Chapter XXI: The Last Blow

"What shall I do with this Russian, captain?"

It was Mecsey talking, Mecsey very wet and bedraggled, but prompt and soldier-like.

"Russian!" I echoed, sitting up. "What Russian?"

Mecsey pointed to a half-drowned figure at his feet, and I recognized the officer who had led the pursuit in the caverns.

"He followed us, then?" said I, in a tone of wonder, for I had not dreamed of any one being foolhardy enough to jump after me into that horrible pit.

"We came together," replied Mecsey, nearly laughing. "He leaped at my throat as I went over the side, and only loosened his hold when we shot out from the mountain."

My faithful follower now helped me to rise, and once fairly on my feet, I felt very little the worse for the adventure.

With the Russian, however, things had gone much worse, and it took us the best part of half an hour to restore him.

He was very weak and dazed, but sensible; and pointing to his jacket, said, "Vodka."

I nodded in answer, and searching his pockets discovered a flask filled with spirits, of which he swallowed a mouthful, and by signs intimated that we should do the same.

It was fiery stuff, and took away my breath; but Mecsey appeared to relish it, though it was very unusual for him to drink anything half so strong.

However, the liquor was warming, and I thought it would be well, while its effect lasted, to take our new companion on with us, believing that the exercise would the better restore his circulation.

At first he leaned all his weight upon us, but gradually his steps became firmer, and before long he walked with very little assistance. Still, it was evident he could not go far, and this made the situation awkward.

Travelling at his pace I should not reach Goergei for days, when my information would be useless; yet I could not leave the brave fellow utterly alone in a strange land, where he would be far more likely to meet with enemies than friends.

Mecsey must stay with him. I could see no solution but that, and yet I had depended on Mecsey to guide me to Miskolcz.

However, it had to be done; and at the first halt I explained the matter to the Russian.

"It is very kind of you to think of me at all," he said. "I am grateful."

"You seemed so very anxious for my society," I said, laughing, "that I am bound to take an interest in you; but, seriously, my man will remain to look after you. He is an honest fellow, and to be trusted. Of course, there is a chance of falling in with your own people. In that case, I trust you to do everything in your power to set him free."

"I promise that willingly."

"Then I will say good-bye; it is possible we may not meet again."

"I hope we shall, if only that I may have the chance to return your kindness. Will you not tell me your name?

"George Botskay."

"And mine is Michael Popkoff."

"I shall remember it; but now I must go. I am on special service; and since you have deprived me of my horse, I must do the journey on foot."

He laughed at that, and we parted very good friends.

Mecsey, of course, disliked the arrangement; but, as the only alternative was to leave the Russian to die, he loyally accepted the inevitable.

I left them there on the lonely mountain side, and set off resolutely with my face towards Miskolcz.

Mecsey believed this mountain stream which had so nearly cost us our lives flowed into the Sajo River; if so, I had but to walk along its bank--unless, indeed, it took another subterranean excursion, when it would lose my company.

It proceeded now with a rush and a rattle towards the plain, and its rocky course reminded me of my shoeless feet.

For a staff officer, I was in a pretty plight. My cap, of course, had gone; my feet were bare; I had flung off my attila with my weapons; and I was wringing wet.

The notebook was a mass of pulp, and so entirely useless that I threw it into the stream; but I had previously committed the most important facts to memory, so that its loss mattered little.

Then my thoughts wandered to Mecsey and his companion, and I could not help laughing.

My servant knew not a word of any language save Magyar; his companion, in addition to Russian, could only speak bad German, and I wondered how they would get on.

The ludicrousness of their position kept me merry for a long time; and when the stream, leaving the mountains behind, debouched into an open plain, the journey became much pleasanter.

I was now growing desperately hungry, but even in this matter good fortune stood by me, as I had the luck to stumble against a zingari encampment.

The gipsies were wretchedly poor, their tents were patched and dirty, they themselves were clothed in rags and tatters, but they had a fire and a big round pot with something savoury in it.

They did not wish to share their meal with me, and warned me off with scowling looks and surly words; but I was far too hungry to be got rid of so easily.

If they would not give me a dinner, I would buy one; and after a good deal of angry squabbling we made a bargain.

The wrinkled old dame in charge of the cooking operations ladled out enough of the hot stew to fill a huge platter, in exchange for which I gave the head man of the party my gold-braided jacket.

Elsewhere it would have been a dear dinner, but under the circumstances I was quite content.

In addition, they told me that by following the stream I should certainly come up with the army before nightfall, which was very cheering news.

These poor folk were often on the verge of starvation themselves, and they showed no surprise at the ravenous way in which I gobbled up the plateful of food.

The men sat about lazily and smoked; the women continued their labours; the naked children played their uncouth games without even a glance in my direction.

When the plate was empty, I rose to go, and no one even took the trouble to say good-day.

"Lucky that Goergei is so near," I thought, "if every meal is to cost me a garment," for I was now reduced to a shirt and pair of trousers.

However, the hot food had set me up, and I walked rapidly, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of my friends.

Afternoon had passed into evening, and darkness was falling, when an alert "Who goes there?" in Hungarian brought me to a halt.

"A friend," I answered promptly.

"Advance, friend, and give the countersign."

"Pass the word for your officer," I said. "I am Captain Botskay of General Goergei's staff."

"Stand quite still. If you move an inch I'll shoot you."

I could not see the speaker, but his voice told me he was a man of his word, so I stood still.

Presently I heard the clatter of hoofs, and in a few minutes a party of horsemen rode up.

I guessed at once that the general was visiting the outposts, and it was no surprise to hear him calling, "Botskay, where are you? Come this way!--Bring a torch, some one. Quick!"

The light showed my strange attire, and the general, in spite of his genuine distress, could not forego his joke.

"Ach, Botskay!" cried he good-humouredly, "I'm afraid we've disturbed you. Just going to bed, eh? Here, take this," and removing the bunda which lay across his saddle, he threw it over my shoulders.

"Thanks, general," I replied gratefully. "That feels more comfortable."

"Have you brought any information? Yes?--Szondi, lend Botskay your horse. He can tell me his news as we go back."

My brother-officer jumped down at once, and I mounted in his stead.

"Now," said Goergei, as he and I rode in advance, "what have you learned?"

In reply I related how I had watched the march of the Russian army, and gave him the approximate numbers of their men, horses, and guns.

He listened very attentively, put numerous questions, most of which I was able to answer, and appeared exceedingly thoughtful.

"Well, well," he at last exclaimed, "we must do our best; but unless Dembinski joins us from the south, I don't see how we're to escape. Other three weeks, my boy, will see the end of it."

It was perfectly plain that the general's common-sense prevented him from hoping any longer, but he kept his knowledge to himself; and when, later on, we gathered round his table for an hour, he was the life and soul of the party.

Fortunately, my personal effects were in the camp, so that I was able to join the others properly dressed, though, of course, I had to endure much good-humoured raillery.

After supper we lingered for a half-hour's chat, and the general asked me to relate the story of my personal adventures.

At the part where we abandoned the horses, Goergei exclaimed laughingly, "Now we are on the track, gentlemen. It seems to me that our friend has been hunted by wolves. First, he sacrifices the animals; then he empties his pistols; next, his servant gives up his life; then, one by one, he discards his garments to the ravening pack."

"It's the wrong time of year for wolves, general."

"Ach, so it is. Well, go on, Botskay. We're all wondering what it means."

As the story unfolded bit by bit, the fellows craned forward eagerly, being loud in their applause when I told how Mecsey and Popkoff followed me into the dark waters.

"That Mecsey is a servant worth having," said Goergei; "and the Russian proved a very plucky fellow."

"His men showed the white feather, though," growled Mizvy, who always fastened on the seamy side of things.

"I think I should have done the same," cried Szondi, with a laugh. "This underground travelling isn't much to my liking."

"Some of these Muscovites would have been none the worse for a good bath," chimed in another fellow.

"But Mecsey Sandor and the Russian--what became of them?" inquired the general.

"Oh, Mecsey saved my life;" and I told how the trusty fellow had dragged both Popkoff and myself from the river.

At the idea of Mecsey and the Russian, neither of whom understood a word the other said, being left together, they all laughed heartily, being no less amused at my method of procuring a dinner.

However, in spite of their fun, I knew they were very pleased at my safe return; and the general's "Well done, Botskay!" as I left his tent, was ample reward for what I had gone through.

Early the next morning we were again in retreat, and on the twenty-fifth of July crossed the Theiss at Poroszlo, after a sharp engagement with the Russian advanced guard, commanded by Prince Gortschakoff.

Mecsey had not yet returned, but his absence did not alarm me, as Colonel Popkoff was not in a condition to travel very fast.

During the retreat I had seen Rakoczy several times, and also Dobozy, who had recently been made major.

The former retained his joyous spirits, came up with a cheery smile after each misfortune, and professed to believe that before long we should gain a tremendous victory, and drive both Austrians and Russians out of the country.

All this was only for outside consumption, but Dobozy assured me that the colonel really had not the slightest hope of success. In fact, a general depression settled down on the army. The soldiers began to grumble and to ask why they were fighting. The old grievance broke out afresh, and men said openly it was a folly to sacrifice their lives for a cause in which they had no part.

They were not republicans, and if Goergei had had a free hand, all they wanted would have been granted long before.

Still, they trusted implicitly in their great leader, and if he told them to fight on, why, fight they would.

Occasionally we heard accounts of Bern's gallant exploits in Transylvania, where in the face of heavy odds he astounded his opponents both by his daring bravery and his military skill.

Yet we all felt that, whatever the result of the campaign in that quarter, it could have little effect on the real struggle.

If we could join our forces with those of Dembinski, there remained a chance of striking at the Austrian and Russian armies separately, but it was as difficult to join the Pole as to avoid the enemy.

However, Goergei persevered, and, leaving Nagy Sandor to cover the approach to Debreczin with 18,000 men, continued his march, hoping by a wide circuit to deceive the Russians and reach the fortress of Arad.

There, if anywhere, we should be joined by Dembinski; and if he could not or would not meet us, we could either surrender or die where we stood.

It was, if I remember rightly, on the fourth morning after leaving the Theiss that the general sent me back in hot haste with a note for Nagy Sandor.

"Another journey, Botskay?" cried Szondi, as I rode past. "Don't forget to bring your clothes back this time."

There was a hearty laugh at this from his comrades, and one said it would be easy to track me, were I missing, by looking for my abandoned garments.

Indeed many years went by before I heard the last of that unlucky incident.

I answered their chaff in the same strain, and rode off in good spirits, though sorry that the trusty Mecsey was not with me.

Everything went well on the journey. There was no likelihood of meeting with the Russians, and my worst enemies were the bad roads.

At night I slept three or four hours in a peasant's hut, entering Debreczin about noon next day.

The city was in the greatest uproar. The people crowded the streets talking excitedly, and the word "Russians" was on the tongue of every speaker.

Being fairly well acquainted with the district, I expected to find Nagy Sandor posted on the sandhills about a mile from and covering the town.

I had just cleared the city when a tremendous cannonade opened from the hills. It was Nagy Sandor's artillery showering grape and canister upon the enemy's advanced guard.

Spurring my horse vigorously I overtook the general, with several officers, riding to the scene of conflict.

He glanced at Goergei's note, thrust it into his pocket, told me to wait till the end of the battle, and dashed on to the hills where he had posted his masked battery.

Forty guns were belching forth canister and grape on the advancing Russians, who appeared to be taken by surprise.

They came on, however, in dense columns; but the iron hail was too much for them, and at last they went back beaten, amidst the cheers of our infantry massed behind the guns.

The advantage, however, did not remain with us long. Four heavy batteries, placed in good positions, replied to our guns, and a short time afterwards we saw the horse artillery galloping to the front.

"The odds are too great," said the man next me savagely. "The enemy must have forty against our eighteen thousand, and we shall be beaten again."

"We're getting well used to it," muttered his comrade, laughing harshly.

"Our fellows are sticking to their guns grandly for all that," I said; and indeed for several hours the cannonade continued without the Russians gaining a step.

Having no special duty to perform, I busied myself in attending to the wounded, for the enemy's fire was committing havoc in our ranks.

Late in the afternoon I again found myself near the general, who had sent off all his aides-de-camp, when I saw a movement on our right which told me that the battle was lost.

Nagy Sandor saw it too, and his face grew black as night.

"Paskewitch has brought up his reserves," he exclaimed, "and we have only a handful to oppose them. Well, we must do what we can."

He looked round for a messenger, and, seeing me, said, "Botskay, ride to the rear and tell Torot to bring up every man he has. You see that?" and he pointed to the Russian movement on our right.

I bowed, and rode off to find Torot.

Two infantry divisions, supported by four field-batteries, were preparing to attack us in our weakest place; while far away on the right a column of infantry and a division of cavalry were marching by a wide circuit towards the town.

As for us, every man except the reserve had been fighting for hours against overwhelming odds, and there was not one to be spared from his place.

With a heavy heart I told Torot what was happening, and glanced disconsolately at his small body of troops.

"The Muscovites will swallow us up," said he cheerfully. "However, there's the order; so off we go."

I placed myself with the cavalry, and we moved out in good order from the shelter of the hills.

In the centre our guns maintained an equal conflict, but our right was terribly weakened, and incapable of resisting this fresh attack.

The poor fellows so sadly harassed greeted us with loud cheers, though really we could do little more than swell the number of dead and wounded.

I do not know who led the cavalry charge, but he was a gallant fellow and deserved a better fate.

The nearest battery was our goal, and few of us that survived will ever forget that terrible ride.

It was almost the last blow we were to strike in defence of our flag, though we did not know it then.

The colonel pointed to the battery that was dealing out death to our comrades.

"My lads," he said simply, "it is for us to take those guns."

The men shook their swords, answering by a savage cheer.

The battle had got on their nerves. They were desperate, and cared nothing at all for the fact that three-fourths of us were going to meet death.

It was the culminating point of the fight. All around rose the roar of the guns, the cheers and groans of the combatants, the tramp of rushing feet, the rattle of artillery.

A blaze of light on the left marked where a powder tumbrel had exploded. Yells of victory and defiance came from the same spot, but we rode on steadily with the fixed idea of capturing the guns in front of us.

A decimated infantry regiment, going goodness knows where, paused to cheer us; but we sped onward, gathering speed at every stride--gathering such momentum that I doubt if we could have stopped.

The colonel was a horse's length in front, going straight for the battery, when the first crash came.

The shot tore holes through our ranks, and men shrieked with pain; but the survivors never drew rein, and in an instant our dead were left behind.

At the second discharge the gallant colonel reeled to and fro in his saddle; but he kept his seat, though I knew he must be mortally wounded.

Again the guns spoke, and this time both horse and man dropped; but I took our leader's place, and still we went on like a company of mad furies.

I dared not look behind, I dared not even think. I could only shake my sword and cry "Forward!"

Then we were in the midst of the guns, slashing at the artillerymen, who fought us till the very end.

But we did what we had been sent to do, and cheered exultingly as we emerged on the other side.

Alas! that cheer was the death-knell of many.

Whiz! whiz! sang the bullets as a battalion of infantry, hitherto hidden by a depression in the ground, sprang to their feet and poured volley after volley into us.

Broken by our charge, disordered, panting, we waited a moment irresolutely, then tried to form up and return.

Only the maddest of madmen would have faced this fresh enemy.

But the horror was not yet at an end.

As we rode back, a mere handful of wearied men, a dense mass of heavy cavalry barred our path.

Flight was impossible. There were but two alternatives--surrender or death.

The Magyars chose the latter, and, gripping our swords firmly, we went straight at the grey-coated mass, and were instantly swallowed up.

There was no time for parrying of blows; we had to take our chance, and, cutting and thrusting, try to force a passage.

"Follow me, my lads! follow me!" I shouted, as long as my voice held out, but before the end of the fight I was past speaking.

I do not know how many of us got through. My head was dizzy, my sight dim. I heard a babel of sounds without being able to distinguish one, and sat my horse only by mechanically gripping the pommel of my saddle.

Then a number of black figures surrounded me; and in the midst of this, to me, phantom army I swept on into the land of darkness.