Snow had fallen heavily, and the ground was white with it--so were the huts of the Russian soldiers, who, welcoming the snowfall as a familiar reminiscence of home, went about cooking their food and singing joyously. The houses of Plevna, with blue lines of smoke curling above them, were faintly visible through the driving snow. Now and then the sullen boom of a great gun told of the fell work that the forces had a.s.sembled there to execute.

"We are ordered to the front to-night, Dobri," said Nicholas, as he entered his tent hurriedly, unbuckled his sword, and sat down to a hasty meal. "Our spies have brought information that Osman means to play his last card. Our field telegraphs have spread the news. We even know the particular point where the attempt to cut through our lines is to be made. The troops are concentrating. I have obtained leave to join the advance columns. Just see that my revolvers are in order, and look to your own. Come after that and feed. Without food a man can do nothing."

The scout made no reply. Ever since the terrible calamity that had befallen him he had been a taciturn semi-maniac, but there was a glitter in his black eye that told of latent fires and deadly purpose within.

During the night another spy came in, reporting that Osman was concentrating his men near the bridge over the Vid, and that he had issued three days' rations to the troops, with a hundred and fifty cartridges and a new pair of sandals to each man. About the same time there came a telegram to the effect that lights were moving about with unwonted activity in Plevna, and something unusual was evidently afoot.

Thus the report of the first spy was partly corroborated.

Meanwhile Nicholas and Dobri Petroff, mounting in the dark hours of morning, rode through the snowstorm--which was gradually abating--in the direction of the bridge over the Vid, while Skobeleff himself proceeded towards the Krishina redoubts, which, it was reported, were being abandoned. The report was true; he took possession of these redoubts unopposed, and instantly put them in a state of defence.

Meanwhile Osman, with his brave but worn-out band, made his last sortie from Plevna.

The grey light of a dull wintry morning broke and revealed ma.s.ses, like darker clouds of the threatening storm, driving across the plain. These were the Ottoman troops--some say 20,000 men--rushing like baited tigers towards the trenches. Suddenly there came the thunderous roar of a hundred heavy guns, followed by the crash and incessant rattle of the rifles. The deciding battle had begun. The mists of early morning mingled with the smoke of fire-arms, so that the movements of men were not visible in many places. In others a few fighting companies were just visible, showing indistinctly through the haze for a minute or two, while sheets of flame played in front of their rifles like trickling lines of electric light. Elsewhere, from the cliffs above the Vid, globes of fire were seen to rend the mists, as cannon played their part in the deadly game, while the fearful cries of maddened and wounded men mingled with the crashing of artillery. Here and there numerous bullock-wagons were seen rolling slowly along, and horses and cattle were galloping wildly about the plain. It was a scene that might have made the flesh of the most callous people creep with pitying horror.

Advancing as far as possible under cover of their bullock-wagons, the Turks began to play their part with vigour, but the Russians opened on them from one of their batteries with sh.e.l.l and shrapnel, whilst the men in the trenches sent a rain of bullets from their Berdan breech-loaders.

The terrified oxen, tearing about madly, or falling, soon rendered the wagon-cover useless. Then the Turks forsook it, and, with a wild shout, charged the first line of trenches. These were held by a Siberian regiment. The Turks swept over them like a tornado, poured into the battery, where the artillerymen, who stood to their guns like heroes, were bayoneted almost to a man. Thus the first investing circle was broken, but here Ottoman courage was met by irresistible force, and valour quite equal to its own, and here the tide of battle turned.

Nicholas Naranovitsch, despatched by General Strukoff, galloped towards the scene of action.

"Come, Dobri!" he cried, with blazing eyes that told of excitement almost too strong to be mastered, "there is work for you and me now."

Petroff, mounted and ready, awaiting the orders of his master, sprang out at the summons from a troop of the first brigade of grenadiers, who were at she moment preparing to advance. They dashed forward. An order had been intrusted to Nicholas, but he never delivered it. He was met by advancing hosts of the enemy. He turned aside, intending to execute his mission, if possible, by a detour. In this effort he was caught up, as it were, and carried on by the Russian grenadiers, who flung themselves on the Turks with irresistible fury. In another moment his horse fell under him. Dobri instantly dismounted, but the horse which he meant to offer to his master also fell, and the two were carried onward. The opposing forces met. A hand-to-hand fight ensued--man to man, bayonet to bayonet. The Turks clung to the guns in the captured battery with obstinate bravery. Nicholas and Dobri having both broken their sabres at the first onset, seized the rifles of fallen men and laid about them with a degree of overpowering energy, which, conserved and expended rightly for the good of man, might have made each a noted benefactor of the human race, but which, in this instance, resulted only in the crushing in of a few dozen Turkish skulls!

Gradually the stabbing and smashing of "G.o.d's image," on the part of the Russians, began to tell. The Turks gave way, and finally took to flight.

But shortly before this occurred there was a desperate effort made by a handful of Turks to retrieve the fortunes of the day. It was personally led by Sanda Pasha, who, reinstated by the vacillating and contemptible powers at Constantinople, had been sent--too late--to the relief of Plevna.

At the first rush the Pasha fell. He was only wounded, but his followers thought he was killed, and, stung with rage and despair, fought like fiends to avenge him. At that moment the Russian general rode up to a neighbouring eminence and had his attention drawn to this point in the battle.

He ordered up reinforcements. Nicholas and his man now seemed on the point of having their wishes gratified. Poor Petroff's desire to meet an honourable death had every chance of being realised, while the thirst for military distinction in Nicholas had at last a brilliant opportunity of being quenched.

As the fight in this part of that b.l.o.o.d.y field progressed, it concentrated into a knot around the two heroes. Just then a fresh body of Turkish infantry charged, led by the Nubian, Hamed Pasha, whose horse had been killed under him. Dobri Petroff and Hamed rushed at one another instantly; each seemed at once to recognise the other as a worthy foeman. The great hacked sword whistled for a few minutes round the scout's head so fast that it required his utmost agility to parry cut and thrust with his rifle, but a favourable chance soon offered, and he swung the stock of his piece at his adversary's head with such force as to break the sword short off at the hilt. The Nubian sprang at Dobri like a tiger. They grappled, and these men of herculean mould were so well matched that for a few seconds they stood quivering with mighty but fruitless efforts to bear each other down. It was at this moment that the Russian reinforcements came up, fired a volley, and charged. Dobri and Hamed dropped side by side, pierced with bullets. Nicholas also fell. The raging hosts pa.s.sed over them, and the Turks were driven over the plain like autumn leaves before the gale.

Immediately after, a battery of horse artillery swept across the hotly-contested ground, the wheels of the heavy ordnance and the hoofs of the half-mad horses crashing over the heads said limbs of all who chanced to lie in their way.

Oh! it is _bitter_ to reflect on the grand courage that is mis-displayed in the accursed service of war! Beaten, overwhelmed, crushed, all but annihilated, the poor peasant-soldiers of Turkey, who probably knew nothing whatever about the cause for which they fought, took shelter at last behind the broken wagons under which they had advanced, and then turned at bay. Others made for the deep banks of the Vid, where they re-formed, and instantly began to return the Russian fire.

The sortie was now virtually repulsed. It was about half-past eight.

The Turks, evidently apprehensive that the enemy would charge and drive them back into the gorge which led to Plevna, remained on the defensive.

The Russians, obviously afraid lest the enemy should attempt another sortie, also remained on the defensive. For four hours they continued in this condition, "during which period the battle raged," it was said, "with the utmost fury," but it is also admitted that very little damage was done to either side, "for both armies were under cover!" In other words, the belligerents remained for four hours in the condition of a couple of angry costermongers, hooting and howling at each other without coming to blows, while shot and sh.e.l.l and powder and lead were being expended for nothing, at a rate which added thousands sterling to the burdens of the peace-loving members of both countries!

"About twelve o'clock," according to an eye-witness, "the firing began to diminish on both sides, as if by mutual agreement."

I have a very thorough appreciation of this idea of "mutual agreement."

It is well known among schoolboys. When two of these specimens of the rising generation have been smashing each other's faces, blackening each other's eyes, and bleeding each other's noses for three-quarters of an hour, without having decided a victory, they both feel a strong desire to stop, are ready to "give in," and, on the smallest encouragement from "seconds," will shake hands. Indeed, this well-known and somewhat contemptible state of mind is familiar to a larger growth of boys-- happily not in England--called duellists. We deliberately call the state of mind "contemptible," because, if a matter is worth fighting for (physically), it ought to be fought for to the "bitter end." If it is not worth fighting for, there should be no fighting at all!

However, as I have said, the fire began to slacken about mid-day, and then gradually ceased. The silence that succeeded was deeply impressive--also suggestive. Half-an-hour later a white flag was seen waving from the road that ran round the cliffs beyond the bridge.

Plevna had fallen. Osman Pasha and his army had surrendered. In other words--the fate of the Turkish Empire was sealed!

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

WOE TO THE "AUBURN HAIR!" AFTER THE BATTLE--PROWLING VILLAINS PUNISHED.

When the white flag was seen a loud shout went up from the Russian army.

Then a party of officers rode forward, and two Turkish hors.e.m.e.n were seen advancing. They stated that Osman himself was coming to treat with the Russians.

The spot on which they stood was covered with the grim relics of battle.

The earth had been uptorn by exploding sh.e.l.ls. Here lay a horse groaning and struggling in its agony. Close to it lay an ox, silently bleeding to death, his great, round, patient eyes looking mournfully at the scene around him. Close by, was a cart with a dead horse lying in the yoke as he had fallen, and a Turkish soldier, stretched alongside, whose head had been carried away by a cannon shot. Under the wagon was a wounded man, and close to him four others, who, drained of nearly all their life-blood, lay crouched together in helplessness, with the hoods of their ragged grey overcoats drawn down on their faces. These latter gazed at the murky sky in listless indifference, or at what was going on in a sort of weary surprise. Among them was Nicholas Naranovitsch.

Russian surgeons were already moving about the field of battle, doing what they could, but their efforts were trifling compared with the vast necessity.

At last there was a shout of "Osman!" "He comes!"

"We will give him a respectful reception," exclaimed one Russian officer, in what is supposed by some to be the "gallant spirit of true chivalry."

"That we will," cried another; "we must all salute him, and the soldiers must present arms."

"He is a great soldier," exclaimed a third, "and has made a heroic defence."

Even Skobeleff himself seems to have been carried away by the feeling of the moment, if we may credit report, for he is said to have exclaimed--

"He is the greatest general of the age, for he has saved the honour of his country: I will proffer him my hand and tell him so."

"So," thought I, when afterwards meditating on this subject, "the Turks have for centuries proved themselves to be utterly unworthy of self-government; they have shown themselves to be ignorant of the first principles of righteousness,--_meum_ and _tuum_; they (or rather their rulers) have violated their engagements and deceived those who trusted them; have of late repudiated their debts, and murdered, robbed, violated, tortured those who differed from them in religious opinions, as is generally admitted,--nevertheless now, because one of their generals has shown somewhat superior ability to the rest, holding in check a powerful enemy, and exhibiting, with his men, a degree of bull-dog courage which, though admirable in itself, all history proves to be a common characteristic of all nations--that `honour,' which the country never possessed, is supposed to have been `saved'!"

All honour to the brave, truly, but when I remember the butcheries that are admitted, by friend and foe of the Turk, to have been committed on the Russian wounded by the army of Plevna (and which seem to have been conveniently forgotten at this dramatic incident of the surrender),-- when I reflect on the frightful indifference of Osman Pasha to his own wounded, and the equally horrible disregard of the same hapless wounded by the Russians after they entered Plevna,--I cannot but feel that a desperate amount of error is operating here, and that mult.i.tudes of mankind, especially innocent, loving, and gentle mankind, to say nothing of tender, enthusiastic, love-blinded womankind, are to some extent deceived by the false ring of that which is not metal, and the falser glitter of a tinsel which is anything but gold.

However, Osman did not come after all. He had been wounded, and the Russian generals were obliged to go to a neighbouring cottage to transact the business of surrender.

As the cavalcade rode away in the direction of the cottage referred to, a Russian surgeon turned aside to aid a wounded man. He was a tall strapping trooper. His head rested on the leg of his horse, which lay dead beside him. He could not have been more than twenty years of age, if so much. He had carefully wrapped his cloak round him. His carbine and sabre were drawn close to his side, as if to protect the weapons which it had always been his pride to keep bright and clean. He was a fresh handsome lad, with courage and loveableness equally stamped upon his young brow. He opened his eyes languidly as the doctor attended to him.

"Come, my fine fellow, keep up your heart," said the doctor tenderly; "you will perhaps--that is to say, the ambulance-wagons will be round immediately, and--"

"Thank you," interrupted the trooper quietly, "G.o.d's blessing rest upon you. I know what you mean.--Look, sir."

He tried to take a locket from his neck as he spoke, but could not. The doctor gently a.s.sisted him. "See," he said, "take this to Dobri Petroff--the scout. You know him? Every one knows dashing Dobri!"

"I know him. Well?"

"Tell him to give it to her--he knows who--and--and--say it has kept me in--in heaven when sometimes it seemed to me as if I had got into h.e.l.l."

"From whom?" asked the doctor, anxiously, as the youth's head sank forward, and the terrible pallor of approaching death came on.

"From Andre--"