Chapter XV · DREAMS REALIZED.

In Yaila the days and even the nights were passed by Horace Ramornie in a species of mental torture. The longing for freedom took the form of dreams when darkness fell, and visions haunted him like those of one who suffered from fever. He beheld Gwenny at times encompassed by absurd and fantastic perils, from which he sought in vain to save her. Once she appeared clinging to a fragment of loose rock above a raging sea—the cliffs of the Ernescleugh, or Fast Castle, perhaps—and ere he could aid her—for his limbs felt as if powerless, weak, or fettered—the frail thing to which she seemed to cling gave way and Gwenny disappeared beneath the waves, eliciting a cry from Horace, which brought the Russian guard in wonder to his room.

On other occasions, he wandered in pursuit of her through endless and mysterious galleries, arched passages, and long, long chambers, where, though he could hear her voice, he lost all trace of her in the end, and sought in vain with terror and bewilderment of heart.

But then he had other and more pleasant dreams. He was free! He was again with his company of the Fusileers, in the trenches, among wooden gabions and fascines of straw or sand bags, and the booming of the cannon in Sebastopol came to his ear. He saw the white walls and the green spires of the city rising in the sunshine above the curling smoke of the gun batteries. Then would come the music of the band on the march; again he saw the heights above the Alma glittering with Russian bayonets, and he heard the pleasant voice of Cyril Wedderburn; there was a sound of pistol shots, and then came the pale face and glittering cold eyes of Prince Galitzin; or it might be that he had memories of the mess-room of the corps—the billiard table at Chatham or Canterbury, and he was at pool or pyramid with Bingham or Probyn; and often it was of Willowdean and the days when he came there an orphan from his dead mother's side, and then he saw the stately house with its white peristyle and all its windows glittering in the sun, old Gervase Asloane in his ample waistcoat and black suit hovering about; his aunt, Lady Wedderburn, bowling through the ample lawn in her smart pony phaeton, or Sir John in tweed suit and leather gaiters going with his gun to the preserves, or rambling about, weeder in hand, and Horace could hear his pleasant voice and see again his bright and benign smile; but only to waken and find himself—a prisoner still in Yaila!

It was after visions such as these, that by the mere force of contrast, his captivity felt intolerable, and equally so, when, after being lost in thought—indulging in some bright daydream, perhaps—he would be roused by the hoarse Russian drums, beaten for parade or some tour of duty, and, starting, would bethink him how, or why he was here in Yaila!

Though the idea of violating his parole of honour, attempting to escape or to quit his prison without being properly exchanged, never occurred to Horace, the manner of Galitzin offensively showed that he was suspicious of something of the kind being attempted. Horace was conscious of being watched; that eyes were upon him; and that whenever he went abroad for a solitary ramble, somehow, as if by a singular coincidence, the two Cossacks, Alexis and Ivan—he never knew, nor cared to know their surnames—were always hovering near. But to have spoken of this would have been unwise, and have excited suspicion.

To a Russian of Tartar descent, subtlety and craft were familiar, even as caprice and tyranny, from the days of his wooden cradle, when he had been taught to thump or kick the image of his patron, Saint Ivan Veliki, and even to thrust it in the fire if he suffered pain from overeating himself with pastillia or other sweetmeats; if he lost his top or marbles, or got cuffed for his insolent petulance by any of his companions. He suspected that few things in this world were ever done for the motives really assigned to them, and he believed that under all that went on, something else was going on unseen. So there was a terrible distrust of everyone and everything pervading his whole existence.

He was Muscovite to the heart's core!

One morning Horace was sensible of an unusual commotion in Yaila, after Galitzin's aide-de-camp, the Lieutenant of the Princess Maria Paulovna's Hussars, who had been sent to the seashore on some special duty, returned with important tidings for the Prince.

The preceding night had been one of dreadful tempest. The rain had fallen in torrents; and, amid the wild bellowing of the wind, the thunder had been heard, as it rattled in appalling peals over the red marble cliffs of the Tchatr Dagh, and the four copper-covered domes of Yaila.

The drums were beaten, and a certain portion of the garrison got under arms after breakfast. Horace felt a thrill of hope in his heart! Was there about to be an attack—a chance of escape after all, and after those weary, weary months of spring and summer he had endured there?

Day was just breaking, and, in anticipation of some event, which, if it did not set him free, would at least vary the stupid monotony of his existence, Horace came forth, just as Prince Galitzin, after buckling on his sword, was mounting his horse.

The usual strange and malicious glitter came into his eyes, as he seemed to read the hope of Horace in his eager and excited face; and the latter's emotion seemed to strengthen when he saw the troops bring forth two eighteen-pound guns, and, with their muskets slung, tally on to the drag-ropes, as the field-pieces were without horses.

"By Jove, it did rain and blow last night, Monseigneur le Prince," said Horace, loth to ask any questions, while wishing to invite information. "I have not passed so many sleepless hours since I was in the trenches before Sebastopol, and heard the Lancaster guns pounding away on the right attack."

"And you are longing to be there, again—eh?"

"I cannot deny that I am, indeed."

"You must be patient, Monsieur le Capitaine."

Horace sighed bitterly, and then ventured to say—

"But what is the matter? Have you had an alerte, or are you going to be attacked?"

"Nay. 'Tis we who are about to attack!"

"What, or who?"

"I know not whether I should reply, but it is no matter. Well, an English ship—a yacht, apparently—is reported to be ashore on the rocks, a few miles northward from Alushta; and we are just going to knock her to pieces with those two eighteen-pounders, if the waves do not anticipate us; for Kaminski, my aide-de-camp, reports that there is a heavy sea on, and that she can't last long now."

"A wreck—an unarmed yacht. To fire on a wreck—is this fair?"

"Morbleu! Did I not once before say that all things are fair in war and love? and we are at war just now, I believe. Come on, Tegoborski, we have no time to lose!"

"I dreamed of rats last night, and I thought something would be sure to happen after that, and the wind being so high," grumbled the superstitious old Pulkovnick, as he mounted his horse, while Madame, his wife—in a very becoming deshabille, appeared at an open window, where she kissed her large white hand repeatedly to the Prince, who waved his smiling adieux in return.

The hoarse and guttural commands were given, and, at a double-quick, the Infantry—about four hundred in number—left Yaila, dragging the guns and limbers, and having with them several kabitkas, or covered Tartar carts, for plunder, or whatever came ashore.

Some hours elapsed, and Horace felt his heart swelling with indignation. He pictured, in fancy, the shattered ship, the helpless drowning seamen, and the Russian guns firing round-shot—perhaps grape and cannister—upon them from the heights; just as they did during the dreadful hurricane in the preceding November, when so many of our ships perished along the iron-bound coast of the Black Sea.

Much bitterness was now being imparted to the war on both sides; but chiefly owing to the barbarity of the Russians. Doubtless, there were a few instances of humanity that are worth remembering. Many Russian prisoners who were paroled at Lewes, expressed in print, on their return home, their gratitude for the kindness and hospitality they had experienced at English hands; and several of our officers who were prisoners of war in Russia, related the kind treatment they received while there. So, perhaps, Ivan Prince Galitzin was a somewhat exceptional personage.

About noon his cruel expedition returned, and Horace, who had secluded himself in his room, full of disgust and anger, heard the noisy applause with which the soldiers in Yaila received those who came back, though their exploit was far removed from being a noble or gallant one. The kabitkas were filled with pieces of shattered wreck, sheets of copper, sail-cloth, rigging, several cases of wine, London porter, and casks of beef, which had come ashore; and now hearing by chance that prisoners had been taken, Horace, again came forth to see them, and seek for some intelligence of the outer world, from which he was so completely debarred by the measures and extreme reserve of Galitzin. To be sure he might always have gained some news of the war from Madame Tegoborski, who was not indisposed to view him with favour, as a handsome young man; but he had a wholesome dread of exciting the jealousy of the Prince in that quarter.

"How many prisoners have you got, Monsieur le Colonel?" he asked of Tegoborski, who was proceeding leisurely, limping, for he was lame, towards his quarters, anticipating a cup of hot tea after his morning's work.

"One," was the brief reply; "at least only one of any consequence."

"And the rest?"

"Are in the sea."

"Drowned?"

"Or shot, as the case may have been."

In the yard of the fortress, Horace perceived one whom he took to be an Englishman, handcuffed; he had on only a tattered white shirt and pair of blue cloth trousers; he was tall and athletic in figure, fair complexion, bald and bare-headed, for in lieu of a cap he had a bloodstained handkerchief round his head, showing that he had been wounded: and he was seated moodily, and as if lost in thought, on the trail of one of the fatal eighteen-pounder field-pieces.

He looked up listlessly as Horace approached, and said,

"A prisoner, like myself, I see."

"Not precisely, as I have not the misfortune to be fettered; but I have been here for four months—ever since Sir Colin Campbell's night march to Tchorgoun. And you?"

"My ship went ashore in the middle watch last night, on a reef that is not laid down in any of our charts."

"Where?"

"Within a quarter of a mile of the cliffs that rise near Alushta, a Tartar village on the coast. We had undergone a rough night and were blown far out of course beyond the headland of Alupka, where Prince Woronzoff's castle stands; our rudderbands had given way, and we couldn't help ourselves. Finding that the craft wouldn't last long, I lowered the boat and got the ladies ashore, and at the hazard of my own life returned on board; but I was scarcely on the deck, when, bang, bang, bang from the cliffs came a fire of round shot from these rascally guns; so they and the sea, which was a heavy one, soon made an end of the schooner and of my men, for every poor fellow perished, those who threw themselves into the sea to escape the cannonade being killed by the lances of the Cossack beggars, as they struggled half fainting ashore."

"Most rascally—most base!" exclaimed Horace.

"Luckily I had my naval uniform below, and put it on. As I swam ashore the sight of my epaulettes saved me from being butchered like the rest; but they were torn from my shoulders, and I was handcuffed as you see. I am a lieutenant in Her Britannic Majesty's service! As a signal of distress I had the union-jack reversed at the gaff-peak; but I was glad when the spar was knocked away and it fell into the sea. It went to my heart to see the old bunting under fire and never a shot in return. I thought of Nelson, and the signal that flew along the line at Trafalgar; of old Charlie Napier's in the Baltic, 'Sharpen your cutlasses, lads!' I thought too of many an old shipmate who is lying in the Bight of Benin with a cold shot at his heels, and strong in my breast grew the genuine old English contempt of all these foreign beggars! But now that I look at you again, I think I have had the pleasure of meeting you before. Are you not Captain Ramornie of the Royal Fusileers—the nephew of Sir John Wedderburn of Willowdean?"

"The same; and you?"

"Lieutenant Robert Newnham, R.N."

"And your ship?" asked Horace, faintly.

"Was the Master of Ernescleugh's yacht. I have seen you aboard of her at Cowes more than once."

"And the ladies you spoke of?"

"Were Lady Wedderburn and Lady Ernescleugh; they would come out here after their sons in the Crimea. Lord Cardigan's yacht had come, and the Countess of Errol had accompanied her husband who is in the Rifle Brigade, so the two mammas were determined to come too, and bring no end of comforts and condiments for their 'dear boys' in the trenches; but by jingo! they'll rather repent of the expedition now, though they were sent with their maids under escort in a kabitka towards Balaclava; for the worst of the story is yet to come."

"What could well be worse than that which you have told me?" exclaimed Horace.

"Another prisoner was brought on with me here, and my heart bleeds for the poor young lady in the hands of those d—d Russians. She is too young for sorrow, and was so kind and affable to all the poor fellows before the mast, they idolized her!"

"Of whom are you talking?" asked Horace, whose heart began to tremble with apprehension and conjecture.

"Who should I mean but Miss Gwendoleyne Wedderburn?"

"She here?"

"Aye, here in this fortress of Yaila—a prisoner like ourselves—but not half so safe in some respects."

"My God!" exclaimed Horace, and he shivered from head to foot; "how came it to pass, Newnham, that she was not also sent to Balaclava?"

"In this fashion, for I was standing by, and to my sorrow and disgust heard every word.

"'I am rich, Monseigneur le Prince,' said Lady Wedderburn, in the greatest agitation, to the Russian commander, whom I understood to be a Prince Galitzin—but that's a name like Smith in England, they are thick as Mother Gary's chickens in Russia; 'and so is my friend; we can afford to pay a ransom, if it will be taken.'

"'And your niece, or daughter, which is the young lady?' he asked.

"'My niece—Mademoiselle Gwendoleyne Wedderburn.'

"'Wedderburn, Wedderburn,' repeated the Russian, 'she is wealthy too; an Indian heiress, I understood.'

"'Yes, Monseigneur; but how knew you that?'

"'A Monsieur Chesters told me all about it at Balaclava; and of her being the intended of your son; who was wounded or killed at the Alma, I believe.'

"'Only wounded, thank Heaven! but do you know Monsieur le Capitaine Chesters?'

"'I did know him; but, Madame, he is dead and buried now,' replied the other, with a grin.

"'And now about a ransom?' said Lady Wedderburn, full of anxiety.

"'Well, Madame, no ransom can be taken for the young Hospoza; we are Russian troops, not Circassians, Bedouin robbers, or brigands.'

"'But her liberty?' urged Lady Wedderburn, to whom Miss Gwenny clung in terror and despair.

"'Her liberty shall be well cared for. I shall keep her for myself; heiresses are scarce in the Crimea,' was the bantering reply.

"'Surely you will permit me to accompany her?' urged poor Lady Wedderburn, piteously.

"'What the deuce should we do with old women in Yaila? It would only be people to feed unprofitably, and in this nothing-for-nothing world, my dear Madame——'

"'Oh, dearest aunt, are we to be separated?' exclaimed Miss Gwenny, in dreadful agitation.

"'Instantly, by St. Ivan Veliki!'

"The wretches tore them asunder, though the aunt and niece clung to each other with the death-like clutch of the drowning, and their cries wrung my heart. The two elder ladies were sent in a Tartar waggon towards Balaclava, in charge of the aide-de-camp Kaminski and four Cossacks, one of whom carried a white handkerchief as a flag of truce on the point of his lance, while we were brought on here. But Heaven help the poor girl, Captain Ramornie. Galitzin sees that she is young and beautiful, and he knows that she is wealthy, for I heard him remark, laughingly, to Kaminski, his aide, 'This war can't last for ever; another winter will see those allies frozen or fought out; then I shall go to England with my wife, turn her rupees into roubles, and spend them in Holy Russia.' Holy Russia be d—d, say I!"

Horace listened to all this with the air of one quite stunned by a calamity; and he was again about to address Newnham, when the voice of Galitzin was heard.

"No talking—no communications between you two. Separate them," he added to the parvoschick of the main guard; "and as the sailor has declined to give his parole, keep him a close prisoner."

So poor Newnham was led away.

"I was only hearing some details of the—well, I suppose we must call it the shipwreck," said Horace, making a prodigious effort to appear calm and to conceal the agony of his spirit; for the idea of Gwenny being a prisoner in Yaila seemed too fantastic, too unexpected, and too horrible for conviction.

"Ah! we let him put the women ashore; for whatever you may think, we are not quite devoid of gallantry, we Russians; and then we knocked the schooner to pieces," said Galitzin, laughing; "but the chief prize we brought on here."

"I do not understand you," faltered Horace.

"Then understand this. I have caught the rich cousin—the brunette—the little Anglo-Indian millionaire, whose intended I pistolled at the Alma——"

"Cyril Wedderburn?"

"Well, yes, if that was his name; I suppose we may speak of him in the past tense now."

"From whom had you all this private information?"

"From Monsieur Chesters, le scelerat!"

"When?"

"When I met him in the camp of the Turkish Contingent."

"Explain, Mouseigneur le Prince?"

"A few days before your silly night march to Tchorgoun, and when I was figuring, as the play-bills say, 'positively for the last time,' as a Captain of Zouaves," replied the unabashed Russian.

"Will not the offer of a bribe set her free?"

"Not twenty bribes!"

"Why, Monseigneur le Prince?"

"You shall hear in good time."

"And where is she now?" asked Horace, with an affectation of carelessness that certainly cost him an effort.

"In the apartments and under the matronage of Madame Tegoborski. She was dreadfully offended when I attempted to give her a little salute à la Russe. St. Ivan Veliki—bah! a time shall come when she will think little of my wiry moustache—though it is like a hog's-bristle—being rasped on her damask cheek!"

"By Jove! this is a pleasant situation," thought Horace, as he wiped his brow, and longed to plant his foot upon the neck of Major-General Prince Galitzin, who added with pleasing condescension—

"I shall introduce you to her at old Tegoborski's to-night; but perhaps you don't care about it."

"Thanks, Monseigneur le Prince, I shall come with pleasure," said Horace; and he retired to his room with a heart that was full, nigh to bursting, with sorrow, terror of the present, and apprehension of the future.

That night Newnham was dispatched on foot, escorted by two Cossack Lancers, towards Yekaterinoslav, and a deadly fear came over Horace that unless he dissembled, and he and Gwenny played "their cards" remarkably well, some such distant transmission might await himself, if Galitzin discovered the deep and tender interest they had in each other.

And how to conceal it? for the first meeting might, most perilously, reveal all!

"Gwenny here—my Gwenny here in Yaila?" he repeated to himself again and again.

He felt himself trembling from head to foot; a pallor came over him repeatedly, as the blood rushed back upon his heart. Though loving her with all the devotion of which his life and heart were capable, he had no desire, even while longing passionately to see her, to have her with him there, and his voice shook while, clasping his hands, he said fervently—

"God protect her—my darling Gwenny. Oh! I fear she will need all His protection here in Yaila!"