The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood

"Never fear! We will carry him as easy as a baby in its cot," replied one of the soldiers.

"Yes, yes! you can trust us," added McKay.

"Are you going with them?" asked the general.

"I should like to do so, sir."

"And of course I shall go too," added Captain Wilders; and the procession, thus formed, wended its way to the shore.

It was midnight before McKay and the stretcher-party were relieved of their precious charge, and when they had seen the wounded officer embarked in one of the ship's boats, accompanied by his brother, they laid down where they were to rest and await the daylight.

Soon after dawn they were again on the move making once more for the heights above the river, where they had left their regiment. Once more, too, they traversed the battle-field, with its ghastly sights and distressing sounds. It was still covered with the bodies of the dead and dying, their numbers greatly increased, for many of the wounded had succumbed to the tortures of the night. The figures of ministering comrades still moved to and fro, and men of all ranks were busily engaged in the good work.

There were others whose action was more open to question—camp-followers and sutlers, dropped from no one knew where, who lurked in secret hiding-places, and issued forth, when the coast seemed clear, to follow their loathsome trade of robbing the dead.

McKay's little party, as they trudged along, suddenly put up one of these evil birds of prey almost at their feet. The man rose and ran for his life, pursued by the maledictions of the Royal Picts.

"Stop him! Stop him!" they cried, and the fugitive was met and turned at every point. But he doubled like a hare, and had nearly made his escape when he fell almost into the arms of Sergeant Hyde.

"Stick to him!" cried McKay. "We will hand him over to the provost-marshal, who will give him a short shrift."

A fierce struggle ensued between the fugitive and his captor, the result of which seemed uncertain; but the former suddenly broke loose, and again took to his heels. He made towards the French lines, and disappeared amongst the clefts of the steep rocks.

When McKay joined Hyde, he said to him, rather angrily—

"Why did you let the fellow go?"

"I did my best, but he was like an eel. I had far rather have kept him. I have wanted the scoundrel these dozen years."

"You know him, then?"

"Yes," replied Hyde, sternly. "I know him well, but I thought that he was dead. It is better so; we have a long account to settle, and the day of reckoning will certainly come."

Thus ended the first collision between the opposing armies: the first great conflict between European troops since Waterloo. The credit gained by the victors, whose prowess echoed through the civilised world, was greater, perhaps, than the results achieved. The Alma, as we shall see, might have paved the way, under more skilful leadership, to a prompt and glorious termination of the war. But, if it exercised no sufficient influence upon the larger interests of the campaign, the battle greatly affected the prospects of the principal character in this story.

Sergeant-major McKay was presently informed that, in recognition of the signal bravery he had displayed at the storming of the Causeway battery, his name had been submitted to the Queen for an ensign's commission in the Royal Picts.

CHAPTER XII.

CATCHING A TARTAR

After their victory at the Alma the allies tarried long on the ground they had gained. There were many excuses, but no sound reasons, for thus wasting precious moments that would never return. It was alleged that more troops had to be landed; that the removal of the sick and wounded to ship-board consumed much time; that further progress must be postponed until the safest method of approaching Sebastopol had been discussed in many and lengthy councils of war.

Yet at this moment the great fortress and arsenal lay at their mercy. They had but to put out their hands to capture it. Menschikoff's beaten army was long in rallying, and when at last it resumed the coherence of a fighting force its leader withdrew it altogether from Sebastopol, thus abandoning the fortress to its fate.

Its chief fortifications now were on the northern side, that nearest the allies, and within a short day's march. Only one redoubt—the so-called Star Fort—was of any formidable strength, and as this was close to the sea-shore it was exposed to the bombardment of the fleets. But the Star Port lay before the French, supposing that the original order of march was preserved; and the French, exaggerating its powers of resistance, could not be persuaded to face the risks of assault. The fact was, St. Arnaud lay dying, and for the moment all vigour was gone from the conduct of the French arms.

Little doubt exists to-day that the northern fortifications could not have resisted a determined attack. That it was not attempted was another grave error; to be followed by yet another, when, after a hazardous detour—the well-known "flank march"—the allies transferred themselves to the southern side of Sebastopol, and again neglected a palpable opportunity. The north side might be fairly well protected; the south was practically defenceless; a few weak earth-works, incomplete, and without artillery, were its only bulwarks; its only garrison were a few militia battalions and some hastily-formed regiments of sailors from the now sunken Russian ships of war.

It must undoubtedly have fallen by a coup de main. But generals hesitated and differed, bolder spirits were overruled, undue weight was given to the too-cautious counsels of scientific soldiers, and it was decided to sit down before and slowly besiege the place.

The chance on which the allies turned their backs was quickly seized by the enemy. One of the brightest pages in modern military annals is that which records how the genius and indomitable energy of one man improvised a resolute and protracted defence; and none have done fuller justice to Todleben than the foes he so long and gallantly kept at bay.

The allies now entered, almost with light hearts, upon a siege that was to last for eleven weary months and prove the source of unnumbered woes. In a comfortable leisurely fashion they proceeded to break ground, to open trenches, and approach the enemy's still unfinished works by parallel and sap. The siege-train—the British War Minister's fatal gift, encouraging as it did the policy of delay—was landed, as were vast supplies of ammunition and warlike stores. Tents, too, were brought up to the front, and the allied encampment soon covered the plateau from the Tchernaya to the sea. The troops soon settled down in their new quarters, and the heights before Sebastopol grew gradually a hive of military industry, instinct with warlike sounds, teeming with soldier life.

The Royal Picts found themselves posted on the uplands above the Tchernaya valley, very near the extreme right of the British front, and here they took their share of the duties that now fell upon the army, furnishing fatigue-parties to dig at the trenches, and armed parties to cover them as they worked, and pickets by day and night to watch the movements of the enemy.

Since McKay's official recommendation for a commission, he had been entrusted with duties above his position as sergeant-major. The adjutant had been badly wounded at the Alma, and it was generally understood that when promoted McKay would succeed him. Meanwhile he was entrusted with various special missions appertaining to the rank he soon expected to receive.

One of these was his despatch to Balaclava to make inquiries for the knapsacks of the regiment. They had been left on board ship, and the transport had been expected daily in Balaclava harbour. The men were sadly in want of a change of clothes, and neither these nor the little odds and ends that go to make up a soldier's comfort were available until they got their packs. McKay was directed to take a small party with him to land the much-needed baggage and have it conveyed by hook or crook to the front.

He left the camp late in the afternoon, and, striking the great Woronzoff Road just where it pierced the Fediukine Heights, descended it until he reached the Balaclava plain. A few miles beyond, the little town itself was visible, or, more exactly, the forest of masts that already crowded its little land-locked port.

Here, on the right of the communications between the English army and its base, a long range of redoubts had been thrown up and garrisoned by the Turks. These crowned the summit of a range of low hillocks, and, in marching to his point, McKay paused on the level ground between two hills. The Turks on sentry gave him a "Bono Johnny!" as he passed, by way of greeting; but they were far too lazy and too sleepy to do more.

It was evident they kept a poor look-out, and doubtful strangers were as free to pass as British friends. Just upon the rear of No. 3 Redoubt McKay and his men came upon a fellow crouching low amongst the broken ground. McKay would have passed by without remark, but his first look at the stranger, who wore no uniform and seemed a harmless, unoffending Tartar peasant, was followed by a second and keener gaze. He thought he recognised the man; he certainly had seen his face before. Directing his men to seize him, he made a longer and closer inspection, and found that it was the ruffian whom they had surprised and chased on the heights above the Alma the morning after the battle.

"He is up to no good," said McKay. "We must take him along with us."

But where? The job they were on was a definite one; not the capture of chance prisoners, which would certainly delay them on the road.

Still, remembering the last occasion on which he had seen this man, and the mysterious remarks that Hyde had let fall concerning him, McKay felt sure the fellow was not what he seemed. This Tartar dress must be a disguise: how could Hyde have made the acquaintance years before of a Tartar peasant in the Crimea?

Certainly the man must go with them, and therefore, placing him securely in the midst of his party, McKay marched on. If nothing better offered, he would hand his prisoner over to the Commandant of Balaclava on arrival there.

But as they trudged along, and, leaving the cavalry-encampment on their right, approached the ground occupied by the Highland brigade, they encountered its general—McKay had seen him at the Alma—riding out, accompanied by his staff.

The quick eye of Sir Colin Campbell promptly detected the prisoner. He rode up at once to the party, and said, in a sharp, angry tone—

"What are you doing with that peasant? Don't you know that the orders are positive against molesting the inhabitants? Who is in command of this party?"

McKay stood forth and saluted.

"You? A sergeant-major? Of the Royal Picts, too! You ought to know better. Let the man go!"

"I beg your pardon, Sir Colin," began McKay; "but—"

"Don't argue with me, sir; do as I tell you. I have a great mind to put you in arrest."

McKay still stood in an attitude of mute but firm protest.

"What does the fellow mean? Ask him, Shadwell. I suppose he must have some reason, or he would not defy a general officer like this."

Captain Shadwell, one of Sir Colin's staff, took McKay aside, and, questioning him, learnt all the particulars of the capture. McKay told him, too, what had occurred at the Alma.

"The fellow must be a spy," said Sir Colin, abruptly, when the whole of the facts were repeated to him. "We must cross-question him. I wonder what language he speaks."

The general himself tried him with French; but the prisoner shook his head stupidly. Shadwell followed with German, but with like result.