In the Track of the Troops
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Besides these there are a few cripples who have been sent into the world with deficient or defective limbs—doubtless for wise and merciful ends. Merciful I say advisedly, for, “shall not the Judge of all the earth do right?” These look on and rejoice, perchance, in the joy of the juveniles.
Among them, however, are some cripples of a very different stamp. The Creator sent these into the world with broad shoulders, deep chests, good looks, gladsome spirits, manly frames, and vigorous wills. War has sent them here—still in young manhood—with the deep chests pierced by bullets or gashed by sabres, with the manly frames reduced to skeletons, the gladsome spirits gone, the ruddy cheeks hollow and wan, and the vigorous wills—subdued at last.
A few of these young cripples move slowly about with the aid of stick or crutch, trying to regain, in the genial mountain air, some of the old fire which has sunk so low—so very low. Others, seated in wheel-chairs, doubled up like old, old men, are pushed about from point to point by stalwart mountaineers, while beside them walk sisters, mothers, or, perchance, young wives, whose cheery smiles and lightsome voices, as they point out and refer to the surrounding objects of nature, cannot quite conceal the feelings of profound and bitter sorrow with which they think of the glorious manhood that has been lost, or the tender, pitiful, heart-breaking solicitude with which they cherish the poor shadow that remains.
In a large airy apartment of the châlet on the woody knoll, there is one who occupies a still lower level than those to whom we have just referred—who cannot yet use the crutch or sit in the wheelchair, and on whose ear the sounds of glee that enter by the open window fall with little effect.
He reclines at full length on a bed. He has lain thus, with little effort to move, and much pain when such effort was made, for many weary weeks. Only one side of his face is visible, and that is scarred and torn with wounds, some of which are not yet healed. The other side is covered with bandages.
I am seated by his side, Ivanka is sitting opposite, near to the invalid’s feet, listening intently, if I may be allowed to say so, with her large black eyes, to a conversation which she cannot understand.
“You must not take so gloomy a view of your case, Nicholas. The doctors say you will recover, and, my good fellow, you have no idea what can be done by surgery in the way of putting a man together again after a break-down. Bella would be grieved beyond measure if I were to write as you wish.”
I spoke cheerily, more because I felt it to be a duty to do so, than because I had much hope.
The invalid paused for a few minutes as if to recover strength. Then he said—
“Jeff, I insist on your doing what I wish. It is unkind of you to drag me into a dispute when I am so weak. Tell the dear girl that I give her up—I release her from our engagement. It is likely that I shall die at any rate, which will settle the question, but if I do recover—why, just think, my dear fellow, I put it to you, what sort of husband should I make, with my ribs all smashed, my right leg cut off, my left hand destroyed, an eye gone, and my whole visage cut to pieces. No, Jeff—”
He paused; the light vein of humour which he had tried to assume passed off, and there was a twitching about the muscles of his mouth as he resumed—
“No, Bella must never see me again.”
Ivanka looked from the invalid’s face to mine with eyes so earnest, piercing, and inquiring, that I felt grieved she did not understand us.
“I’m sorry, Nicholas, very sorry,” said I, “but Bella has already been written to, and will certainly be here in a day or two. I could not know your state of mind on my first arrival, and, acting as I fancied for the best, I wrote to her.”
Nicholas moved uneasily, and I observed a deep flush on his face, but he did not speak.
That evening Ivanka put her arms round my neck, told me she loved Nicholas because of his kindness to her father, and besought me earnestly to tell her what had passed between us.
A good deal amused, I told her as much as I thought she could understand.
“Oh! I should so like to see Bella,” she said.
“So you shall, dear, when she comes.”
“Does she speak Russian?”
“Yes. She has been several times in Russia, and understands the language well.”
As I had predicted, Bella arrived a few days after receiving my letter. My mother accompanied her.
“Oh, Jeff, this is dreadful!” said my poor mother, as she untied her bonnet-strings, and sat down on the sofa beside Bella, who could not for some time utter a word.
“What child is that?” added my mother quickly, observing Ivanka.
“It is the daughter of Dobri Petroff.—Let me introduce you, Ivanka, to my mother, and to my sister Bella—you know Bella?”
I had of course written to them a good deal about the poor child, and Bella had already formed an attachment to her in imagination. She started up on hearing Ivanka’s name, and held out both hands. The child ran to her as naturally as the needle turns to the pole.
While my mother and I were talking in a low tone about Nicholas, I could not avoid hearing parts of a conversation between my sister and Ivanka that surprised me much.
“Yes, oh! yes, I am quite sure of it. Your brother told me that he said he would never, never, never be so wicked as to let you come and see him, although he loved you so much that he—”
“Hush, my dear child, not so loud.”
Bella’s whisper died away, and Ivanka resumed—
“Yes, he said there was almost nothing of him left. He was joking, you know, when he said that, but it is not so much of a joke after all, for I saw—”
“Oh! hush, dear, hush; tell me what he said, and speak lower.”
Ivanka spoke so low that I heard no more, but what had reached my ear was sufficient to let me know how the current ran, and I was not sorry that poor Bella’s mind should be prepared for the terrible reality in this way.
The battle of love was fought and won that day at Nicholas’s bedside, and, as usual, woman was victorious.
I shall not weary the reader with all that was said. The concluding sentences will suffice.
“No, Nicholas,” said Bella, holding the right hand of the wounded soldier, while my mother looked on with tearful, and Ivanka with eager, eyes, “no, I will not be discarded. You must not presume, on the strength of your being weak, to talk nonsense. I hold you, sir, to your engagement, unless, indeed, you admit yourself to be a faithless man, and wish to cast me off. But you must not dispute with me in your present condition. I shall exercise the right of a wife by ordering you to hold your tongue unless you drop the subject. The doctor says you must not be allowed to talk or excite yourself, and the doctor’s orders, you know, must be obeyed.”
“Even if he should order a shattered man to renounce all thoughts of marriage?” asked Nicholas.
“If he were to do that,” retorted Bella, with a smile, “I should consider your case a serious one, and require a consultation with at least two other doctors before agreeing to submit to his orders. Now, the question is settled, so we will say no more about it. Meanwhile you need careful nursing, and mother and I are here to attend upon you.”
Thus with gentle raillery she led the poor fellow to entertain a faint hope that recovery might be possible, and that the future might not be so appallingly black as it had seemed before. Still the hope was extremely faint at first, for no one knew so well as himself what a wreck he was, and how impossible it would be for him, under the most favourable circumstances, ever again to stand up and look like his former self. Poor Bella had to force her pleasantry and her lightsome tones, for she also had fears that he might still succumb, but, being convinced that a cheerful, hopeful state of mind was the best of all medicines, she set herself to administer it in strong doses.
The result was that Nicholas began to recover rapidly. Time passed, and by slow degrees he migrated from his bed to the sofa. Then a few of his garments were put on, and he tried to stand on his remaining leg. The doctor, who assisted me in moving and dressing the poor invalid, comforted him with the assurance that the stump of the other would, in course of time, be well enough to have a cork foot and ankle attached to it.
“And do you know,” he added, with a smile, “they make these things so well now that one can scarcely tell a false foot from a real one,—with joint and moveable instep, and toes that work with springs, so that people can walk with them quite creditably—indeed they can; I do not jest, I assure you.”
“Nothing, however, can replace the left hand or the lost eye,” returned Nicholas, with a faint attempt at a smile.
“There, my dear sir,” returned the doctor, with animation, “you are quite wrong. The eye, indeed, can never be restored, though it will partially close, and become so familiar to you and your friends that it will almost cease to be noticed or remembered; but we shall have a stump made for the lower arm, with a socket to which you will be able to fix a fork or a spoon, or—”
“Why, doctor,” interrupted Nicholas, “what a spoon you must be to—”
“Come,” returned the doctor heartily, “that’ll do. My services won’t be required here much longer I see, for I invariably find that when a patient begins to make bad jokes, there is nothing far wrong with him.”
One morning, when we had dressed our invalid, and laid him on the sofa, he and I chanced to be left alone.
“Come here, Jeff,” he said, “assist me to the glass—I want to have a look at myself.”
It was the first time he had expressed such a desire, and I hesitated for a moment, not feeling sure of the effect that the sight might have on him. Then I went to him, and only remarking in a quiet tone, “You’ll improve, you know, in the course of time,” I led him to the looking-glass.
He turned slightly pale, and a look of blank surprise flitted across his face, but he recovered instantly, and stood for a few seconds surveying himself with a sad expression.
Well might he look sad, for the figure that met his gaze stooped like that of an aged man; the head was shorn of its luxuriant curls; the terrible sabre-cut across the cheek, from the temple to the chin, which had destroyed the eye, had left a livid wound, a single glance at which told that it would always remain as a ghastly blemish; and there were other injuries of a slighter nature on various parts of the face, which marred his visage dreadfully.
“Yes, Jeff,” he said, turning away slowly, with a sigh, and limping back to his couch, “there’s room for improvement. I thought myself not a bad-looking fellow once. It’s no great matter to have that fancy taken out of me, perhaps, but I grieve for Bella, and I really do think that you must persuade her to give up all idea of—”
“Now, Nic,” said I, “don’t talk nonsense.”
“But I don’t talk nonsense,” he exclaimed, flushing with sudden energy, “I mean what I say. Do you suppose I can calmly allow that dear girl to sacrifice herself to a mere wreck, that cannot hope to be long a cumberer of the ground?”
“And do you suppose,” I retorted, with vehemence, “that I can calmly allow my sister to be made a widow for life?—a widow, I say, for she is already married to you in spirit, and nothing will ever induce her to untie the knot. You don’t know Bella—ah! you needn’t smile,—you don’t indeed. She is the most perversely obstinate girl I ever met with. Last night, when I mentioned to her that you had been speaking of yourself as a mere wreck, she said in a low, easy-going, meek tone, ‘Jeff, I mean to cling to that wreck as long as it will float, and devote my life to repairing it.’ Now, when Bella says anything in a low, easy-going, and especially in a meek tone, it is utterly useless to oppose her: she has made up her mind, drawn her sword and flung away the scabbard, double-shotted all her guns, charged every torpedo in the ship, and, finally, nailed her colours to the mast.”
“Then,” said Nicholas, with a laugh, “I suppose I must give in.”
“Yes, my boy, you had better. If you don’t, just think what will be the consequences. First of all, you will die sooner than there is any occasion for; then Bella will pine, mope, get into bad health, and gradually fade away. That will break down my mother, whose susceptible spirit could not withstand the shock. Of course, after that my own health would give way, and the hopes of a dear little—well, that is to say, ruination and widespread misery would be the result of your unnatural and useless obstinacy.”
“To save you all from that,” said Nicholas, “of course I must give in.”
And Nicholas did give in, and the result was not half so disastrous as he had feared.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Some More of War’s Consequences
Let us turn once more to the Balkan Mountains. Snow covers alike the valley and the hill. It is the depth of that inhospitable season when combative men were wont, in former days, to retire into winter quarters, repose on their “laurels,” and rest a while until the benign influences of spring should enable them to recommence the “glorious” work of slaying one another.
But modern warriors, like modern weapons, are more terrible now than they used to be. They scout inglorious repose—at least the great statesmen who send them out to battle scout it for them. While these men of super-Spartan mould sit at home in comfortable conclave over mild cigar and bubbling hookah, quibbling over words, the modern warrior is ordered to prolong the conflict; and thus it comes to pass that Muscovite and Moslem pour out their blood like water, and change the colour of the Balkan snows.
In a shepherd’s hut, far up the heights, which the smoke of battle could not reach, and where the din of deadly strife came almost softly, like the muttering of distant thunder, a young woman sat on the edge of a couch gazing wistfully at the beautiful countenance of a dead girl. The watcher was so very pale, wan, and haggard, that, but for her attitude and the motion of her great dark eyes, she also might have been mistaken for one of the dead. It was Marika, who escaped with only a slight flesh-wound in the arm from the soldier who had pursued her into the woods near her burning home.
A young man sat beside her also gazing in silence at the marble countenance.
“No, Petko, no,” said Marika, looking at the youth mournfully, “I cannot stay here. As long as the sister of my preserver lived it was my duty to remain, but now that the bullet has finished its work, I must go. It is impossible to rest.”
“But, Marika,” urged Petko Borronow, taking his friend’s hand, “you know it is useless to continue your search. The man who told me said he had it from the lips of Captain Naranovitsch himself that dear Dobri died at Plevna with his head resting on the captain’s breast, and—”
The youth could not continue.
“Yes, yes,” returned Marika, with a look and tone of despair, “I know that Dobri is dead; I saw my darling boy slain before my eyes, and heard Ivanka’s dying scream; no wonder that my brain has reeled so long. But I am strong now. I feel as if the Lord were calling on me to go forth and work for Himself since I have no one else to care for. Had Giuana lived I would have stayed to nurse her, but—”
“Oh that the fatal ball had found my heart instead of hers!” cried the youth, clasping his hands and gazing at the tranquil countenance on the bed.
“Better as it is,” said Marika in a low voice. “If you had been killed she would have fallen into the hands of the Bashi-Bazouks, and that would have been worse—far worse. The Lord does all things well. He gave, and He has taken away—oh let us try to say, Blessed be His name!”
She paused for a few minutes and then continued—
“Yes, Petko, I must go. There is plenty of work in these days for a Christian woman to do. Surely I should go mad if I were to remain idle. You have work here, I have none, therefore I must go. Nurses are wanted in the ambulance corps of our—our—deliverers.”
There was no sarcasm in poor Marika’s heart or tone, but the slight hesitation in her speech was in itself sarcasm enough. With the aid of her friend Petko, the poor bereaved, heart-stricken woman succeeded in making her way to Russian headquarters, where her sad tale, and the memory of her heroic husband, at once obtained for her employment as a nurse in the large hospital where I had already spent a portion of my time—namely, that of Sistova.
Here, although horrified and almost overwhelmed, at first, at the sight of so much and so terrible suffering, she gradually attained to a more resigned and tranquil frame of mind. Her sympathetic tenderness of heart conduced much to this, for she learned in some degree to forget her own sorrows in the contemplation of those of others. She found a measure of sad comfort, too, while thus ministering to the wants of worn, shattered, and dying young men, in the thought that they had fought like lions on the battle-field, as Dobri had fought, and had lain bleeding, crushed, and helpless there, as Dobri had lain.
Some weeks after her arrival there was a slight change made in the arrangements of the hospital. The particular room in which she served was selected as being more airy and suited for those of the patients who, from their enfeebled condition, required unusual care and nursing.
The evening after the change was effected, Marika, being on what may be called the night-shift, was required to assist the surgeons of the ward on their rounds. They came to a bed on which lay a man who seemed in the last stage of exhaustion.
“No bones broken,” said one surgeon in a low tone to another, to whom he was explaining the cases, “but blood almost entirely drained out of him. Very doubtful his recovery. Will require the most careful nursing.”
Marika stood behind the surgeons. On hearing what they said she drew nearer and looked sadly at the man.
He was gaunt, cadaverous, and careworn, as if from long and severe suffering, yet, living skeleton though he was, it was obvious that his frame had been huge and powerful.
Marika’s first sad glance changed into a stare of wild surprise, then the building rang with a cry of joy so loud, so jubilant, that even those whose blood had almost ceased to flow were roused by it.
She sprang forward and leaped into the man’s outstretched arms.
Ay, it was Dobri Petroff himself—or rather his attenuated shadow,—with apparently nothing but skin and sinew left to hold his bones together, and not a symptom of blood in his whole body. The little blood left, however, rushed to his face, and he found sufficient energy to exclaim “Thank the Lord!” ere his senses left him.
It is said that joy never kills. Certainly it failed to do so on this occasion. Dobri soon recovered consciousness, and then, little by little, with many a pause for breath, and in tones that were woefully unlike to those of the bold, lion-like scout of former days, he told how he had fainted and fallen on the breast of his master, how he had lain all night on the battle-field among the dead and dying, how he had been stripped and left for dead by the ruffian followers of the camp, and how at last he had been found and rescued by one of the ambulance-wagons of the Red Cross.
When Marika told him of the death of their two children he was not so much overwhelmed as she had anticipated.
“I’m not so sure that you are right, Marika,” he said, after a long sad pause. “That our darling boy is now in heaven I doubt not, for you saw him killed. But you did not see Ivanka killed, and what you call her death-shriek may not have been her last. We must not be too ready to believe the worst. If I had not believed you and them to have been all murdered together, I would not have sought death so recklessly. I will not give up hope in that God who has brought you back, and saved me from death. I think that darling Ivanka is still alive.”
Marika was only too glad to grasp at and hold on to the hope thus held out—feeble though the ground was on which it rested, and it need scarcely be said that she went about her hospital duties after that with a lightness and joy of heart which she had not felt for many a day.
Dobri Petroff’s recovery was now no longer doubtful. Day by day his strength returned, until at last he was dismissed cured.
But it must not be supposed that Dobri was “himself again.” He stood as erect, indeed, and became as sturdy in appearance as he used to be, but there was many a deep-seated injury in his powerful frame which damaged its lithe and graceful motions, and robbed it of its youthful spring.
Returning to the village of Venilik at the conclusion of the armistice, the childless couple proceeded to rebuild their ruined home.
The news of the bold blacksmith’s recovery, and return with his wife to the old desolated home, reached me at a very interesting period of our family history—my sister Bella’s wedding day.
It came through my eccentric friend U. Biquitous, who, after going through the Russo-Turkish war as correspondent of the Evergreen Isle, had proceeded in the same capacity to Greece. After detailing a good many of his adventures, and referring me to the pages of the EI for the remainder of his opinions on things in general, he went on, “By the way, in passing through Bulgaria lately, I fell in with your friend Dobri Petroff, the celebrated scout of the Balkan army. He and his pretty wife send their love, and all sorts of kind messages which I totally forget. Dobri said he supposed you would think he was dead, but he isn’t, and I can assure you looks as if he didn’t mean to die for some time to come. They are both very low, however, about the loss of their children, though they still cling fondly to the belief that their little girl Ivanka has not been killed.”
Here, then, was a piece of news for my mother and family!—for we had regularly adopted Ivanka, and the dear child was to act that very day as one of Bella’s bridesmaids.
I immediately told my mother, but resolved to say nothing to Ivanka, Nicholas, or Bella, till the ceremony was over.
It was inexpressibly sad to see Nicholas Naranovitsch that day, for, despite the fact that by means of a cork foot he could walk slowly to the church without the aid of a crutch, his empty sleeve, marred visage, and slightly stooping gait, but poorly represented the handsome young soldier of former days.
But my sister saw none of the blemishes—only the beauties—of the man.
“You’ve only got quarter of a husband, Bella,” he said with a sad smile when the ceremony was over.
“You were unnecessarily large before,” retorted Bella. “You could stand reducing; besides, you are doubled to-day, which makes you equal to two quarters, and as the wife is proverbially the better half, that brings you up nearly to three quarters, so don’t talk any more nonsense, sir. With good nursing I shall manage, perhaps, to make a whole of you once more.”
“So be it,” said Nicholas, kissing her. When they had left us, my mother called me—
“Jeff,” she said, with a look of decision in her meek face which I have not often observed there, “I have made up my mind that you must go back to Turkey.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes, Jeff. You had no right, my dear boy, to bring that child away from her home in such a hurry.”
“But,” said I remonstratively, “her home at the time I carried her off was destroyed—indeed, most of the village was a smoking ruin, and liable at any moment to be replundered by the irregular troops of both sides, while Ivanka’s parents were reported dead—what could I do?”
“I don’t know what you could do in those circumstances, but I know what you can do now, and that is, pack your portmanteau and prepare to take Ivanka to Venilik. The child must be at once restored to her parents. I cannot bear to think of their remaining in ignorance of her being alive. Very likely Nicholas and Bella will be persuaded to extend their honeymoon to two, or even three, months, and join you in a tour through the south of Europe, after which you will all come home strong and well to spend the winter with me.”
“Agreed, mother; your programme shall be carried out to the letter, if I can manage it.”
“When,” asked my mother, “did your friend say he passed through that village?”
I opened his letter to ascertain, when my eye fell on a postscript which had escaped me on the first perusal. It ran thus—