opened the heart of the young dragoon. After a short silence he ventured to ask a few more questions. The scout replied cheerfully, and, from one thing to another, they went on until, discovering that they were sympathetic spirits, they became confidante, and each told to the other his whole history.

That of the young dragoon was short and simple, but sad. He had been chosen, he said, for service from a rural district, and sent to the war without reference to the fact that he was the only support of an invalid mother, whose husband had died the previous year. He had an elder brother who ought to have filled his place, but who, being given to drink, did not in any way fulfil his duties as a son. There was also, it was true, a young girl, the daughter of a neighbour, who had done her best to help and comfort his mother at all times, but without the aid of his strong hand that girl’s delicate fingers could not support his mother, despite the willingness of her brave heart, and thus he had left them hurriedly at the sudden and peremptory call of Government.

“That young girl,” said Petroff, after listening to the lad’s earnest account of the matter with sympathetic attention, “has no place there, has she?”—he touched the left breast of André’s coat and nodded.

The blush of the young soldier was visible even in the dim light of the camp-fire as he started up on one elbow, and said—