The Narrative of an Expelled Correspondent. (Reprinted in part from the 'Standard' newspaper.)

Front matter

THE NARRATIVE OF AN EXPEhhED CORRESPONDENT. BY FREDERICK BOYLE, AUTHOR OF 'THROUGH FANTEELAND TO COOMASSIE,' 'TO T"E CAPE FOR DIAMONDS,' ' A RIDE ACROSS A CONTINENT,' ' ADVENTURES IN BORNEO,' ETC. ETC. LONDON: EICHAKD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BUELINGTON STEEET, in ©rtrinatg to $et JKajesti) tfjt ©ueen. 1877. LONDON : PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS. CONTENTS. Chap. pAGE The Story of my Expulsion v I. — The Cossacks at Bucharest 1 II. — Bound Ploesti 30 III.— Along the Danube 65 IV. — On the Turkish Side 102 V. — A Hazardous March 122 VI. — At Headquarters 181 VII. — Before Plevna 238 VIII. — In the Schipka Pass 288 IX.— Plevna Fight 299 X. — The Lines of the Czarewitch 330 XL— The Russian Officer 356 " Nihilism " and " Panslavism " in the Eussian Army ' . 369 The Collapse of the Cossack 382 XII. — The Soldiery of the Allied Armies — The Eussian Soldier 400 The Roumanian Soldier .......

Reprinted in part from the " Standard " newspaper by permission. This is no record of the war in progress, nor even a diary. It professes to be nothing more than a series of sketches drawn during the campaign, linked only by such telegraphic threads as are needed to make the story comprehensible. Had not the Grand Duke Nicholas-Nicholaevitch taken offence at some of my letters, they would never have been reprinted, for I had not the least idea of publishing a volume whilst I followed the Russian march. But the Grand Duke has thought it worth while to place on record his account of my ejection from head quarters, with a detailed report of my words, and a brief abstract of my feelings and behaviour. Such attentions invite return. Whilst I remained in camp, it would have been neither safe nor gentlemanly to sketch his Highness in his habit as he lives ; nor, VI without provocation, should I have dreamed of doing so in all my existence to come, seeing that the subject does not interest nor amuse me at all.

These digni taries are sad stuff for " copy," unless one contemn the advice of Scripture and tell truth of them. Colour and life and fun may sit in the rags of a beggar, but " prancing princes " look best in outline. I am honestly vexed that reprisals should be forced upon me. The charge against me is, that I revealed " movements and positions of troops," and in so doing broke my word of honour, and betrayed the " hospitality " extended to me by his Highness. Of the latter accusation first. I recollect that one Grand Duke did me the honour to drink from my flask on a certain afternoon which was warm in all senses. I recollect serving a rude breakfast or lunch or dinner not once nor twice to officers of the headquarter staff, and most heartily welcome were those pleasant seigneurs. But I do not recollect, I hough I have tried with all my conscience, that any Grand Duke showed me hospitality more Substantial than is contained in a glass of tea — and that once only.

Chapter I. The Cossacks At Bucharest

May 12. All Bucharest was stirred to-day by a rumour that those legendary horsemen, the Cossacks of the Don, would be visible in their habit as they live at the Chaussee, not later than 10 a.m. All Bucharest hurried to the nearest cab-stand at the news, and vehemently requisitioned a Scopski and his vehicle. Everybody has heard of the Scopski sect in Russia, whose most important tenet is the literal translation of a text in St. Paul's Epistles. They suffer the bitterest persecution in their native land, and for years past a steady emigration has been tending towards this country. At home they are bankers, usurers, and merchants ; here they especially direct i: themselves to cab-driving. Without vices, as appa rently without virtues, they give their whole mind to the business, and they live together in streets of their own.

As a natural consequence of a good system, they have the best cabs and the best horses of the town, which they drive with extraordinary skill. The Scopski, in his neat fur cap, his long coat of cloth or velvet trimly brushed, and his sash of brilliant colour, is not only the most picturesque but the cleverest of coachmen. His horses, always good, understand the shrill voice which seems to us unnatural, and step more gaily at a word than at the lash of a Roumanian whip. Very intelligent also is the Scopski, quiet, attentive, and wonderfully quick to understand a foreigner. So far as I can learn, he is not regarded with con tempt by the population here, and the Russians, even officers, speak to him with perfect good-nature. The Chausse'e was crowded with pretty women, chattering gaily from carriage to carriage across the avenue, whilst gentlemen filled the side-paths, making innumerable cigarettes, and gossiping in the shade.

A charming sight it was as I drove up, the brilliant summer toilettes flowing down to the very carriage-wheels, white necks outstretched in pretty impatience to behold the coming sight, chequers of hot sunshine falling upon eager faces through the pale limes above, and the shrubberies on either side all pink with blossom. Our brief spring is ended almost before it had begun. A fortnight since ladies still shivered in fur, whilst to-day they are wearing low dresses of muslin, and languidly be moaning the heat. No spectacle less interesting than a real sotnia of Cossacks could have tempted the indolent beauties of Roumania out of doors betwixt sunrise and sunset in such weather. We have a heat more than tropical to expect henceforward, which will last probably till the middle of October — a parched, breathless downpouring of sunshine, under which green dries into yellow and disappears, dust lies six inches thick for yards along the road-side, and the muddiest water has its value.

This dreary forecast of summer divides conversation with the Cossacks. At least a dozen times one hears the sigh of resigna tion, " Voila done les chaleurs qui recommencent ! " followed by a vivacious change of subject, "II parait que les Cosaques sont tres-gentils garcons, hein ? " In process of time, at the end of the long avenue b lined with carriages, sharp eyes behold a denser column of dust arising. It thickens and draws nearer smartly. A cry of delight and impatience passes all along — ladies eagerly stand up, favoured gentlemen climb upon the coachbox and the wheels. The column of dust approaches, and presently the Cossack lances pierce it, glittering in the sun, dark and colourless masses loom through it, and we become aware of a strange but stirring music. The famous horsemen are almost among us before ■ we see them, so neutral are their colours, and so thick the dust already.

Not a sound is heard even while they pass, except that martial war-song of the bards who head each sotnia, and the shrill accom paniment of whistles modulated to weird harmony. No rattle of accoutrements betrays the Cossack ; his very horse seems trained to move with silent activity. With that pæan in one's ears, and the whistles screaming through it, one beholds without astonishment these warriors glide past, stealthy and swift. One recognises the surviving race of an earlier time. To the same war-song, perhaps, marched the ancestors of these people when they overran Russia. The Bucharest ladies were not a little impressed and not a little frightened. They looked at each other blankly, with little shrugs of the shoulder to express amaze and distaste. One of them afterwards confessed to me that her Muscovite sympathies vanished at sight of the first Cossack, so ugly and so dirty was he.

I could not agree with her. Soldiers, and officers too, are dirty on campaign, and Antinous himself could not be prepossessing if black with dust and bedabbled with perspiration. But the Cossacks are by no means so ugly as is traditionally believed. The greater number have fair hair, and the moustache of nearly all is bleached white by the sun. Many have good features, of an English rather than German type ; and though I observed the Tartar cheekbone to be more common than in other regiments I have seen, it was very far from being a rule. As soldiers, the men appear most promising, tall, well set up, full of life and spirit. They looked about them as they went with free but not insolent curiosity. Discipline was evidently lax, so far as order and regularity are concerned, but I should think the men were perfectly under command.

The uniform is very ugly. Upon the matted hair, worn long, cut squarely off and trained with hideous ingenuity to stand nearly straight from the back of the head, is set sideways a kind of unornamented shako, covered with torn oilskin, and provided with a peak. Nothing so ugly as this has been devised by the military tailor in our epoch. The tunic and breeches were blue once, I suppose, but now their colour is rust. Very clumsy boots the Cossacks wear. They have each a long lance, with triangular blade, a heavy tulwar, and a carbine ; a certain number also have revolvers. They carry tentes d'abri, fodder, rations, water-bucket, and their very simple kit. Some were loaded up like market women, and all had a half-dozen sacks at least hanging round their saddle. Their ponies I would not hastily criticise ; they do not outwardly show those qualities with which everybody credits them, and until able to speak by experience I shall not offer an opinion.

They are ridden without a curb. Like all Orientals, the Cossack sits upon his horse's shoulders with knees very high. The attitude looks clumsy and uncomfortable to us, but we know that it commends itself to some of the best horsemen in the world. After the Don Cossacks had passed, each sotnia led by its scalds and whistlers, before the sacred banner, the Hussars arrived. I must not forget, however, to observe a fact much commented upon here. The Cossacks march under flags of their own, dedicated to certain saints ; but in moments when the faith is said to be menaced they solemnly bring out a holy banner, and declare war for religion — a jehad, in fact. This has been done now, and all the sotnias march under the Greek cross, worked upon a ground of different colours. Nothing remains, there fore, but to bring forth the standard of the Prophet, and let each savage fight for his own fetish.

Riding before her own regiment of Hussars came the Countess Kotzebue, in full uniform down to the waist, but riding in feminine fashion, wearing a skirt. "Her" lieutenant-colonel respectfully attended on her right hand, and a maid in boots and breeches trotted behind. — N.B. I did not myself recognise the maid, but at least a score of credible witnesses agree in swearing to her presence. What I saw I took to be a handsome boy. — -The Countess is idolised by " her officers," as well she may be. I have beheld few more pleasant scenes than the modest banquet at which she entertained them in Brofft's restaurant that night. Grande dame in every look and move ment, gentle and winning as an unconscious beauty, THE NARRATLVE OF 8 she appears to stir a chivalric devotion in the youths about her. Remarking the perfect ease and ladylike frankness of her manner " in the chair," the pleasant freedom of intercourse, and the hearty, honest mirth at that table, one could not but think that a lady colonel would be an acquisition in some other regi ments, English and foreign.

Brofft, though a hard man, was enchanted, and when the Countess declared to him next day that " her officers " could not afford his prices, he came to terms as sweetly as the youngest subaltern among them. We correspondents in his house had no such pleader, alas ! The Countess's Hussars are a fine regiment, with brown tunics, yellow braided, and scarlet breeches. The first line carries a lance, as in all cavalry regiments of Russia. The horses are large, very badly shaped, and not, I should think, fitted for real work. Then followed the Cossack artillery, which showed certain defects often pointed out by foreign critics, but seemed active and well-horsed. A very long train of impedimenta succeeded, and a little host of Cossack stragglers. These, from time to time, shook their bridles, and raced up to the main body.

Wonderful indeed were some of the vehicles we saw, such objects as primeval man may have used ; but none the less serviceable. A box three feet square, set upon wheels, is not ill-adapted for carrying an officer's baggage in war _time, but it looks monstrous funny when upon the heap of goods a gigantic soldier perches, to drive a little old horse in rusty harness. Bucharest did not go home until the last invalid Cossack had rolled by in the ambulances. Then, whilst they toiled round the town, choking with dust, on their way to Giurgevo, we drove to break fast rather thoughtful. The time is probably not far distant when the glory of Bucharest, scarce recorded — the scandal hardly known wherein it delights — the thriftless, kindly, deplorable manners which amaze and rejoice and shock the stranger — each in turn will feebly vanish away.

The moving world which threatens to confine " Our Special Correspondent " in cruel fetters of telegraphy is bound to sweep out these antique corners. Before it be too late, therefore, I will dedicate a column to the ethics of Bucharest. I am not going to tell the history of this strange population. Every child knows its claim to be the purest Latin race surviving. How far the boast be true, ethnologists, physiognomists, and historians may dispute, but any educated man who passes along the street will recognise a certain justification. At every turn, in luxurious carriage, in rags and tatters, in the broadcloth of decent tradesman or the coarse uniform of the soldier, one sees a face that might have been encountered in old Rome. Such low, broad foreheads, full of intelligence ; such superb dark eyes, rounded and shadowed ; such sweeping lines of perfect feature, and sensual, pouting lips, are to be beheld nowhere else.

I am not ashamed to confess a perfect ignorance of the locality whence Trajan drew his colonists. It may have been from Rome itself, or from all parts of Italy ; but this is certain, that the antique Roman type, such as we are accustomed to conceive it, is nowhere preserved as it is here. One need scarcely say, therefore, that the Rou manian people have a classic beauty quite surprising. Very wide travel in many lands of either hemisphere gives me confidence to say that for regularity of feature and charm of expression they are not un surpassed only but unrivalled. And the intelligence, the courtesy, and the kindliness of the population are not less striking. I have put first the favourable points of Roumanian people, because, on the one hand, I and all who have dealings with them socially, not com mercially, would feel so much to be a duty, and because, upon the other hand, I am pleased thus to verify the traditional opinion of our ancestors.

I think it was Sir Charles Bell who first denounced the conventional idea of Roman beauty. Taking the busts of the Vatican and other collections for example, he argued that the ancient Romans were a ponderous people, with short features rolled in flesh, like bull dogs. Finding such faces common amongst the Trasteverini, he concluded that they kept the antique type, and very many have followed his teaching. Roumania is far off, and scarcely visited as yet by artists. It was certainly colonised by Romans, and though barbarians overran it, they never had an opportunity to mix the blood as again and again in Italy. We see there exactly the class of face traditionally attributed to the Roman people, which resembles that argumentatively designed by Sir Charles Bell even less than does the English.

No barbarians who invaded this country could have left such an impress, and I am pleased alike to justify the " wisdom of our ancestors " and the purity of the Roumanian race. But if one leave aside the perfection of classic form and a few plastered ruins, a few broken columns, there is nothing to remind us of old Rome in Bucharest. Trajan may have been more particular about the physique than the moral of his colonists, or the fine spirit of the population may have felt reverses more bitterly than would a meaner clay. I am willing to accept any excuse, because so very much is needed. In appearance these people present a " survival " of the purest classic race, but the virtues of Cato have disappeared or were never existent. One feels a kind of pitiful interest in observing the soft and effeminate manners of the Lower Empire preserved to this nineteenth century.

No class of the population is rich ; from the magnificent boyard to the peasant on his vast estates everybody is drowned in debt. But the capital attempts to vie with Paris itself in luxury, and in some respects it succeeds. The narrow streets, ill built, ill-paved, have shops where every thought of wanton idleness can be satisfied. Private houses — some immensely large, and all pretty of design — are beheld at every turn, in every direction. Yet there are abundant squares of waste, fenced by broken palings, where pariah dogs sleep and roam. The charming little palaces, when not quite new, display most cruel secrets of construction where the tasteful stucco ornaments have tumbled down. One is con tinually reminded that Asia begins at the Austrian frontier. The Roumanian is quite happy when his love affairs go smooth, and the usurer has advanced him twenty-five per cent, upon his whole revenue for next year.

What should he care for a few yards of broken stucco ? Rather build a new palace at once. What matters the torn shirt beneath so he get credit for a thousand-guinea pelisse ? What matters any ne cessary in the world if costly superfluities be obtain able at any price, and Chloe do not frown ? These people are children, gentle, kindly, and sweet tempered as could be, but ignorant of real life, and unconscious of moral duties, as the best children must be. Their tradesmen are French or Germans, their men of business Jews, their engineers certain luck less English, and their artisans gipsies. What a strange society must that be wherein the sons of Romany turn to handiwork ! The Roumanian noble possesses the soil, and his wretched peasants cultivate it after a fashion. There is no wealth in the country except corn, and cereals year by year become less trustworthy to rely on.

Such a system of agricul ture is pursued that even these, the richest lands of Europe, show signs of exhaustion. Whilst Rou manian wheat falls yearly in the market, owing to its deficient weight, the actual ground under cultivation declines. Nothing can save the country but foreign science and foreign cash. That is known and confessed upon every hand ; yet the French or English capitalist who has been induced to lend his money can recover neither principal nor interest. Salaries and pensions lie unpaid. The national till is as a rule positively empty. If not now, the end must come in a very short time. Whatever the issue of this war, Roumania must awake from its Anacreontic dream. The Czar was well advised to forbid his troops a sojourn in this Capua. Their fighting qualities would not be improved by contact with a population which regards love and luxury as the sole aim of human existence.

The fair have an irresistible leaning towards the brave, and pitying dark eyes bent upon the wearied soldier, soft lips cooing dulcet Latin over his hard fate, would do more mischief to discipline than long marches or rou°-h fare. It is the cruellest stroke of destiny that such a people should be set in this corner of Europe, between the Russian hammer and the Turkish anvil. They ask nothing of the gods — for surely their creed is Olympian — but to be left in peace to their eternal love-making, until the deluge comes and the Jews have eaten them up. It is but a very small proportion who hanker for Roumanian unity or a royal crown. They dislike, perhaps, the hard and masterful Russian even more than the Turk, but what can they do ? Fate has decided — let us shrug our shoulders and make the best of it.

Life goes on just the same at Bucharest. The handsome carriages in mad haste to get nowhere fill the streets as usual. Julia or Faustina, dressed in exquisite robes from Paris, reclines therein, and eyes the pavement with classic languor. The in numerable restaurants are crammed with idlers. And gentle love is still the lord of all in Bucharest. The amusements of the place in ordinary years are many and various. If the subscription of one town, however wealthy, cannot tempt the greatest actors or singers of Europe, upon the other hand it suffices to collect both French and Italian com panies of more than average merit. In the winter season there should be a crowded opera, a French dramatic entertainment and a French opera comique, a Roumanian theatre, and several cafe concerts " starred " from Paris, Italy, and sometimes Austria.

The National Theatre is a pretty building, tastefully decorated, and well designed. The subscription to it never fails, let cash be as " tight " as it may ; even now it is not money that lacks for opening it, but singers who have broken their engagement under fear of the war. The Roumanian theatre of operettas, the Fostulu Circu, is not so worthy of the town ; France, here, is given the advantage in all things, and national spirit, national language, go to the wall. The Fostulu Circu is open every night, and I have endeavoured conscientiously to sit out a performance of that highly successful piece the ' Cimpoin draculiu,' or ' Bagpipes of the Devil.' It impressed me so painfully that I did not care to ask the plot, nor would willingly recall past suffer ing by inquiries now. The theatre is very like a barn, much dilapidated ; it contains probably a couple of hundred stalls, and a pit of five hundred.

On either hand is a broad platform, where spectators may sup and drink. The stage arrangements have that simplicity which re calls the Augustan age of the drama, if one would put into complimentary phrase the fact that all is as bare as one's hand. The opera opened with a scene of blind-man's-buff, in which four pretty young ladies and one old and ugly slapped with all their force a being of the other sex, who talked and talked, and made no effort to catch them. This went on for about twenty minutes, the gentleman still blindfolded and still talking, the ladies punching him at intervals, and the audience listening gravely. After various entries and exits, which caused no interruption to the flood of words, entered a countryman with bagpipes under his arm Such a magnificent specimen humanity seldom beheld as this actor.

Six feet six probably in height, with a face like a statue of the best period, he seemed a very embodiment of the epic heroes famous in Roumania. But he did nothing but talk, giving the other gentleman a rest of fifteen minutes, whereof he took advantage. The women did not enter into competition, but stood in graceful attitudes, and shot out a single syllable now and then. It acted like a cut of the whip, exciting those others to deadlier loquacity. No one sat down — il n'y avait pas de quoi — no one sang ; no one did any thing but talk and listen. Presently, when both c heroes had shown signals of brain-weakness, appeared the devil, without any stir or ceremony, in form of a well-dressed gentleman, who took up the tale. He addressed the public at greater length, perhaps, than either of the mere mortals, and not until he had ex hausted the dictionary, told the history of the world, and explained the mystery of his own connection therewith — not till then did we hear the first note of music, upon which the curtain fell, this act having lasted an hour.

Not a sound had the audience made, and I thought them as much bored as myself, or more, since they probably understood what those terrible talkers were discoursing. Suddenly arose a storm of acclamation, bringing forward all the com pany. The dramatic art in Roumania has evidently its own rules. Feeling no inclination to master them, I fled, but the interminable monologue pursued me to my dreams. Were this delightful town always such as it is to day, warm in the sun, cool indoors, its narrow streets filled with carriages, and its pavement with idlers gaily dressed, there would certainly be a " rush " upon it from England. The people may be dis tressed and anxious, their places of amusement may be shut up, and nine-tenths of their jeunesse doree may be gone into camp, but still there is astonishing life and gaiety here.

In several pretty palaces " Madame receives," and the Chausse'e is full from noon till dark. This is our Hyde Park, as I have said, but wilder, if not prettier. At this time of year the foliage of its lime avenues is exquisitely tender, and the hedges, of a small leaved shrub, are pink with flower. The size of the Chaussee I have not yet explored, but there are winding paths in every direction, resonant, I believe, with nightingales in the hours of darkness, softly filled by day with the eternal protestations of Romeo and the tender sighs of Juliet. Romeo wears lemon-coloured kids, and Juliet is dressed by Worth ; but spring and gentle love make her long like a very milk-maid for a pro menade dans les champs. With perfect innocence the pair seek the Chausse'e, and think themselves rustic. The young lady, of course, drives with mamma in a splendid berlane, with a Muscovite coachman who knows no pace but a gallop.

The gentleman follows languidly, basking in the sunshine of life and love. So the pair wander apart and coo, whilst their elder relatives sustain a conversation which is not wholly filled with reminiscence. Not very far do the lovers saunter, for both wear beautiful shoes too c small, and neither has walked a mile since birth. The Chausse'e is a terrible place for bachelors. When the carriages draw together before the cafe, and dark eyes beam upon the cavalier, and the softest accent in the world entreats him to fetch an ice, he feels his loneli ness with despair ; but when he flies that scene, and in each sheltered path hears the warbling of affianced lovers, his self-contempt becomes unendurable. And so it arises that there are neither bachelors nor old maids at Bucharest. But then it is not always spring in this pleasant city.

But lately we had six feet of snow and a deluge ; in ten days we shall have a heat super-tropical, a dust that whitens every flower and leaf, makes Juliet cough, and spoils alike the coat and the temper of Romeo. Then we sit indoors panting and do our Chaussee at midnight. May 9, Midnight. At this moment a caucus of the two Roumanian Chambers is sitting to decide peace or war. Most people think the conclusion foregone, and the success of ministers certain. They are determined upon war, though all the country is opposed to it. It is worth while, however, to recapitulate the arguments which have been urged upon me to-night, with great force, by some officers high in the Roumanian service, who are neither instruments of the ministry nor enthusiasts for Russia. They recognise much more thoroughly than I could explain that the interest of their native land, as well as the inclination of her sons, should forbid active assistance to the Czar.

They do not for an instant believe that any sacrifices Roumania might make would be adequately compensated. They expect no increase of territory, whether in Bessarabia or the Do brudscha; — and yet they believe that war is a wretched necessity. The conviction of these gen tlemen is not to be shaken, and whilst waiting the result I may occupy myself with a repetition of arguments which apply not only to this time but, so far as we can see, to time to come. The army of Roumania numbers some forty thousand men, besides whom the militia counts fifty thousand. They occupy a country on the flank of Russia's advance, on her rear when she has crossed the Danube — a country flat, but backed by mountains well peopled, and, above all, by the army of Austria. The Russians have obtained permission to march through this land to make a hazardous attack beyond it.

Roumanians are convinced, with or without reason, that if the Powers had seriously prohibited a movement into their territory Russia would have given way. But the Powers declined to take such a step, and Roumania, helpless, made the best terms she could. The Russians with great cleverness have caused it to be generally believed that they do not want the help of these forty thousand ; that they would rather see Roumania neutral and quiet. The mere suggestion of such a policy causes a laugh of scorn here. How, say military men, could the Czar think of engaging in a war with Turkey on the other side of the Danube when the Roumanian army hung upon both flanks and rear ? It is obviously absurd to suppose that his generals would advance under such circumstances. The professed indifference of Russia is but one more move in her great game.