Chapter XLIII: A Dreary March

The Cossacks had a spare horse with them, and on this Jack was mounted. With a deal of unnecessary violence he was strapped in the saddle; then, Kirchoff giving the horse a cut, they started off. They reached Baktschi-Serai at midday, where a halt was made.

The weather was very cold, and Kirchoff seemed in no hurry to leave his comfortable quarters; but in the afternoon they went on again and reached Simpheropol. This was a most filthy place. The streets were knee-deep in mud and slush, and the few people they passed stared apathetically at the Cossacks, who laid about them freely with their whips.

Jack was bundled into a disgustingly dirty lock-up, and the two men who conducted him no sooner got him inside than they stripped off his epaulets, rifled his pockets, and took every penny of money and everything of value he possessed. One of the men then struck savagely at Jack’s head with the butt-end of his whip; but Jack, having had experience of their treatment, was on the lookout, and, his arms being free, he caught the fellow such a blow on the jaw that he retired, uttering threats of what he would do presently.

Jack was then left alone, and, seating himself on a bundle of filthy straw in one corner, he reviewed his situation, which seemed pretty hopeless. That Sominoff was at the bottom of the affair he felt convinced; but he could not understand how he had prevailed over the count, who would, he felt assured, have done all he could for him.

As it got dark, swarms of rats came out from innumerable holes, running over Jack’s feet and trying to claw up his legs. He had to walk about to keep these noxious vermin off him. He had an instinctive dread of rats, and shouted aloud both to frighten them away and to call the attention of his captors. No notice, however, was taken of his cries, and in sheer desperation he banged upon the door and tried to open it. To his intense surprise it yielded and opened, and, stepping out, he found himself in the passage. All was dark, and he went gently along, feeling his way with his hands.

Presently a gust of cold air blew upon his face, and he came to another door, which was also open. He stepped out into the moonlight just as several men threw themselves upon him. Filled with a horrible dread of going back to the noisome den he had just escaped from, Jack struggled fiercely, and the men seemed to release their hold of him as by common consent.

Then there was a dazzling flash in front of him, a loud report, and a ball whizzed by him. It missed him by a hair’s-breadth; but a scream from behind told that some one had been hit.

In an instant, several men with lanterns appeared upon the scene, just as Jack was again seized. Among the new-comers was Kirchoff and a Cossack with a carbine in his hand. Just behind Jack was a Cossack lying on the ground, and one of his comrades stooping over him pronounced him dead.

‘Clumsy fool!’ cried Kirchoff furiously to the man with the carbine, ‘you have shot Ivan and the prisoner is unhurt.’

Jack was dragged back to his prison, where he was punched, thumped, struck with the butt-end of whips, and cruelly kicked, being left insensible at last on the slimy, filthy floor. He revived presently to find that swarms of rats were running over his hands and face, when, aching in every limb and feeling ready to die, he crawled to the heap of straw, and there, amidst the rats, vermin, and innumerable slimy, creeping things, he passed the night.

The following morning the journey was continued, and on the second night they had reached Perekop which was if anything more dirty than Simpheropol. After their arrival Jack saw no more of Kirchoff and his Cossacks, a party of Dragoons taking charge of him. From Perekop they went on, marching leisurely, Jack being well treated. Near the Sea of Azov they passed the Putrid Sea, a stinking, sickening, dreadful place, the very picture of desolation.

For a week they proceeded through a cold, bleak, inhospitable country, lodging each night at prisons which varied only in their degrees of filthiness. At last they arrived at Meritipol, and there Jack was lodged in prison, and saw no more of his escort of Dragoons. The days passed drearily until at last a whole troop of French prisoners of war arrived. Many of them were confined in the same large apartment with Jack, and from them he was able to learn something of the state of affairs before Sebastopol.

The French soldiers had made the whole journey from Sebastopol on foot and were worn out with fatigue. Their boots were in shreds; many of them were sick and ill, and all of them were in a very despondent state. When Jack spoke to them in their native language, and told them he was an English prisoner of war, several of them embraced him and wept copiously. Poor fellows, most of them were conscripts, and their hearts were not in their profession. The prisoners mostly belonged to the 22nd of the line; but there were some Zouaves, who seemed of sterner mould, and two Chasseurs d’Afrique.

These latter, when they found out Jack was one of the Light Brigade heroes, insisted upon kissing him on both cheeks and declaring everlasting friendship. One, who was a _sous-officier_, spoke English, and was very fond of airing his knowledge. Talking of the charge, he declared it was the finest thing the world had seen.

‘But, _mon ami_,’ he said, ‘it was foolish--oh, so ver foolish; and if it had not been for the 4th Chasseurs d’Afrique, _hélas!_ you poor English--_pouf_, you would no more any of you remain alive.’

From this man, whose name was Alphonse Bluet, Jack heard of the arrival of reinforcements, the progress of the siege, and the succession of Pelissier the ‘Man of Iron’ to the command of the French. He also learnt that the whole of the prisoners were on their way to some place farther north, where numbers of both French and English soldiers were already in confinement.

The French prisoners were in too exhausted a condition to march farther for the present, so a long halt was made at Meritipol. Their treatment was strict, but not rigorous, and about a fortnight passed away when they were joined by a fresh batch of prisoners, and when they were brought in Jack was both pained and pleased to hear sturdy English voices. The men were mostly fresh from England, belonging to the infantry of the line, and with one or two sailors had been captured during a Russian sortie.

There was a marked difference in the demeanour of the French and English. The latter were far more cheerful; and, though prisoners, plainly showed their guards they would stand no nonsense. They were consequently treated with a great deal more consideration by the Russians, many of the latter showing a disposition to be quite friendly.

One morning the prisoners were told that next day their march inland would be resumed. Every man was served out with a pair of thick socks and rough boots and a sheepskin coat. Added to that was an overcoat with a large yellow diamond on the back, and in the morning they started. The escort was of infantry, and their journey was to be on foot. The prisoners were informed they would be allowed thirty copecks[8] a day. On this they were to provide for themselves.

The weather was cold but fine, and in pretty good spirits the whole convoy started. They had a long march that day, and in the afternoon entered a town. The drummer of the escort beat his drum as they marched in, and the inhabitants turned out to see the prisoners; but their demeanour was not unfriendly. Under escort the prisoners were marched to the market-place, where they made their purchases, after which they were conducted to the prison, where they cooked their food, often passing the evening quite merrily.

Ekaterinoslav was reached, and here two days’ halt was made; then on again, day after day, week after week, through Kharkov and Starai-Oskoe, always north, sometimes through pleasant country, sometimes through bleak and flat and wild regions.

The French were not treated so well as the English, the Russians seeming for some reason to dislike them personally. At Starai-Oskoe the French were left behind, their destination being different from that of the English.

Alphonse Bluet parted with Jack most reluctantly, indulging freely in tears. ‘Farewell, _mon ami_!’ he cried; ‘I feel we shall never meet again. The bones of Alphonse Bluet will whiten in this barbarous Russia; he will never see the boulevards of his dear Paris again. But no matter. Ever he will remember his brave comrade Monsieur Blair de Balaclava.’

‘Cheer up, Alphonse,’ said Jack, ‘we shall meet again when we have licked the Russians and peace is declared.’

‘Licked? How do you mean? _Je ne comprends pas._’ But a Russian sergeant at that moment, taking him by the nape of the neck, gently intimated that it was time he joined his companions, and with a look of supreme disdain at his captor and a wave of the hand to Jack, he was hurried away.

There were still some weeks of tramping before Jack and his companions. As they got farther north discipline was much relaxed, and they became quite friendly with their guards, especially when they stood treat to them out of their thirty copecks, which they were easily able to do.

At many of their halting-places the ladies of the town visited them, giving them presents of warm clothing, food, and so on. Several times they came across English and Scotch people who had settled in Russia, and then they had a royal time.

At last, at the end of what had been a really fine day, the captain of the escort pointed to the burnished copper domes of a large town before them, and said, ‘Men, that is Voronesh, the end of your journey.’

He spoke in Russian, but by that time most of the men could understand what was said in that language, and Jack spoke it fairly well.

Night had fallen ere they reached the town and were marched up to the market-place. They were then conducted to the different large buildings which served as prisons; and Jack, with about a dozen others, was taken to a stone building which had once served as a corn warehouse.

Rather tired, he was making his way with the others to the large common living-room when a familiar voice struck upon his ear.

‘Ha, hum! it’s all very well to talk about the usages of civilised warfare; but who is going to say these Russians are civilised? If they’d been going to exchange us, tell me why they shouldn’t have done it months ago? Why shouldn’t we have been kept in Sebastopol--eh, you toads? Now tell me; I want to know?’

Before any one had time to make an answer Jack had darted into the room, and, seizing both hands of the speaker, was crying, ‘Jimmy, dear old Jimmy Linham, it was worth tramping all these hundreds of miles to find you alive and well! We’ve mourned you as dead in the old regiment for many and many a day.’