Chapter IV: Part 4

Scarcely had silence in the ranks been again restored when another order: ‘Load for magazine-fire!’ rang out in stentorian tones, and at the same time, almost, the electric lights were again flashed full upon us, converting darkness into open day, and showing us the Russians striding swiftly towards us in successive irregular waves of ever-increasing volume, the nearest to us being hardly more than a hundred and fifty yards off. On they came firing all the way, equally regardless of the awful volcanoes of shrapnel which our batteries belched forth against them and of the terrific torrent of our small-bore bullets, aimed from behind the comparative shelter of field-trench parapets, which incessantly tore through their stolid ranks, mowing them down and massacring them by thousands. It was impossible for them to preserve anything like their proper formation under these trying circumstances, and disorder was spreading rapidly among their irregular ranks; but the swaying, struggling masses of the grey and green-coated soldiery of the Czar still came surging stubbornly up the slope, ever lessening the distance between them and our entrenchments, till the moment at last seemed come when they should hurl themselves upon us and try conclusions with the cold steel. And then, as if by instinct more than pre-concert, the whole surging masses raised a tremendous shout, and rushed full upon us with the bayonet.

But when only about twenty paces in front of us, their onward career was suddenly stopped short by some invisible barrier, which made them crowd upon each other like penned cattle, passive targets for the bullets of our repeating rifles that rained upon them thick and fast as hail, knocking them over like so many rabbits in a ride. This barrier, which thus strangely stemmed the rush of their storming tide, was composed of fencing wire of several coils, strongly stretched and impaled, which had been run along all the front of our entrenched lines as an additional measure of defence against the contingency of such an attack, and formed one of the most recent innovations in the field warfare of the Germans—an innovation which had commended itself to the Emperor, who himself put it to a practical and approved test at the autumn manœuvres of last year.

A yell of savage fury rose from the storming columns of the Russians, who had thus been stopped in their career and baulked of their objective in this most bloody and calamitous manner; and though the impact of succeeding waves of assailants soon levelled all the wire fencing with the ground, still the mass momentum of their charge had been diminished, their dogged courage had also been shaken by the busy doings of Death among their huddled ranks during their temporary check; but worst of all, before the Russians could recover the force of their forward rush, the Germans were out of their entrenchments and upon them with the bayonet.

A few moments of grim and ghastly hand-to-hand fighting then ensued—and let it never after this be said that the bayonet has been entirely supplanted by the bullet; but I had only time to observe that Gourko’s brave,—I was almost going to say indomitable,—troops were beginning to waver, to go down, to yield before the forceful push of the Teutonic pike, when suddenly again the electric lights of the Russians were turned off, and the dark curtain of night, in mercy to the vanquished, fell upon the bloody drama.

Pursuit by the Germans in such circumstances was quite impossible, but, recovering their ranks with singular precision, they sent salvo after salvo of artillery and musketry in the direction of the retreating foe, until the ‘Cease firing’ was sounded all along our victorious line as the faint and startled dawn began to blush—as if for very shame at such infernal work; and the bugle-sounds were supplemented by the shrill whistles of the company commanders, reminding me of the days when I loved to listen to the clear piping of the darting water-ousel among the rocky streams of the Grampians, amid scenes unsullied by the bloody hand of war.

When the day broke the results of the nocturnal battle revealed themselves in all their ghastly horrors; but, beyond saying that about 10,000 dead and wounded Russians lay in front of our extended lines, and nearly a third of that number of Germans in and about our own entrenchments, I will not disgust your readers with a realistic description of the ghastliness of the battlefield—the first of its kind, and one which has resulted from an endeavour to neutralise, or at least minimise, the destructive effects of the murderous magazine-rifle.

REPULSE OF THE GERMAN ARMY.

(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent, Mr. Charles Lowe._)

ALEXANDROVO, _May 5_, 7 P.M.

This first great victory of ours over the Russians has been somewhat damped by the news, just received, that our army of Silesia, which had begun to marshal around Czenstochau preparatory to a further push forward, has suffered a rather serious reverse at the hands of the Grand Duke Vladimir, commanding the 14th and 15th Russian Corps d’Armée, who fell upon Prince George of Saxony before he had completed his concentration, and compelled him to fall back.

On hearing, however, of Gourko’s crushing defeat by us, and his retreat towards Warsaw, the Grand Duke Vladimir, like the victorious Wellington at Quatre-Bras (who desired to effect a junction with Blücher, on the latter being worsted by the French at Ligny), resolved to forego the immediate fruits of his triumph and retire to a point that would enable him to join hands with the retreating Gourko, and thus give combined battle to the Germans. This point will probably be Skierniwiçe, the junction-point of the railway lines from Alexandrovo and Czenstochau to Warsaw, famous in modern history as the pacific meeting-place of the three Emperors and their Chancellors several years ago.

Skierniwiçe, therefore, will probably be the Waterloo of the Russo-German portion of the campaign, whoever proves its Wellington; but Skierniwiçe is very much further from Alexandrovo and Czenstochau than Quatre-Bras and Ligny were from Mont St. Jean, and some little time, therefore, must necessarily yet elapse before I shall have it in my power to chronicle the Waterloo of the present war.

EXCITEMENT IN BRUSSELS.

(_By Telegraph from our Special Correspondent._)

BRUSSELS, _May 5_.

Brussels to-day is rent by conflicting emotions. Frenzied rage, poignant anxiety, and boiling excitement are struggling not so much for mastery as for satisfactory expression. The news of the forthcoming occupation of Antwerp by a British Army Corps has not been received here with expressions of unmixed satisfaction. The very fact that the negotiations were kept wholly secret, with the result that the announcement of so important a decision first reached us through the public report of the debate in the House of Commons, has, whether justly or otherwise matters not, set a vast number of well meaning people by the ears. When the news reached Brussels yesterday it produced an extravagant sensation which grew as the night advanced. By tacit consent people refused to go to bed—clubs and cafés were kept open till morning, and all through the principal thoroughfares the noise of heated discussions might be heard in full blast round the tables outside the cafés and at every street corner. A large section of the population, in which ranked many of the better classes, were greatly incensed against the King’s Government. ‘It is not astonishing,’ they said, ‘that the measure was kept secret; otherwise the people would never have permitted so infamous a traffic!’ All the old arguments of 1859 and the half dozen succeeding years were revived, and in every group of angry disputants the name of Adelson Castiau continually recurrent, was flung passionately on the night with every varied accent of which the human voice is capable. ‘_Il l’a bien dit, Castiau._ He knew, he foresaw what must happen, and idiots that we were, we would not listen.’ This was the prevailing cry.

It must be explained that M. Adelson Castiau—who is just at present given posthumous rank as a hero and patriot—was an eminent lawyer and ex-deputy, who, from the first, vehemently opposed the fortification of Antwerp. From the day when in 1859 a committee of twenty-seven officers were appointed to discuss the subject until the completion of the immense work some six years later, M. Castiau waged war against the scheme. He spoke, wrote, organised committees, and headed deputations protesting against the plan. His argument was that, from a military point of view, the project involved in principle the abandonment of the country and a shameful flight by the army towards the ‘Polders de l’Escaut,’ where certainly no one would ever come to molest it, but would be quite content to leave it to be destroyed by marsh fevers. The fortification of Antwerp, he said later, meant the destruction of our neutrality. Antwerp offers to-day, with her forty kilometres of heavily-armed works, her citadel and her dozen attached forts, a standing invitation to invasion. It was handing over the country to the first comer, and building up one of the finest military and commercial positions in the world, only for the benefit of England, which had coveted it for over a century.

And to-day the good people of Brussels, and, I fear of Belgium generally, are regretfully recalling his words and indorsing his opinion. Hence the frenzied rage of which I have spoken leaping flame-like all the length of the Boulevards.

BRUSSELS, _May 7_, 10 A.M.

BRITISH TROOPS IN THE PLACE VERTE, ANTWERP.
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I have just heard that the British Army Corps, under Sir Evelyn Wood, has reached Antwerp, and that disembarkation is rapidly going forward. Until the transports with their escort of cruisers and torpedo boats actually steamed up the river, people here affected to believe that they would not come. Chatterers in the clubs boasted loudly that the wind of popular opinion would drive the English vessels back from the shores of the Scheldt. The obvious absurdity of this anticipation is but emphasised by the fact that the worthy Antwerpers have received the invaders, if not with enthusiasm, at any rate with a demeanour at once friendly and business-like. Telegrams in the clubs here comment rather bitterly on the fact, that instead of visiting them with haughty resentment, the townsfolk are doing a lively trade with the alien soldiers in light beers and other cheap beverages, which the troops are freely purchasing beneath the Rubens Statue in the Place Verte, where they are being rendezvoused before proceeding to their billets.

The fear has now grown into dread certainty that what we have always expected is about to happen. France intends to invade Belgium, and we have before us the prospect of another Waterloo. Why have the German troops delayed? It has been set forth again and again by strategists that Germany’s most obvious plan would be to concentrate her Army Corps of the North upon the Belgian frontier of France, that it would therefore be to her advantage either to make use of the two railway lines which, from Cologne and Aix-la-Chapelle, run to Luxembourg, Thionville, and Virton—one by way of Trèves and the other by Verviers—or, and by this even more important results might be obtained, she might combine with this movement the seizure of the line of the Meuse, when, by debouching a part of her forces by Chimay into the Entre-Sambre-et-Meuse, she would be able to attack in flank the French forces engaged in preventing the Northern Army Corps forcing the passage of the Meuse between Dun and Mezières.

It was always considered as certain, therefore, that instead of violating Swiss territory to attack France, Germany would certainly, immediately on the declaration of war, throw an Army Corps into Belgium. It was supposed that a German First Army Corps could be concentrated at Aix-la-Chapelle on the eleventh day of mobilisation, and that it would be established on the Meuse and on the Sambre to the south of Namur at latest by the evening of the fifteenth day—that is to say, twenty-four hours after the Second German Army Corps had deployed before the position on the Othain.

This has no doubt been Germany’s intention. A huge army is being concentrated on the Eastern frontier. But France is likely to forestall the movement, and to reach Namur before her adversary. The extraordinary rapidity of her mobilisation may be said to be due in great measure to the perfection of her railway system on the Belgian frontier. She has established between Dunkerque and Mezières no less than seven lines of railway, of which four are double lines, which place her in direct and immediate communication with Belgium. These roads are linked and tapped by a transversal line that follows the whole length of the frontier as far as Longwy. Then she has, moreover, on this frontier four huge entrenched camps capable of serving as manœuvre pivots for her army, and as supports to her base of operations. These camps are Dunkerque (with its annexes—Bergues and Gravelines), Lille, Valenciennes (centre of a system of defence which comprises Condé, Bouchain, and Le Quesnoy), and Maubeuge. To ensure the retreat of her army in case of failure, she has created a first line of defence, formed by Valenciennes, Maubeuge, Landrecies, Hirson, and Mezières. For her second line she has the town of Reims, surrounded by forts commanding the valleys of the Aisne and the Marne, and the iron-bound triangle La Fère, Laon, and Soissons which defends the valley of the Oise, and with the support of Peronne, the valley of the Somme.

Thus encouraged by the rapidity of mobilisation—a rapidity certainly never anticipated by Germany, and probably a little unexpected by her own officers—France has decided to attack Germany by Belgium. The seven natural obstacles in her path are not in themselves formidable. She has, indeed, to cross the Meuse, the Lower Rhine, the Teutoburgerwald, the Weser, the Hartz, and the Elbe. The Teutoburgerwald checked, it is true, the Legions of Varus, but to-day the great roads pierce it in several broad cuttings, and it is, moreover, traversed by two railway lines, running from Hamm to Hanover and Magdeburg. The Hartz also is traversed by good roads and girdled by two railway lines running to Berlin, one of which is the line which places the German capital in communication with Coblentz and Metz. Thus her advance should unquestionably be more rapid than by the inter-Moselle and the Rhine. If, moreover, she can make good her footing in Belgium before the German army, she will undoubtedly find there better roads, better cantonments, and far greater resources of every kind than she would find in Lorraine and Oldenburg and the Palatinate.

With this object, we hear that the 1st and 2d French Army Corps are being concentrated at Maubeuge, the 3d and 10th at Hirson, the 4th and 9th at Givet, and it is expected that all these forces will be united in the neighbourhood of Namur in the course of the next four days—that is to say, sooner by five days than any military authorities have believed possible.

The entire interest in this country is, therefore, centred in Namur, for which place I start at once.

NAMUR, _May 8_.

The wildest excitement animates this place. Garrison and townsfolk alike are filled with generous enthusiasm for the French cause, a rapid change of feeling which may be attributed in some degree to the Antwerp episode. The most extravagant rumours are abroad. Belgian co-operation with the French forces is talked of openly, and with a grandiloquent disregard of consequences that would be almost amusing if it were not so grave. It is loudly proclaimed that Chartreuse and the old citadel of Liége are determined to resist the German advance, and here at Namur itself the populace (not the army) declare their intention of holding the ‘Key of Belgium,’ if need be, until their French allies can support them. As for Namur, its strategical position might well entitle it to be considered as one of the keys of Belgium. Till lately, however, the fortifications were in no condition to resist modern artillery. Thanks, however, to the wisdom of the Belgium Government in adopting the plans of General Briamont all this has been changed. Within the year 1892 the fortifications were so far completed as to furnish means for a strong defence. I give these rumours merely for what they are worth, and to show the temper of the populace.

As I write this telegram a report reaches me that French troops have crossed the frontier at Maubeuge and Valenciennes, and it is alleged that the small Belgian garrisons at Mons and Philippeville, after giving a wildly enthusiastic reception to their visitors, have valiantly offered their services to General Saussier.

THE MEETING OF THE FOUR FLEETS.

THE DUKE OF EDINBURGH IN COMMAND OF THE ENGLISH SQUADRON.

We are favoured with another letter from Admiral Colomb, who has been fortunate enough—in one way—to observe the remarkable naval transactions in the North Sea:—

‘Not knowing what would happen, or quite what to do, I lay at Colberg, as being a place less likely to be interfered with by the Russians by way of blockade than some of the other ports, and to get intelligence of what was going on. It was here I heard of the violation of the Belgian territories by France. I thought that the drawing of France into this step was equally an example of German shrewdness and of French rashness. I was not at all surprised that we should so suddenly have been brought into it, in the occupation of Antwerp, which is now being hastened on, and of course we were bound to mobilise everything we could put our hands on. I was sure we could never stop at the defence of Belgium. It seemed equally sure that we could not leave the Baltic, the Belts, and the Sound in the hands of the French and the Russians, for that would almost certainly sacrifice Germany. I had seen her hesitate to attack the Russian Fleet alone, and I was sure that against Russia and France together, she could only shut her main fleets up in her ports as she did in 1870 though she is so much more powerful now than she was then. There was a small German cruiser at Colberg; she trusted to get into shoal water if a superior Russian found her out—and her captain told me that he believed the German Government thought as I did in reference to the policy of attacking the Russian fleet; but that, beside this, they were alarmed at the crowds of small vessels with heavy guns, which, it was assumed, might be associated in any naval action in Russian waters. I only say this as I am told it,—I don’t know anything of the real facts.

‘I thought the appointment of the Duke of Edinburgh to the command in chief of the North Sea Fleet was a very natural one. His reputation as a tactician, I had always heard, was first-rate, and naval officers always seemed ready to depend on and follow him. I was told the command had been offered to Sir Geoffrey Hornby, but that his medical advisers absolutely forbid his accepting it; however, he seems to have had a good hand in the programme.

‘The German officers entirely calculated on France making such an attack on their Baltic shores as she had proposed to make in 1870. The German papers rather made light of it, and hammered away on the two points that France would find it difficult to get transport and appliances, as Cherbourg and Brest were really her nearest ports; and that England would step in and prevent a descent if it got as far as that. But the Germans were everywhere full of preparation on land, and troops were concentrating at Colberg and elsewhere. I had read in one of our papers last year that for a long time the bulk of the French Fleet had been kept at Toulon, and so I was not surprised to see it stated in an English paper that only five battle-ships had left Brest for the North Sea, with, however, a good proportion of cruisers and small craft. If, then, this were really so, it would follow that, supposing the Germans had been able to bring forward any more ships in the time, and had repaired the _Oldenburg_, they must be either _à cheval_ between the French and Russian Fleets—able to strike at each before the other could assist—or else between two fires; according to how they looked at it. I had seen them retire before the Russian Fleet on the apprehension of a French approach. Would they now, with more complete knowledge of the forces against them, reverse their policy and strike at either? Or would they remain quiescent; shut themselves up in Wilhelmshaven, and trust to their land defences to repel all attacks? There seemed almost an even chance, and I made up my mind to go on to Kiel, and to the Jahde, if I made out nothing at the first-named port.

‘I had hoped to have made Kiel in daylight, but the wind failing me, it was dark when I got off the port. I could only guess where I was, for the Bülk Light did not show, and all I could make out in the way of lights seemed to be about the works of Friedrichsort, though the regular light there was also extinguished; thereupon I lay-to. I had the usual side-lights burning, and I suppose they were seen, for we had not been there ten minutes lying-to when a ship without lights of any sort came out of the gloom, and a voice hailed us in an unknown tongue first, and receiving no response, then in French, asking what we were. I answered, and presently a boat with a Russian officer boarded us. He was very polite; told us there were no German warships in Kiel except some small craft; that a squadron of Russian cruisers was blockading the place; and that I must get out of it. So there it was, and all I could do was to make sail for the Sound.

‘Off the Jahde we found quite a strong combined French and Russian Fleet. We counted seven large French ships and six large Russians, so that it was clear that the Germans had made no attempt to interfere with the junction. There were many smaller vessels, chiefly French, and the whole fleet, except some small vessels, was at anchor.

‘We made for the vicinity of a French flagship, and were soon boarded by a boat from another ship with some sort of flag up. The officer warned us that the Jahde was blockaded, and that though, on our promise not to try to slip in, we might remain with the fleets, we should assuredly be captured or sunk if we tried to break blockade. As we only wanted to see what was going on, I readily gave a promise, and then we learnt that the Russian ships had only joined the French a few hours before we came in sight, and that no one knew what was going to be done, but it was ordered that the whole fleet must weigh before dark. The officer told us they expected transports and troops daily, but that he did not know what was intended.

‘Immediately after dark; accordingly, the whole combined fleet got under weigh. Lights were shown during the process, but then all were extinguished and the ships disappeared without our having the least idea which direction they had taken.

‘We were astonished soon after daylight next morning to see not only our friends the Russians and French steaming slowly in from the northward, but to see an apparently still greater fleet in the haze to the westward.

‘There was an evident check and hesitation in the Franco-Russian Fleet, and presently we well understood why, when we distinctly made out the English white ensign flying in the Western Fleet. Our ships came on quite slowly. We could make out that they were grouped in three great masses. I counted fifteen in the most advanced portion, all very large ships, and I soon made out that they were in three lines, with a flagship at the head of each. Soon I made out the middle one to be certainly the _Alexandra_ with an Admiral’s flag at the main. On her right I supposed was the _Camperdown_, with Vice-Admiral Seymour’s flag; and on the left the _Anson_, with that of Rear-Admiral Adeane. I had seen them both before I left England, and supposed they retained their commands. There were several small vessels near this great mass of ships, and then to the right of them was a group of seven large ships, three of them as if partly rigged, and four of them like turret-ships. Then, again, on the left of the main fleet I could make out what seemed to be a cluster of smaller vessels.

‘We had barely made out all this, when out of the cloud of mist overhanging the mouth of the Jahde there came clearly the body of the German Fleet—ten of them I counted.

‘Never was such an exciting time as this. It seemed to me that I was about to witness the greatest sea-battle that the world had ever seen, and when I noticed the Franco-Russian Fleet separating its bigger from its smaller ships, and drawing the latter into one long line, facing west, and stretching north and south, I made certain they were going to run right at the English Fleet pell-mell, in the way I had always read about.’

RETREAT OF FRENCH CRUISERS.

SINKING OF THE ‘ELAINE.’

But yet I had not heard of any declaration of war by England, and it seemed a terribly reckless thing for the French and Russians—of whom I could only count fourteen in the line they had drawn out, to run down upon what seemed to be twenty-two English ironclads, when they could be joined, in a couple of hours perhaps, by the ten Germans. The three fleets were each about ten miles from my yacht, and I was in the middle part. There was not much wind, and what there was being from the southward, left smooth water, but brought down a good deal of mist from the flat land of which one could only get indications by buildings and trees sticking up above the horizon. I could not help thinking how wise the Germans were to have their fleet here rather than at Kiel. Nature sheltered them from attack at Wilhelmshaven in a way that no sort of art could do at Kiel, and here they were quite safe behind their shoals, and yet ready to fall upon their enemies at a moment’s notice.

Nevertheless, they were hemmed in fast enough. That was made plain by the fact that at least five small French cruisers had turned up at daylight a long way inshore of where I was, and had evidently been there all night keeping watch on the port. While I was weighing, these cruisers, some of which seemed much nearer to our own fleet, appeared to be coming out—I supposed in obedience to signal—and then I saw that several German ships were evidently coming out after them, and steaming at speed. I had hardly realised the state of affairs when I saw I was in for a hot skirmish, and that we should be in the middle of it ourselves. However, we put on full speed, and steamed as hard as we could, straight for the _Alexandra_. Some of the French now passed us in retreat, firing their stern guns; and presently we were passing between an advancing and retiring line, and were between two fires. My wife gripped my arm tight and stood and looked, but never a word she said. Nor I either, for I had a horror of what might happen, and was powerless.

SINKING OF THE YACHT ‘ELAINE.’
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‘What’s that?’ cried my wife presently, pointing to the sky over the German ships. What, indeed? I was only conscious that some monstrous, roaring, and very relentless thing had passed me, and made a crash somewhere, and that my steward had torn up the hatchway, crying, ‘Good God! the bottom’s out of the ship!’

Then I knew that a German projectile had passed through our deck and planking below, and that we were sinking. I holloaed down to the engineer, ‘Keep her going as long as you can!’ dashed down for my wife’s jewel-box, collared it, and was up again to find the men clearing away the boat. I knew the engine-room compartment was by way of being water-tight, and that we had a little time to spare in consequence; but I wanted to run out of the fire, which I could not do in the overcrowded boat. My engineer was as cool and white as marble. ‘She’ll go a bit yet, sir!’ he called up through the skylight; ‘the water’s leakin’ in through them sluices pretty, but there ain’t more nor six inches yet.’

The boat was down, towing alongside, and I gave the word to quit the yacht as she was sinking markedly by the stern. The engineer came regretfully last into the boat before myself. ‘Them blooming engines ’ll go a bit yet,’ he muttered as he passed me. ‘I’m glad it worn’t a Rooshian shot anyhow.’ It was no use sticking to the yacht, but she had done us the good turn of carrying us out of the line of fire, which, indeed, was slackening by reason of the approach of the French to their own fleet.

The whole thing was such a scurry that one hardly knew what had, and what had not happened, but we understood it when my poor _Elaine_, with a great snort and splash, suddenly threw her nose into the air and went down stern first, leaving us in the overcrowded boat, clear now of the cross fire which had, indeed, nearly ceased. Then I became aware of two things; one, that a heavy English cruiser, with a flag of truce flying, was steaming towards the Franco-Russian Fleet; and next, that a smaller ship was steering direct for my boat. In a very few moments we found ourselves safe on board the _Blonde_, kindly welcomed and commiserated by Commander Pretyman, who told us he had been signalled to pick us up and take us to the flagship.

ON BOARD THE FLAGSHIP.

ACCEPTANCE OF THE ENGLISH TERMS BY THE RUSSIAN AND FRENCH ADMIRALS.

The change was sudden and unexpected enough when we found ourselves greeted by the Duke the moment we put foot on board the _Alexandra_. My old friend Keppel had, we found, already turned out of his cabin to make room for my wife; and the Duke led us—still rather dazed—into his after-cabin, assuring us that we were his welcome guests till he could send us home. I could not help wondering at the moment at the quietness of his manner and his exceeding urbanity on the brink of such tremendous occurrences and with such awful responsibilities on his shoulders. I found I was by no means alone in my admiration of this amiable _aplomb_, but I soon learnt that not only the Duke, but most of the officers did not apprehend a collision.

For the situation was that war with France had not yet been formally decreed, and that the flag of truce had gone with the Duke’s Flag Captain, Brooke, to ‘invite’ the French to withdraw their forces, in which case no attack would be made, and the Russians might retire unmolested to Cronstadt. If, however, in three hours the Russian Squadron had not separated from the French, and the French had not signified their acquiescence, the united English and German Fleets together would enforce compliance. The Duke’s secretary, Mr. Rickard, showed me the copy of the message. It was exceedingly firm, but exceedingly conciliatory; praying the French Admiral Planché and the Russian Shestakov to reflect that, in presence of forces so enormously superior, their honour could in no way be touched, and that common dictates of humanity forbade the awful effusion of blood which would be so uselessly shed in the event of a refusal.

The ships were all prepared for action,—those with masts appearing to be nearly stripped,—and now I saw that the German Fleet was well out, and steaming directly for us. The officers all seemed a good deal more excited than the Admiral, but still I found that no one believed in the possibility of resistance. The latest news by a despatch vessel represented that the embarkation of troops at Cherbourg, which was closely watched by several of our cruisers, had apparently been stopped, and this, it was felt, gave additional cause to believe in a peaceable solution, as it was made clear that even if the English Fleet only stopped the transports, the whole Franco-Russian game was up. A last telegram from Paris, _viâ_ Madrid, expressed belief that the French Admiral Prémesnil had sailed with orders to return to Brest if the English appeared in observation off the Jahde in greatly superior force.

Notwithstanding, there was not a glass in the ships that was not persistently directed upon the _Immortalité_—now about ten miles off, and stopped close to the French Flagship—and her great white flag, for it had been arranged that she should hoist the Dutch ensign under it as the signal that the terms were rejected.

The hours drew on, and for perhaps two there was no sign. The distance was too great to make out ordinary flag signals, but sometimes it could be seen that such were hoisted, and one of the signal midshipmen created a fresh stir by affirming that the ships in view were ‘stoking up.’

My heart was in my mouth with the excitement of the moment, but if I was as cool and unconcerned in outward appearance as the officers and men surrounding me, I must have wonderfully belied my real feelings. Suddenly the head signalman called out in a hurried voice, not taking his eye from his glass: ‘The Russians are moving, sir!’

We could not in fact distinguish French from Russians at the distance, but I had told them that the Russians were on the right wing, and as they looked, they could see the right wing opening out from the left. A sort of disappointed sigh passed round the group, as by a single impulse they dropped their glasses and looked at one another. I am sure I saw an impatient gesture of the Duke’s right arm, and a certain setting of his lips which confirmed it. There was no Dutch ensign. Common sense had overcome the sentiment of the allies; the terms were accepted, and the Russians were off to the Gulf of Finland.

All this surmise was confirmed when Captain Brooke returned on board; but I never saw complete disappointment so unmistakably betrayed as it was on his face, that of the Admiral and the other officers who received him at the gangway.

I have little more to say. The French Fleet presently passed us, steering to the westward. The Duke detached twelve of his battle-ships under Sir Michael Seymour with seven or eight cruisers—all newest types of ships—to follow up the Russians into their own waters, while he himself followed up the French with the remainder of his fleet. My wife and I were sent on board the _Thames_ which came home full speed with the news.

I remain in a kind of mental paralysis. No one had ever suggested to me that in the presence of British power, naval war was to become but naval peace. All the naval people whom I had ever heard talk about it always seemed to have in their minds a certainty that in naval war, no two hostile fleets could ever see one another without rushing to a mutual destruction pell-mell. And yet I could get away from the fact that to every Frenchman and every Russian in the combined fleet I had seen, it must have been clear that no one but a madman could have pursued any other course than that which their Admirals followed. Of course it might have been different had war been actually declared.

PREPARATIONS FOR THE LANDING OF BRITISH TROOPS AT TREBIZONDE.

THE PROTECTION OF ERZEROUM—TURKS, LIKE THE ENGLISH, AS USUAL, TOO LATE.

(_From our Special Correspondent, Mr. Francis Scudamore._)

KARAKURGHAN, _April 29_.

I owe the opportunity afforded me for writing to you from this wretched place to an accident which has befallen my best horse, and will delay me possibly for another couple of days. The mischance is doubly unfortunate at this moment, inasmuch as reports from our front lead to the supposition that an important engagement is at hand. Any adequate analysis of the rumours that reach me constantly, contradictory as they are, continually varied, chequered with additions and omissions, and burdened with the extravagant local interest environing some wholly trivial circumstance, would be as entirely out of the question for me as for any of your readers at home. Indeed, your readers are certainly infinitely better informed than I am as to current events.

When I left Trebizonde, five days ago, the town was in a state of fevered anxiety, of enthusiastic anticipation, tempered in some sober quarters by a quiet but not ungenerous scepticism born of previous experience. The English were coming, cried the enthusiasts. Three English Army Corps (Heaven alone knows whence it was proposed to get them) were on their way to Trebizonde, to Samsoun, and to Shumla to aid their Turkish and Italian allies. The eastern division of the Mediterranean Fleet had already entered the Black Sea, as much to the surprise (and perhaps, somewhat to the chagrin) of the Turkish commanders at the Dardanelles and the Kavaks as of the generals of Russia and of France. In Trebizonde and the surrounding villages a certain basis of probability was built beneath these rumours by the fact that English agents had, for a week, been purchasing mules, sheep, and cattle, at, as is usual with British agents in times of stress, some five times their market value to any other purchaser. Nor have the native producers profited more than usual by this large-handed generosity, for some two or three Greek and Armenian traders, anticipating, as is their wont, honest English procrastination, have been beforehand with the army agents, with whom they are now dealing at altogether fancy prices. This, however, is after all but a small matter beside the great question of our intervention. That England’s action should invariably be delayed almost (but never quite) until too late—that her transports should reach their destination empty, her troops be either unprovided with cartridges, or supplied with those of some obsolete and useless pattern—that by every mistake ineptitude can secure or official ignorance produce, all arrangements connected with the disembarkation and provisioning, and general welfare of whatever forces have been tardily despatched, must inevitably break down but for the tireless energy, the unfailing resource, the unremitting good temper and never-flagging loyalty of all the officers and men thus maltreated, are matters which have long since come to be as well known abroad as they are beginning to be recognised at home. ‘The English,’ said the good people of Trebizonde, while awaiting the expected Army Corps, ‘are good but careless. They are richer than the Russians, and they are less corrupt, but they are also more stupid.’ This, as the independent criticism of allies, more than anxious to be generous, is worth at least a second thought.

BRITISH TROOPS LANDING AT TREBIZONDE.
]

I would gladly have witnessed the disembarkation of our troops (for aught I know it may have already taken place), but, after fruitlessly waiting many days in dreary Trebizonde, I no longer dared to delay. News had come that a large Russian force was advancing from Kars westward towards Erzeroum, and, although there are in and around that place some 50,000 Turkish troops, yet, save at Keupru Kui, a place about nine hours’ ride from Erzeroum on the Kars road, little or no preparation appears to have been made to resist an enemy. Erzeroum, let it be remembered, is entered by three posterns, called respectively the Stamboul, the Ardahan, and the Kars gates. The roads from them lead to Ardahan, Kars, Van, Erzinghan, and Trebizonde. On the south of Erzeroum, at a very short distance from the walls, a mountain descends steeply towards the city, which it altogether commands, and a direct road runs from Van to Moush, and from that town to the mountain, from which two water channels lead into Erzeroum. If an enemy once had possession of the eminence—and, so far as I can learn, there is little or nothing to prevent him—he would be able to turn these water-courses off from the city. There are, it is true, a few wells within the walls, but the supply from them is already insufficient for the requirements of the population, without taking into account the troops quartered in and around the town. It seems typical of Turkish apathy that so little should have been done to secure this their last great stronghold in Asia Minor from attack. I am going, of course, merely by what I hear from Turkish officers, as I have as yet been unable to see for myself; but I have hitherto had no reason to discredit their information.

It appears that from time to time, since 1878, proposals have been made for fortifying various strong natural positions, but that, with a procrastinatory belief in the protection of Providence that is wholly Turkish and almost English, these plans have been continually set aside until it is now too late to execute them. Thus on the Van Road, about five miles from Erzeroum, there is an admirable position known as the Palandukain defile. This position was protected after a fashion in 1876, when a fort was constructed capable of offering sturdy resistance. Another fort had been built also at that time at Gereguzek, eighteen miles from Erzeroum, on the Ardahan road. Another position, that of the Devé Boinou Bogaz, five miles from Erzeroum, on the Kars road, was considered at that time to be a good place for a fort, and yet further defences were then constructed at the Loghana defile, which is some twenty-four hours from Erzeroum, on the Kars road. There are, no doubt, also important positions on the Bayazid road, as, for instance, at Deli Baba—a narrow gorge through high mountains, which the Turks declare to be impregnable—at Taher Gedi, five hours’ march further on, and at Kara Kilissa, beyond which there is a level road to Bayazid. Since the war, however, it appears that little or nothing has been done to strengthen or even to maintain these positions in an adequate state of defence. There has been much talk of late in Constantinople of extensive armaments on this frontier. Krupp guns have, it has been said, been sent to supplement the bronze cannon manufactured at Tophané, with which the forts of Erzeroum were in the last war mainly armed. As to whether any such material has reached its destination I am as yet uninformed. People on this road, which it must surely have traversed, profess to know nothing of it. It is to be feared that we may expect a repetition of the famous story of the million liras expenditure said to have been incurred in the fortification of Erzeroum in the last war.

I did not journey from Trebizonde alone, but took advantage of the departure of a huge straggling convoy of mules and pack-horses laden with ammunition for Erzeroum. There were also with us half a dozen English doctors who have taken service with the Porte, and have volunteered to attend the wounded under fire. Owing to the accident to my horse, who slipped, poor brute, through a ragged hole in the wide stone bridge across the Kara Su, close to this place (a terrible pitfall for artillery), and badly scraped both his own shin and his master’s, these gentlemen have perforce abandoned me until such time as I can obtain another beast.

The traffic through this little place, which is the point of junction of the Trebizonde and Erzinghan roads to Erzeroum, and as a rule at this season is almost deserted, is in itself indicative of stirring events in our front. All through the day there has been a continuous passage of nondescript wayfarers in either direction. Turkish soldiers—stragglers or deserters may be—some sick, some slightly wounded; Koordish Bashi-bazouks, pure bandits for the most part, flashing great arsenals of gleaming weapons in their waist-belts, and armed, many of them, with Winchester rifles, remnants of the last war; slim, evil-visaged Circassians on lean, wiry horses, and gaunt Zaibeks, ferocious beneath their extravagant headgear, have tramped and clattered continuously past the miserable khan where I am established. Some of these gentry, I note, have Russian great-coats with regimental numbers on the shoulder strap, flung either across their cruppers, or around their shoulders. This is a sure indication that there has at least been some skirmish or reconnaissance in which Russian arms have suffered not a little.

REPULSE OF THE RUSSIANS.

THE TURKS PURSUE ESKI ZAGRA—THE GRIM REALITIES OF WAR.

NEAR KEUPRU KEUI, _May 2_.

I am profiting by an opportunity to send you a hurried message by a Turkish officer on his way to Erzeroum with despatches. Soon after writing last to you, I managed to pick up a horse—a poor beast enough truly, in place of my stalwart grey—and pushed on to Erzeroum. There I found all in confusion. Certain news had arrived of a Russian advance in force along the Kars road, and every available man had been thrown forward to meet it. It was but natural that the Russians should seize the earliest possible opportunity of hurling themselves against the Turkish stronghold, which they might very reasonably expect to find unprepared to receive them. More or less unprepared the Turks indeed were, but Ghazi Moukhtar Pasha—the hero of ’77—who had himself reached Erzeroum but a few days since, was fully determined not to permit his traditional enemy to win an easy triumph. As I have said, every available regiment was ordered to meet the attack, and hurried forward to Keupru Keui, where the stand was to be made. I have as yet no details—indeed, as I stayed but an hour or so in Erzeroum to feed my horses, I have hitherto been able to see no one in authority; but so far as I can gather, the Turks, though outnumbered, were not greatly inferior to their adversaries, over whom they had the additional enormous advantage of being in a position which tradition has taught them to regard as well-nigh impregnable. In any case Turkish arms seem to have gained a signal victory.

Very soon after leaving Erzeroum, which I did shortly before mid-day this morning, I began to meet with unmistakable evidences that a big battle had either been fought or was in progress. First a knot of some twenty infantrymen, weary, haggard, and ragged, met me on the steep slope of the hill some five miles beyond the town. They were all jaded beyond expression—every one was wounded more or less grievously—several were using their rifles as crutches, and some who had lost or abandoned their rifles were helping themselves along either by the aid of their comrades’ shoulders, or by stakes, or waggon-boards, or rammers, or indeed any of the miscellaneous articles of wood or metal that are to be found strewn along the line of a straggling fight. I gave them a water-skin, and offered a bottle of brandy (as _ilitch_—medicine for their wounds). The water they took, but none would touch the spirit save one gaunt, white-moustached veteran, who mumbled incoherencies about Algeria, by way seemingly of excuse. While they drank I asked them what was doing. ‘A great battle was being fought,’ they said, but their opinions were divided as to the course of the action; several men (weak from loss of blood) opined that the enemy was too strong for them. But one broad-shouldered, bright-eyed little fellow, who had had all the flesh of one cheek torn from him by a shell splinter, and had bound the wound with a strip from his rough serge jacket, was loud in his derision of this view. ‘It was Eski Zagra again,’ he said. The Moskoffs were driven back, beaten hopelessly, and pursued by agile Bashi-bazouks through the slippery passes, the precipitous fastnesses, the treacherous paths of the rugged route, a pursuit without cess or quarter—where every enemy, whether wounded or not, was exultingly slaughtered as soon as caught. The little veteran illustrated with horribly realistic gestures his own views as to the treatment of Russian wounded. With a foul gusto that raised wild enthusiasm in his weary comrades, he demonstrated how he would hew off the noses and lips of his enemy; how he would gouge out their eyes with his bayonet before he plunged it into their throats and twisted it till the victims died suffocated with their own blood. He outlined other horrors, but I had had enough, and left him posing in anticipation as a hero among his fellows, while I rode on towards this place.

That this fierce implacable Moslem had been right in his conjecture I soon had ample—ay, terrible—proof. In every mile, even on the rugged track itself, as I neared the spot from which I write, the horrible evidences of deadly carnage multiplied and repeated themselves. Disembowelled horses, broken limbers, little mounds of dead, fallen one on another, their still, calm, white faces in cruel contrast to the extravagant distortion of their scattered and twisted limbs; and everywhere traces of that ruthless hatred vowed by the Turk to his hereditary enemy. Hideous featureless corpses stared at me out of eyeless sockets from the roadside, their hands uplifted and bloody, showing that wounded, not dead Russians, had been thus maltreated; occasionally a movement, slight though perceptible, caused me to dismount, eager to aid some mutilated sufferer, but all to no purpose—the Turks had done their work too well. As I advanced, the spectacle of these recurrent horrors increased in its revelations of barbarism and malignant cruelty. The number of Turkish dead diminished step by step, as that of the Russians augmented, and by the time I reached this place I had had such a surfeit of ghoul-feasting (for the eye) as I envy no man.

While talking to Salem Bey Agris—the gentleman to whose good offices I am indebted for the conveyance of this hurried despatch, at least, as far as Erzeroum—a poor horse hobbled up, browsing its way along the thin coarse grass which covers the bank on which I was seated. Something in the animal’s movements attracting my attention, I looked up and noticed to my infinite horror that the poor brute, which was still saddled and bridled, had but three legs—the off fore leg being from the shoulder downwards nothing but a sliver of white bone splintered to a pencil point. Horror-struck, I seized my revolver—my first thought being to put the poor creature out of its pain. But as it browsed on placidly, seemingly indifferent, I called Salem Bey’s attention to its condition. ‘Poor horse,’ he said (and note that he had surveyed mutilated Russians with placid indifference), ‘a suffering animal, indeed, tears the breast, but I have seen, only two hours since, a sight far more heartrending than this. I was charging with my squadron a troop of Cossacks. It chanced that a shell burst right over the first line, and, killing two troopers, tore away the whole muzzle of one of their horses. All was destroyed in the poor beast, right up to the eyes, and you might have supposed it would fall dead at once. Nothing of the kind. It held its place in the ranks, spouting torrents of blood and foam from its ghastly shattered head, until, fortunately, some stray Russian bullet laid it low. Until then, I will own,’ he added, ‘I was afraid for my men.’

The Bey, leaving me to digest this tale, strode away in the dusk to get his horse. ‘Where is your army?’ I have shouted to him, and his reply is: ‘_Bilémem_ (I do not know). INSHALLAH, it has gone to KARS.’

THE RUSSO-GERMAN CAMPAIGN—GREAT BATTLE AT SKIERNIWIÇE.

ROUT OF THE RUSSIANS AND THEIR RETREAT ON WARSAW—HEAVY FIGHTING ON THE
GALICIAN FRONTIER.

(_From our Special Correspondent, Mr. Charles Lowe._)

SKIERNIWIÇE, _May 18_.

Strange is the irony of events. In the month of September 1884, this was the friendly meeting-place of the Emperors of Russia, Germany, and Austria, who were accompanied by their respective Chancellors—Bismarck, Kalnoky, and Giers; and now the chateau where they so ostentatiously feasted, embraced, and exchanged their pledges of peace, is a heap of smoking ruins. After this, who shall say that there is any stability in human affairs, or any trustworthiness in human foresight?