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—
“P.S. I see no reason why I should not ask you to wish me joy. I’m going to be married, my boy, to Blue-eyes! I could not forget her. I had no hope whatever of discovering her. I had settled in my mind to live and die an old bachelor, when I suddenly met her. It was in Piccadilly, when I was home, some months ago, in reference to an increase of my nominal salary from the EI (which by the way came to nothing—its original figure). I entered a ’bus and ran my head against that of a lady who was coming out. I looked up to apologise, and was struck dumb. It was Blue-eyes! I assisted her to alight, and stammered, I know not what, something like—‘A thousand pardons—surely we have met—excuse me—a mistake—Thunderer—captain, great guns, torpedoes, and blazes—’ in the midst of which she smiled, bowed, and moved on. I moved after her. I traced her (reverentially) to a house. It was that of a personal friend! I visited that friend, I became particularly intimate with that friend, I positively bored that friend until he detested me. At last I met her at the house of that friend and—but why go on? I am now ‘captain’ of the Blue-eyes, and would not exchange places with any officer in the Royal Navy; we are to be married on my return, if I’m not shot, assassinated, or hanged in the meantime. U.B.”
“Ah, Jeff,” said my mother, “how I wish that you would—”
She stopped.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I returned, with a smile; “and there is a charming little—”
“Well, Jeff, why don’t you go on?”
“Well, I don’t see why I should not tell you, mother, that there is a charming little woman—the very best woman in the world—who has expressed herself willing to—you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Reader, I would gladly make a confidant of yourself in this matter, and tell you all about this charming little woman, if it were not for the fact that she is standing at my elbow at this very minute, causing me to make blots, and telling me not to write nonsense!
Before dismissing U. Biquitous, I may as well introduce here the last meeting I had with him. It was a considerable time after the war was over—after the “Congress” had closed its labours, and my friend had settled—if such a term could be applied to one who never settled—near London. Nicholas and I were sitting in a bower at the end of our garden, conversing on the war which had been happily brought to a close. Bella and my mother were seated opposite to us, the latter knitting a piece of worsted-work, the size of whose stitches and needles was suited to the weakness of her eyes, and the former busy with a pencil sketch of the superb view of undulating woodland which stretched away for miles in front of our house.
“No doubt it is as you state, Jeff,” said Nicholas, in reply to my last remark; “war is a miserable method of settling a dispute, quite unworthy of civilised, to say nothing of Christian, men; but, then, how are we to get along without it? It’s of no use saying that an evil must be put down—put a stop to—until you are able to show how it is to be stopped.”
“That does not follow,” said I, quickly; “it may be quite possible for me to see, point out, and condemn an evil although I cannot suggest a remedy and my earnest remonstrances regarding it may be useful in the way of helping to raise a general outcry of condemnation, which may have the effect of turning more capable minds than my own to the devising of a remedy. Sea-sickness is a horrible malady; I perceive it, I know it to be so. I loudly draw attention to the fact; I won’t be silenced. Hundreds, thousands, of other miserables take heart and join me. We can’t stand it! we shan’t! is the general cry. The attention of an able engineer is attracted by the noise we make, and the Calais-Douvre steamboat springs into being, a vessel which is supposed to render sea-sickness an impossibility. Whether it accomplishes this end or not is beside the question. The point is, that, by the vigorous use of our tongues and pens in condemnation of an admitted evil, we have drawn forth a vigorous attempt to get the better of it.”
“But you don’t expect to do away with war altogether?” said Nicholas.
“Certainly not; I am not mad, I am only hopeful. As long as sin reigns in this world we shall have more or less of war, and I don’t expect universal peace unt............