"Pelissier, I believe--a very different sort of man, as we shall see."

A few days later the change which has already been referred to took place, and Marshal Pelissier came over to the English headquarters to take part in a council of war. All the princ.i.p.al general officers of both armies were present, and so was McKay, whose perfect acquaintance with French made him useful in interpreting and facilitating the free interchange of ideas.

The new French commander-in-chief was a prominent figure at the council--a short, stout, hard-featured man, brusque in movements and abrupt in speech; a man of much decision of character, one who made up his mind quickly, was intolerant of all opposition, and doggedly determined to force his will upon others.

When it came to the turn of the French generals to speak, one of them began a long protest against the attack as too hazardous. Several others brought forward pet schemes of their own for reducing the place.

"Enough!" said Pelissier, peremptorily. "You are not brought here to discuss whether or how we should attack. That point is already settled by my lord and myself."

He looked at Lord Raglan, who bowed a.s.sent.

"We have decided to attack the outworks on the 7th of the month."

"But I dissent," began General Bosquet.

"Did you not hear me? I tell you we have decided to attack. You are only called together to arrange how it can best be carried out."

"I have a paper here in which I have argued out the principles on which an attack should be conducted," said another, General Niel, an engineer.

"Ah!" said Pelissier, "you gentlemen are very clever--I admit your scientific knowledge--but when I want your advice I will ask for it."

While this conversation was in progress, the English officers present were whispering amongst themselves with undisguised satisfaction at finding that the new commander-in-chief of the French, unlike his predecessor, was well able to keep his subordinates in order; and, all useless discussion having been cut short, the plan of attack was soon arranged.

"Well," said Lord Raglan, "it is all clear. We shall begin by a heavy cannonade."

"To last four-and-twenty-hours," said Pelissier, "and then the a.s.sault."

"At what hour?" asked Lord Raglan.

"Daylight, of course!" cried two or three French generals in a breath.

"One moment," interposed General Airey. "Day-break is the time of all others that the enemy would expect an attack; they would therefore be best prepared for it then."

A sharp argument followed, and lasted several minutes, each side clinging tenaciously to its own opinion.

"Do not waste your energies, gentlemen," said Marshal Pelissier, again interfering decidedly. "Lord Raglan and I have settled that matter for ourselves. The attack will take place at five o'clock in the afternoon. That will allow time for us to get established in the enemy's works in the night after we have carried them."

"Of course, gentlemen," said Lord Raglan, in breaking up the council, "you will all understand the importance of secrecy. Not a word of what has pa.s.sed here must be repeated outside. It would be fatal to success if the enemy got any inkling of our intentions."

"It's quite extraordinary," said General Airey to McKay and a few more, as they pa.s.sed out from the council-chamber, "how the enemy gets his information."

"Those newspaper correspondents, I suspect, are responsible," said another general. "They let out everything, and the news, directly it is printed, is telegraphed to Russia."

"That does not entirely explain it. They must be always several weeks behind. I am referring more particularly to what happens at the moment. Everything appears to be immediately known."

"Why, only the other day a Russian spy walked coolly through our second parallel," said a French officer, "and counted the number of the guns. He pa.s.sed himself off as an English traveller."

"Great impudence, but great pluck. I wish we had men who would do the same. That's what I complain of. We want a better organised secret service, and men like Wellington's famous Captain Grant in the Peninsular War, bold, adroit, and quick-witted, ready to run any risks, but bound to get information in the long run. I wish I could lay my hands on a few Captain Grants."

McKay smarted under the sting of these reproaches, feeling they applied, although scarcely so intended, to him. But there was no man, after all, on the headquarter staff better fitted to remove them. With his enterprising spirit and intimate acquaintance with many tongues, he ought to be able to secure information that would be useful to his chiefs.

Full of this idea, he rode down that afternoon to Balaclava, the centre of all the rascaldom that had gathered around the base of the Crimean army. He was in search of agents whom he could employ as emissaries into the enemy's lines.

Putting up his horse, he mixed amongst the motley crowd that thronged the "sutlers' town," as it was called, which had sprung up half-a-mile outside Balaclava, to accommodate the swarms of strangers who, under the strict rule of Colonel Harding, had been expelled from the port itself.

The place was like a fair--a jumble of huts and shanties and ragged canvas tents, with narrow, irregular lanes between them, in which the polyglot traders bought and sold. Here were grave Armenians, scampish Greeks from the Levant, wild-eyed Bedouins, Tartars from Asia Minor, evil-visaged Italians, scowling Spaniards, hoa.r.s.e-voiced, slouching Whitechapel ruffians, with a well-developed talent for dealing in stolen goods.

As McKay stood watching the curious scene, and replying rather curtly to the eager salesmen, who pestered him perpetually to buy anything and everything--food, saddlery, pocket-knives, horse-shoes, fire-arms, and swords--he became conscious of a stir and flutter among the crowd.

It presently became strangely silent, and parted obsequiously, to give pa.s.sage to some great personage who approached.

This was Major Shervinton, the provost-marshal, supreme master and autocrat of all camp-followers, whom he ruled with an iron hand. Close behind him came two st.u.r.dy a.s.sistants--men who had once been drummers, and were specially selected in an army where flogging was the chief punishment for their prowess with the cat-o'-nine-tales.

Woe to the sutler, whatever his rank or nation, who fell foul of the terrible provost! Summary arrest, the briefest trial, and a sharp sentence peremptorily executed, in the shape of four dozen, was the certain treatment of all who offended against martial law.

"Hullo, McKay!" cried Shervinton, a big, burly, pleasant-faced man, whose cheery manner was in curious contrast with his formidable functions. "What brings a swell from headquarters into this den of iniquity? Lost your servant, or looking out for one? Don't engage any one without asking me. They are an abominable lot, and deserve to be hanged, all of them."

"You are the very fellow to help me, Shervinton," and McKay, taking the provost-marshal aside, told him his errand.

"I firmly believe every second man here is a spy, or would be if he had the pluck."

"Are any of them, do you think, in communication with the Russians?"

"Lots. They come and go through the lines, I believe, as they please."

"I wish I could find a few fellows of this sort."

"Perhaps I can put you in the way; only I doubt whether you can trust to a single word that they will tell you."

"But where shall we come upon them?"

"The best plan will be to consult Valetta Joe, the Maltese baker at the end of the lines. I have always suspected him of being a Russian spy; but I dare say we could buy him over if you want him. If he tries to play us false we will hang him the same day."

Valetta Joe was in his bread-store--a small shed communicating with the dark, dirty, semi-subterranean cellar behind, in which the dough was kneaded and baked. The shed was enc.u.mbered with barrels of inferior flour, and all around upon shelves lay the small short rolls, dark-looking and sour-tasting, which were sold in the camp for a shilling a piece.

"Well, Joe, what's the news from Sebastopol to-day?" asked Shervinton.

"Why you ask me, sare? I a poor Maltee baker--sell bread, make money.

Have nothing to do with fight."

"You rascal! You know you're in league with the Russians. I have had my eye on you this long time. Some of these days we'll be down upon you like a cart-load of bricks."

"You a very hard man, Major Shervinton, sare--very unkind to poor Joe.

I offer you bread every day for nothing; you say No. Why not take Joe's bread?"

"Because Joe's a scoundrel to offer it. Do you suppose I am to be bribed in that way? But here: I tell you what we are after. This gentleman," pointing to McKay, "wants news from the other side."

"Why you come to me? I nothing to do with other side."

"You can help him, you know that, and you must; or we will bundle you out of this and send you back to Constantinople."