The Liberation of Bulgaria. War notes in 1877 ... With illustrations and maps

Preface

. comic, serio-comic — for the great Drama of War has varied scenes — stand out from the dim background in the full glare of memory. Their terror, their sadness, their laughter, remain. Young Bulgaria is so constantly en evidence before Europe that I hope these notes, made at the time when her then great ally was struggling that she should be free, may not be wholly uninteresting. W. H. CONTENTS

Chapter I

Ibow 3 oot m^ pass to tbe ffront f T is April of 1877. War has been declared ■*• by Russia ; the Muscovite battalions, massed for months along the Pruth, are in motion ; the White Czar has bid his children advance in God's name ; he himself has arrived at Kisheneff with all the pomp, pride, and circumstance of the Imperial Headquarters Staff. Once more the dome of St. Sophia, by the sunny Bosphorus, is the o-oal of the Colossus of the North — once more the Turk has to make good his footing in Europe. Time was when Europe trembled to see the victorious horse-tails of the Pashas close under the walls of Vienna. John Sobieski stood in the gap, and Europe breathed again. Now, the Ottoman battalions are being hurried to the Danube, not to threaten, but to defend. The prologue of the great drama, " The Bulgarian Atrocities," has been played, and the act-drop is down for a while, the audience gnashing their teeth with rage, or grinning with sarcastic sneer, or silent and pale with suppressed excitement.

They are deeply moved. All their passions are let loose ; race-hatred, religioushatred, lust for conquest, fear of spoliation, envy, pride, revenge, anger — the whole procession of the Deadly Sins has passed over the stage in the sight of all the world. The interlude on the orchestra is the deep roll of gathering thunder, the increasing roar of the whirlwind, the quaking of earth beneath the drums and tramplings of approaching battalions — -a grand and terrible crescendo, culminating at length in the trumpet blast which stirs the heart of Holy Russia : "Advance, my children, in God's name!" And now the curtain of the Theatre of the Nations rises for the play. This little ensuing scene in the first act, in which I am an actor, is a comic scene. Plenty of terrific tragedy follows, of which I shall be a spectator in the front row of the stalls, so to speak, but just now — ■ " For me and for my comedy, Here stooping to your clemency, I beg your hearing patiently."

I am the special correspondent of a great newspaper, and have arrived post-haste in Con stantinople, accredited to, but discredited by, the Sublime Porte. The newspaper I represent does not love the Sublime Porte ; that is a fact with which, as I am soon made aware, the Sublime Porte is painfully familiar. But here I am, amidst the din and the bustle of the preparations for war ; the transports, crammed with troops for Varna, are leaving every day, and I must push on at once. I call at the Embassy. The Embassy, as usual, is rather shy of newspaper correspondents, but it is, as usual, extremely polite. I must "go to the Porte and get my pass, then there will be no further difficulty." Not to have the pass means, not the bastinado and the bowstring, but arrest and expulsion from the territories of the Commander of the Faithful.

Rumour says that O'Donovan (poor O'Donovan, of Merv, whose bones lie in the Soudan desert with Hicks's heroes!) has been hustled and worried, and finally arrested and expelled, be cause he was not amenable to discipline, because he represented a hostile paper, because he was not provided with the necessary permission to go about the country in war time. To be shown out of the country before a shot had been fired ? Never! Off I go, across the bridge, to Stamboul and the Porte, and my card is taken to K ■ Effendi. " Be pleased to walk this way ; be seated." Coffee, cigarettes. " You have just arrived ? " " Just arrived, Effendi, and I want to get up to the front as soon as possible." "Ah! yes; you want your pass — the permission to accompany the Headquarters ? " " Yes, Effendi." "One moment."

And the Effendi goes to a side table covered with newspapers, gets out one of them, looks at it, and then comes across to me. " This is your paper ? " " It is, Effendi." You know this article in it ? " I have not yet seen this number. "Will you read this article?" I read it. It is a leading article advocating, in the most emphatic language, the summary dismemberment of the Turkish Empire, and the assignment of its disjecta membra, when hanged, drawn, and quartered, to the executioners of Europe, who have the best claim to them. The Effendi takes the paper from me and smacks it with the back of his hand. " So, Monsieur, you expect me to give you a pass to the front, you who represent this ! " (smack). I rise to explain : I have nothing to do with the leading articles or the politics of the paper which I represent.

I am simply a correspondent sent out here to follow the fortunes of the Turkish army and to report on them. It is useless. I cannot go to Varna, but " every facility will be given to me in Constantinople to hear what is going on." This rouses me. "Effendi, my orders are to proceed at once with the troops to Varna, and I must go." " But you will not be allowed to stay there without your pass, Monsieur." "Nevertheless, I must go." " Comme vous voulez, Monsieur. And so we part. I go on board the Austrian- Lloyd steamer, which is to sail on the morrow for Varna. In company with us is a great troop ship full of Turkish infantry. As they pass the Dolma Bagtche Palace on the Bosphorus, the troops swarm on deck and shout their salutation to the Sultan, the Turkish "Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant !

Arrived at Varna, which is the base of opera tions just now, I join the band of correspondents already there assembled. Alas, poor passless wretch ! my brother journalists simply bristle with " bouyourouldous " ! I am the only one who has nothing, no official document bigger than a postage-stamp to show. I am an object for hilarity, for insincere commiseration. "One rival the less for us," think they ; for is it not certain that the Political Commission (attached to the Headquarters for the special censorship of correspondents) will send me back under arrest (if I would not go peaceably) by the next steamer ? But see, now, how small a world it is, and how the events of our past project themselves into our future. Among the French journalists at Varna is one whose name is very familiar to me.

He represents an important Parisian journal. We talk at dinner — we compare notes. "Why that was my father," says he, "who taught you French, my dear old father ! " We became friends forthwith, and I move to the house where my new-found friend lodges. I tell him of my trouble over that accursed pass. " I must have one, you know, my dear B., for the Political Commission have invited all the correspondents to register themselves and their passes within a fortnight." "It is an invitation," says B., "which cannot be declined, and most assuredly, mon cher, you B must accept it; but (and here he laughs) you don't know Turkey. I do; and I think I can manage your pass, your bouyourouldou — gods ! what a word it is — for you." " But how, my dear B. ? how ? I am down, with the blackest of marks against me, on the books of the Sublime Porte, and I did not stay a moment longer than I could help in Constanti nople after my interview with K Effendi, confound him !

What could I do but come on at once and take all risks ? " "Yes, yes, quite so. But have you twenty pounds ? " " Twenty pounds, my dear fellow, why of course I have." " Well, hand them over to me, and let your man go back in the steamer to Constantinople with a letter from me. Your case is a bad one, but I know a man " then with a laucrh then with a laugh, " I am not sure of success ; but lay low, and don't rub the Political Commission the wrong way." The letter is written, a draft is enclosed, and my servant is summoned. He is an ex-private of Prussian Uhlans who has been through the campaign of 1866. He has a colossal frame, an impervious countenance, and a lacklustre eye. I engaged him in Constantinople. "What can you do, Fritz?" said I, when we were making our contract as master and servant.

" I have been a soldier, sir ; I do all I 'm told." " You are engaged, Fritz " — and never once in all the trying months that followed did I have cause to regret our quick-concluded compact. " Fritz, you will go to Constantinople by the steamer this afternoon, deliver this letter, and bring back the answer. It is a private letter, and the answer will be private." " Yessir." Anxious days of waiting and hoping! The Political Commission, having evidently received instructions about me from the Porte, are kind enough to treat me with all the courtesy and consideration due to a man whose days are numbered, while my colleagues of the press stand me endless drinks. " For," say they, " ere long we shall see thy face no more." The steamer returns ; with her Fritz, the faithful ; and with him an envelope a yard square which he has had some difficulty in keeping "private."

We go off, my friend and I, and open the portentous document. " Hey !" says B., "what is it? I don't know this kind of bouyourouldou. It isn't like mine or any one else's, and look what a seal ! It 's all right I expect, but there's no letter with it (feeling all round the corners of the envelope) — nothing ! Don't say a word ! Bring it out at the meeting, and don't show it, of course, to a soul." The eventful day arrives, and I am an object of increased pity. I am even charged with messages to friends in Constantinople. Dear, facetious boys ! Some of you will be going back to Constantinople before me, and one of you, alas ! we, who remain, will bury ere many weeks are gone. Scene : The Chamber of the Political Commission in the entrenched camp of Shumla, with the Headquarters of Achmet Eyoub Pasha.

The Political Commission sitting. Journalists — English, French, American — sitting. Coffee and cigarettes circulating. Preliminary conversations : The weather, the quality of the meals at the only restaurant, the slowness of the Russian advance, the splendid condition of the Turkish Army. All talk happily save One who sits apart, silent and morose, as though under the Shadow of Impending Fate. And now to business, Messieurs," says T Bey, "the registration of your passes." The names are called from the list. My confreres step up briskly, show their little narrow slips of paper with the three or four lines of Turkish print, and the little blue stamped seal of K Effendi, or some other equally responsible official. My name is called. A broad general smile pervades the assembly. The Bey himself, smiles.

" Monsieur Huyshe, votre bouyourouldou ? vous l'avez ? " I slowly unbutton my coat and hand out the document. The Bey commences to unfold it ; it gets bigger and bigger as he goes on unfolding, until it looks like a map of the seat of war on a large scale. Now it is fully displayed, and the eyes of the Head of the Political Commission are fixed on the great gold seal in helpless stare. He hands it to his colleagues. They stare ; one of them visibly starts. " What the dickens is it ? " says one of the British journalists, sotto voce. " C'est bien, Monsieur," says the Bey, rising to hand me back the paper. " Your pass for the Headquarters is from His Highness the Brother-in-law of the Sultan." General chorus: "The Brother-in-law of the Sultan ! " Tableau. Curtain. " I say, boys," said I, when we left, "you've been very good to me, standing me drinks ; now /'//stand drinks all round."

Afterwards, in our rooms, B. and I, quite as much surprised as any of them, did several smiles together. " I told you I knew Turkey," said B. " Yes, by Jove ! " said I, "and I'm glad I knew your father. But look here, old chap ; this is what beats me — who got the ? I 've searched in vain from Dan to Beer- Sheba to make this mystery clear ; But I end with it as I did begin, Who got the whisky-skin 1 " And the best joke of all was, that whenever during the war I passed the sentries and patrols, and was asked to show my bouyourouldou, the exhibition of that document had the effect of causing the man who challenged me to come to attention and present arms.

Chapter II

alarums— Excursions. JUNE 21, 1877. A highly excited group of war correspondents are we, in the belve dere of the Islah Hane, the only hotel of Rustchuk. Beneath us the Danube rolls its immense stream. The swollen waters, as they sweep majestically towards the distant Euxine, seem as though they must flood that flat, dreary Roumanian shore opposite, and drown out the inhabitants of Giurgevo, yonder little hostile town, about a mile below us. The great river is higher than usual. Here, on our Bulgarian side, the banks are steep ; on the other side they are low ; and so the summer floods widen the stream on that side chiefly. We and our, as yet, silent batteries completely dominate the country opposite ; from our watch tower we can see how ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 25 the river had spread itself inland, and formed extensive lagoons and flooded the marsh land.

That is why, since April, when war was declared two months ago, the Russians, who, we know very well are over there in tens of thousands — horse, foot, and artillery — have not been able to come at us. We have watched them daily, marching and countermarching, watering their horses, and working away at their batteries, from which we infer that they intend to bombard us some day. One of our detached forts, six miles down stream, has even fired at some of their infantry, but no boom of heavy guns has yet rolled across the water. The Russians have made no attempt to come over and fight us ; we have seen no sign of boat or pontoon. "The Danube is with us," said an old Turk to me in the hotel garden last night, " the Moscov cannot come." " But he will come when the river falls ? " If Allah wills it."

There are half-a-dozen of us up here in the rickety "watch tower" of the Islah Hane. We have stumbled up the narrow stairs in hot haste, regardless of the breakfast which is spread below ; knife and fork have been thrown down, the fried fish is getting cold, the barolo uncorked, the appetizing nip of mastique forgotten. " What is it ? where is it ? " shouted those who were half-way up to those who were already at the top. " Look ! — up the river ! By Jove, they're going to cross ! " Flash after flash, cloud after cloud of dense white smoke burst from a point far up the river ; then the roar of siege artillery comes rolling down to us. "It is a battery of big guns covering the passage of the river. Flash ! Boom ! The town folk run from all sides to the bluffs overhanging the river — the esplanade is crowded with people — the soldiers in our batteries stand to arms.

Flash ! Boom ! One of our foreign colleagues hops about the floor like a pea on a drum, and then precipitates himself downstairs. "He's gone to telegraph full details of the passage of the Danube," says one of our wags. " Fritz," say I to my faithful ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 27 ex-Uhlan, " run you down quick and saddle the horses, and wait." Fritz descends with elephan tine step, and the watch-tower rocks the while. It will take us an hour to gallop out there, and we must be on the move ; but there is nothing on the river yet. Yes, there is ! See ! All glasses are levelled ; not a word is spoken ; we watch in breathless silence a little ripple behind what looks like a short, thick stick, upright in the water. It is moving rapidly across to our side. "A torpedo boat!" bursts simultaneously from our lips.

Down the stairs we go, helter skelter, pell-mell ; we dive into our rooms, and in a moment we are streaming out into the streets, buckling on belts and revolvers, stuffing biscuits and whiskey-flasks into our pockets. Fritz is at the horses' heads. I am up and half way to the town CTate before he follows, but he comes presently, an immense cavalry sword (which he never leaves for a moment) swinging and clank ing as he pounds along. " Turn to the right at the gate," shouts Fritz ; it is at Pyrgos that they fight." "To the right it is, sharp round — hold up, horse ! " and now, free of the town, away we go in glorious gallop over the short sward of the down-like country — a fresh dig of the spur for each boom of the guns. In a twinkling we are at the base of the Levent Tepe, the hill which is crowned by our most powerful outlying fort.

On the slopes are the white tents of the garrison. This hillside is always alive with troops, but something more than morning parade or a field day is going on now, for, as we gallop past, three splendid battalions are marching out, completely equipped, overcoats slung, Prussian fashion, over the right shoulder, haversack at the left side. Behind them the mules and pack-horses of the baggage train stream along, and at their right rear trundles a well-horsed battery of shining Krupp guns. " War at last, Fritz ! " say I to the faithful one. " Krieg ! " replies he, with war-dog grin. We ride past the marching battalions, plump ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 29 into a double line of skirmishers well in advance ; on our right, close to the river, we see a flanking party moving along parallel to the main body — we are evidently in complete formation to resist a landing.

Not so fast now ; we must not skirmish for the skirmishers ; friendly skirmishers in one's rear are as un comfortable as the enemy in front ! At length we get to Pyrgos, and come to a halt on the slope of the high ridge away from the river. The three battalions stack arms and lie down, the skirmishing line sinks prone on the crest, and the staff comes over it to reconnoitre the river. A Major rides up to me and wants to know my business here. My hand is on the document which will instantly produce a salute ; but my soft answer turns away wrath, and the Major goes off to attend to his own business, which, indeed, is quite as pressing as mine, for he tells me there is reason to believe the Russians will seize one of the islands close to our shore, and that there will be fighting soon. Dr. Crookshank, of the Turkish Medical Service (better known, now, in Egypt), joins me, and we decide to make a private reconnaissance for ourselves.

Giving the staff a wide berth we walk along the ridge. As we go, we see two more battalions advancing to reinforce us ; their bayonets glitter in the bright sun ; behind them groups of men, who have fallen out, tired, toil along ; orderlies gallop to and fro, and the Krupp battery, still limbered up, is ready to come into action at a moment's notice — a stirring, war-like scene which sets our blood dancing. The Russian guns open fire again, and their sound is now no dull, rolling boom, but a short, fierce roar, for they are a bare thousand yards away. What can they be firing at ? Not a shell has struck the ridge yet. We must find out. The Doctor and I, clear of the troops, descend the ridge, and mount the lower one immediately over the river. The roar of the guns and the shriek of the shells is deafening as we ascend ; a big shell strikes the slope and we feel as if we ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 31 were assisting at an earthquake.

Arriving hot, breathless with excitement, at the top, we stop short. The mystery is solved! Immediately beneath us is the river, and on it, close to the bank, one of our iron-clad gunboats is steaming slowly along. On the right is a long, low island, covered with scrub, on the left another similar island. The gunboat is steaming from one to the other. As she appears between the islands the Russian battery opposite blazes away at her with 64-pound shells. The Doctor and I have struck the bank between the islands, and we are in the immediate line of fire. We immediately lie down. There, on the Danube shore, forgetful of danger, and fascinated by the spectacle, we watch the duel between the gunboat and the battery. Plucky little gunboat ! One of those big shells would sink her, or blow her up ; but she comes out from behind one island, steams solemnly across to the other, the shells dashing up the water before her — behind her — a few yards from her hull.

The Russian gunners have her range to a fraction ; but they are always a little too soon or a little too late to stop her. Now she is just opposite us ; a shell passes between her masts, buries itself in the bank close beneath us, and then bursts, spluttering mud and water. " Rather warm," says the Doctor ; " ten feet higher and ! " I " Quite so, Doctor ; " but I inwardly resolve next time the gunboat arrives at that same latitude and longitude to shift a bit. The next time she comes out, as though tired of being a mark for admirable target-practice, she changes her tactics, and heads straight across for the battery. In mid stream she turns, and pop go her little guns ! then she scuttles back — the big guns roaring at her and dashing the water about. ("Bad times for the fish," say we.) In the shelter of the island, again, she hides herself.

The Russian artillerymen let fly at the island now ; and for ten minutes or so we lie watching the bark and the branches fly, listening to the peculiar sound of the bursting shells, like the ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 33 roar of wind as the wood trembles with tremendous concussions. The duel is evidently over. A movement on the ridge above now arouses us. Two of our Krupp guns trot on to the crest and unlimber. The Doctor and I lose no time in getting behind them. The guns are trained on the Russian battery with a care that is positively amusing. Every man in each squad sights them. The first shell falls far short. More caressingand coaxing; of the guns ■ the next falls we know not where, but it is evident that our little 12-pounders are of no use for this work. Our big enemy disdains reply. A few more ineffectual shots from us, and then the cannonade ceases, the troops fall in, and we all go home to dinner.

But the mysterious torpedo-boat, what of her ? Long before we got out here she had gone back to her own side of the river ; but her operations had been highly exciting and amusing. As detailed by an intelligent native, who had been an eye-witness, and who possessed a sense of c humour, this is what had happened. A Russian torpedo party had set out from the opposite shore for the purpose of laying torpedoes in the Channel and blocking in our fleet. Their boats and launches having been descried, word was sent into the town, and the gunboat had moved out to check the blockading operation. Hardly had she arrived, when the torpedo-boat shot out from the shore. "A long, grey boat — you see nothing but the top of her deck and her funnel. She makes straight for the gunboat — terrible confusion on gunboat — the crew run about getting a Krupp gun to point in the direction of the on-coming enemy — bang! — water flies up — boat still coming — bang again ! right down into water — spray dashing, everyone shouting — boat now close — gun cannot be depressed enough.

Then boat rushes round stern of gunboat and goes off back as fast as she came — bang!— no use ; boat gone! " Alfred Jingle himself could not have told the story better ! The torpedo-boat, a " Thorneycroft " or a ALARUMS — EXCURSIONS. 35 " Jarrow," had failed to blow up the gunboat — that was clear ; something had gone wrong with the unpleasant sort of bowsprit, which, as a rule, carries death and destruction at the end of it. But the crew of the gunboat had had a rare waking up, and next morning they found the unexploded torpedo sticking to their stern ! Out of this grew the affair we had witnessed — the march out in battle order, and the artillery duel — the first excitement we had experienced since the declaration of war. Soon all was quiet again, and we resumed our attitude of watching and waiting. We had not to watch and wait much longer.

Chapter III

long Bowls across tbc IRivcr. The nimble gunner, With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, Ami down goes all before them." "Rustchuk, May \oth, 1877. " Notice. "To all subjects of Her Britannic Majesty (and others) at Rust chuk : — The undersigned hereby notifies to all British subjects that as the towns of Oltenitza and Turtukai are already exchanging shots, the military authorities here have some reason to expect a fire from the opposite side of the Danube, possibly directed upon the Railway Station. "R. Reade, ' ' Her Majesty's Consul for the Villayct of the Danube. " "pvEAR OLD READE! Well do we re- ■*-* member thee, thy burly British good nature, and this sly little joke of thine — ''possibly directed upon the Railway Station" — the only loop-hole of escape for special correspondents!

And the charming naivete" of " have some reason to expect ! " Why, there, right opposite the Islah Hane Hotel, where we lodge, and thy own Consulate where the Union Jack flies, a long, brown line has been seen growing day after day along the river shore — a low, evil-looking bank with little notches in it. " Some reason to expect," quotha ! And only the other night while we were all talking (as usual) about this battery, one of our number, a kindly soul, whose room, No. 20, overlooked the river, made the following remark to our military attache, Colonel Lenox, V.C. : — " But there are no guns in the battery yet, Colonel." " Yes, there are," said the Colonel, " I 've seen 'em." Now, the Colonel had a most powerful tele scope, the envy of all war correspondents in Rustchuk. And so it was that room No. 20 was to let next day, in the morning, quite early.

Yet for many a long week after the issue of the Consular Notice (the principal effect of which was the immediate flight of the Branch of the Imperial Ottoman Bank and the dislocation of our financial arrangements) that portentous battery remained silent. Our own defences were in complete order ; we bristled with Krupps, big and little. But in all those weeks of May and June not a single shot did we fire to destroy the symmetry of that earthwork, whose nicks and angles grew daily neater and neater under our very eyes. Watch it ! Yes ; we lean on the rail by the river and watch it by the hour together ; some times we even see long teams dragging the big guns into it. But fire at it ? Certainly not. And why not ? Thou poor Unspeakable One ! bless thy innocent heart ! " Because we, the Turks, intend Europe to see that we are not the aggressors in this war; because that battery is on the Roumanian shore and we are not at war with Roumania."

The sudden horror which will come presently ; a town stricken into ghastly heaps as by blasts from hell ; flames roarinoskyward ; foul dogs mumbling men's bones — that is what is in store for you, you poor de generate creature, with your bakalum, "we shall see," and your kismet, "it is destiny." And your Arbiter, Europe, will say, simply, that you allowed bolts for your own destruction to be forged under your noses, and that it is right and proper that you should be knocked into smithereens. But can it be that you, and your Sultan, huddled up with his harem on the Bosphorus, are the descendants of the Osmanli who swept like a hurricane over the breach in the triple wall of Constantinople four hundred years ago ; of that Muhammed II., who rode at their head through the blazing town, and struck off with his battle axe the bronze serpent-head of the Tripod of Delphi on the very stadium of Justinian?