A Gallant Grenadier: A Tale of the Crimean War

“We’ll jam the loose bars here,” said Phil in a whisper. “Who knows when we shall want weapons with which to defend ourselves!”

Tony chuckled. “You’re a cool hand,” he laughed. “Who’d have thought of all this if it hadn’t been for you. Now all’s plain sailing, and I prophesies complete success. Ah, if only that chap Stackanoff would get in my way I’d smash him into a jelly!”

Cautioning him to keep quiet, for both were by now still more doubtful of the cringing Pierre, they slipped down to the cell, and were soon sunk in deep sleep, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

On the following afternoon the cell door was thrown open, and Stackanoff stalked in with his guard. He glared at his prisoners in a manner that showed his temper had not improved since they saw him last.

“Ah!” he said at last, glancing at the trembling Pierre, – who thought his last hour had come, – and gloating over his terror, “the whole plot is discovered. You are all spies.”

With a sob the little Frenchman fell on his knees, and with clasped hands cried, “Mercy, Monsieur ze Russian, je suis innocent!”

“Get up, you little funk,” said Phil bitterly, while Tony clasped him by the collar and jerked him to his feet.

“Yes,” continued Stackanoff, “you are all spies. The tale that you were washed ashore is exploded. Confess now, and I will promise to deal leniently with you.”

“Confess!” shouted Phil, roused to anger. “You know well that we are no spies. And let me tell you, you are merely an inspector, and have no right to punish us. Is this fit treatment for a British officer? Wait,” and he shook his finger at the Russian, “I will yet communicate with the gentleman who dismissed you, and probably he will be less pleased with your conduct than before.”

“You will! then I will give you little time, you Englishman,” snarled Stackanoff, beside himself with rage at the mention of his disgrace. “To-morrow I will have you brought before the military court, and I myself will swear that you are spies who escaped me once before. Then you will be shot. After all, it is an easy death,” he laughed sardonically.

Phil felt inclined to fly at him, but he kept his temper.

“After all,” he answered quietly, “it is more easy than death by the bayonet, and that perhaps is why so many of your comrades chose death by the bullet in the fight at Inkermann.”

“Ha, you would remind me of our disgrace!” hissed the Russian. “Listen, you stubborn English pig. Once you disgraced me and pulled me, Stackanoff, leader of a regiment of Cossacks, to the ground. I did not forget, and I will repay in full measure. You shall come before the military tribunal, as I told you, and that officer for whom you did that foolish deed shall be evidence against you. You will be condemned, and at early dawn, when the cold fog still lies on the ground, you shall be led out to your doom. I shall be there. Do you hear? I, Stackanoff, who hate you worse than any, shall be there, and I myself will shoot you. You shall hear the word, my brave Englishman; you shall see the musket raised, and you shall wait. Ah, yes! you shall have time to think over and regret your folly. Then, when your knees give way like those of this cur of a Frenchman, I will shoot you, and your body shall be flung into the sea. Thus you will learn that it is ill to bring disgrace on the head of a Stackanoff.”

Phil laughed in the man’s face and looked at him with steady gaze, before which the fiery Russian’s eyes lowered.

“You call this man a cur,” said Phil with a smile, nodding his head at Pierre. “Believe me, you Russian dog, he is a brave man compared with you, for he would not murder his fellow-being. If that time comes of which you have spoken, I will do my best to bear it; and should your time to face death come first, I trust you may set me an example. I doubt it though. Bullies, such as you, are ever cowards, and vengeance, when followed too far, is apt to bring disaster to the avenger. My only wish is that I could reach your comrades. They have proved themselves brave and honourable men, and would spit on you.”

The Russian’s face was an ugly picture. Flushed with hate and rage, he looked as though he would repeat his former assault. But, standing upright and sturdy as he did, his head proudly held in air, Phil did not look a young man to be trifled with, even by one with weapons in his hands. Moreover, Tony was close alongside, his eyes fixed upon the Russian’s face, and clearly showing that at the slightest attempt he would treat him less gently than before.

“You defy me and laugh at me,” said Stackanoff wrathfully. “Very well, I will leave you now and visit your friend. But you shall see me again very soon.”

With a snarl of rage he turned on his heel and left the cell.

“What’s it all about?” asked Tony eagerly. “This lingo’s too much for me, and how you ever picked it up beats me altogether. Get up, you sniveller;” and with an angry growl he hoisted Pierre to his feet once more, for the Frenchman had given way to his fears.

“He’s off to McNeil’s cell, Tony,” Phil answered hurriedly. “I’ll tell you all that passed in good time, but give me a lift into the chimney. I must hear all that happens.”

He sprang to the grate, and, helped by Tony, was soon at the angle. Breathless with his exertions, he climbed still higher, leaning his body well over the sharp edge of brickwork, and listened eagerly. Suddenly there was a clash, the dull hollow echo of which came rushing up the chimney, followed by Stackanoff’s voice.

“I shall be with this prisoner some time,” he said, evidently addressing the jailer. “You and the guards can withdraw. I will hammer on the woodwork when I require you to let me out. Now close the door and dismiss the guard.”

“Now, sir,” he continued, harshly addressing McNeil, when the door had banged. “I have a proposition to make to you, and consider well before you answer it. Liberty is dear to every man, and more so to you, who are sick and wounded. You can buy yours at the price of that man’s life who dragged me from my saddle. Swear that he was a spy then, and that that is his regular employment, and I will set you free. I will myself hand you over to the English sentries.”

An inarticulate cry of rage burst from McNeil’s throat. What followed Phil did not hear, for, suddenly overbalancing in his eagerness, he lost his hold and slipped headlong into the opposite cell, arriving with a crash into the open grate and rolling on to the floor before the astonished eyes of the prisoner and his Russian tempter.

Chapter Twenty.

From the Mouth of the Lion’s Den

Never before had our hero so much need of courage and quick resolution as on that occasion, when, helpless to save himself, he slid like a sack down the chimney, and plumped into the very presence of his bitter enemy. But he was the kind of lad to make the best of a difficult situation. It was not for nothing that he had joined heart and soul in cricket and football, and in every manly game. He had gone through a schooling indeed which no English lad should neglect, and which no one ever regrets; for even in later days, when the cares and duties of life prevent one from indulging in the old games, the quickness and sureness of eye and the presence of mind still remain, and may at any moment extricate one from danger or difficulty.

Phil was a young man whose muscles had been hardened in every game, and whose judgment could be relied on to count the chances of victory in each. Here was a game – one, indeed, of life and death – and instantly recovering from his surprise, and recognising that immediate action was necessary, he sprang to his feet and hurled himself upon the astonished Russian before the latter could grasp his sword. Linked together in a close embrace they swayed from side to side, but Phil had the advantage of size, and squeezing his adversary till the breath was driven from his body, he lifted him in his strong arms and dashed him to the floor.

“Great heavens! you’ve done for him,” cried McNeil, kneeling by the Russian’s side. “Look, his neck is broken.”

“Then his death be on his own head,” gasped Phil. “If I had not killed him, he would soon have had me shot, and besides, my tumbling down that chimney would have spoilt all our chances of escape. Now he’s dead, and if we are to get away, it must be done to-night, for should the guards discover what has happened it will mean little mercy. As likely as not we should be taken out and shot before half an hour had passed.”

“But what about the jailer?” asked McNeil. “We can be sure that he has heard nothing suspicious or he would have been in here by this. He is aware, though, that Stackanoff is with me, and he will be waiting impatiently for his return?”

“Yes, he will be getting impatient before long,” mused Phil. “There is nothing else to be done at present. We will wait till his patience is exhausted, then my friend and I will knock, and as soon as he comes in we will collar him.”

“It seems desperately risky, but I suppose it is the only way, Western. If you get hold of him, though, it will save the trouble of climbing through the chimney, an acrobatic feat which, in my present condition, I shall not be sorry to be spared.”

“Quite so. I had not thought of that, McNeil,” said Phil. “Now I will call Tony. I shall only be gone a few minutes.”

Slipping into the chimney, Phil soon regained his own cell.

“Did you hear anything, Tony?” he asked shortly.

“Nothing, mate; but what’s been keeping yer so long. You look flurried too. What’s happened?”

Phil explained that Stackanoff was dead.

“We must get away to-night, Tony,” he said, with decision, “and first of all we must capture the jailer. He is to open the door at Stackanoffs knock, and I propose that we throw ourselves upon him. Now, listen. After knocking, I will stand behind the door so that he cannot see me, and will call to him to come in. You will crouch behind me, and bang the door to. Then we will pull him down and gag him. Bring your blanket with you.”

Meanwhile Pierre had listened anxiously, his ferrety little eyes shifting from face to face.

“What is this that happens?” he asked eagerly. “Monsieur makes ze disappearance up ze chimney, then he come back again.”

“We must get away to-night, do you understand?” Phil replied, looking searchingly at him. “Are you willing to come?”

“Vraiment, I will accompany you, monsieur,” answered Pierre hesitatingly. “Mais – ah, what will ze Russian with ze face severe do to us? Surely he will make ze bang.”

“Oh, you little coward!” murmured Phil bitterly, “you will spoil everything yet. I tell you, Pierre,” he added, clutching him by both shoulders, “if you wish to stay, do so; but you will probably be shot as a spy. That will be your bad luck in having been washed ashore with us. If you attempt the escape with us, beware how you behave, for should you make a sound to betray us, I will kill you. Now, stay here, and prepare to accompany us. We shall be back in half an hour. Come, Tony, it is already dark, and we must capture that fellow.”

“Then in a half of the hour you make ze return,” said the little Frenchman, looking as though he had smothered his fears. “Bien, I shall be prepared.

“Aha, my good fellows!” he muttered in his own language a few moments later, with quivering lips. “You have gone up the chimney, and will be back in half an hour. Why should I die for your foolishness? It would be suicide.”

Creeping to the chimney, the crafty little coward listened while Phil and Tony slid into the other cell. Then he stepped to the door, and prepared to give the alarm, hoping thereby to escape the fate which would certainly befall the others if discovered. But, overcome by terror of the consequences, he remained irresolute for more than ten minutes ere he dared to shout, for he had a wholesome terror of the fair-haired young Englishman who had brought him back to consciousness when lashed to the wreckage, and moreover there was an ominous look in Tony’s eyes as that burly young giant looked at him for the last time before entering the chimney.

Meanwhile Phil and Tony had entered the other cell.

“Now for it,” said Phil. “McNeil, you are too lame to help us, so had better lie down on your blankets. Tony, tear up the blanket and get the gag ready. You quite understand?” he went on, when all was finished. “You crouch behind me, and slam the door as soon as the fellow comes in. Then we jump on him. It is dark enough now, so we’ll knock.”

Taking the precaution to drag Stackanoff’s body into the corner behind the door, Phil knocked loudly, and, hearing footsteps outside, cried out in a feigned voice and in the fierce manner in which the dead Russian seemed to have been in the habit of addressing his subordinates, “Hi, you, fool that you are! Why do you not listen, and let me out?”

A second later there was the sound of a key in the lock, and almost at the same moment a most unearthly scream.

The escaping prisoners looked at one another with doubting eyes, but before a question could be asked the door was pushed open cautiously. Phil clutched its edge, so that it could not easily be closed, and waited. Then again came the scream, this time more clearly heard, while the voice of Pierre could be distinguished crying at the top of his voice, and still in broken English, as if that would be better understood by the Russians, “Help! help! Ze English prisonaire make ze escape!”

“Ah! treachery!” gasped the jailer, stepping back and attempting to close the door.

Phil darted out and made a grab at the man, but with a cry of terror the Russian took to his heels, and raced up the steep flight of steps, where he turned towards the town.

Phil followed him to the top of the stairway, and then returned hurriedly.

“He has got away, and has gone to call the nearest guard,” he cried in hurried tones. “Tumble out, you fellows. They will be back here in a quarter of an hour or less, and if we are to give them the slip, it must be now. What are you doing, Tony? Come here, you idiot!”

Tony crept from the chimney, into which he was in the act of climbing, and slunk back to his friend’s side abashed, and yet full of indignation.

“Going to leave that cabbage-eating French monkey?” he asked angrily. “What’s he done? Why, just spoilt all our chances; that’s all.”

“It is the very thing you will be doing, old man,” answered Phil. “Now, give me one of those bars, and keep one yourself. McNeil, I’m ready, if you are. Here is Stackanoff’s sword for you. As for that little coward, he has done all the harm he can possibly do us, so we will leave him to his own devices.”

They grasped their weapons, and Phil and Tony, placing themselves on either side of the wounded lieutenant to help him along, hurried out of the cell, up the stairs, and ran for a deep ditch which they had noticed as they were marched to prison. It seemed to be a trench constructed to command the rear of some of the fortifications, and for the moment would prove an excellent shelter.

“Listen, I hear the guard returning!” whispered McNeil, “and the bell that is ringing must be a warning to announce that prisoners have escaped. Whew! that was a nasty one!” he exclaimed a moment later, for the guard had advanced with a blazing torch to assist in the search, and, the street being visible from the British trenches, and the range known to a nicety, a shell had been pitched with precision just in front of the group. The torch was instantly extinguished and all was darkness again, but the sound of distant marching, and an occasional order sharply given, proved that troops were being hastened from their quarters to patrol the streets and cut off the escaping prisoners.

“They know that the harbour is our only chance,” said Phil bitterly. “I fear it looks like failure this time, McNeil.”

“It does look bad,” agreed the latter sadly. “What hard luck, when we had all set our hearts so much upon it!”

“Are you game to try the other way?” asked Phil eagerly.

“Game!” answered McNeil enthusiastically; “just you try me. I’ve had enough of Russian prisons for a lifetime, and I tell you I would rather die than go back.”

“Then we go forward,” said Phil shortly. “Keep close together and steer between the forts. If anyone challenges, leave me to answer.”

Climbing from the ditch, they set their faces for the British camp and crept forward cautiously till they recognised the Malakoff looming big and shadowy in front. Phil led the way and attempted to make out the position of the earthworks and trenches. “There – there they are, only a few yards in front of us!” he whispered eagerly. “Hush! down for your lives!”

A figure suddenly rose up in front of them and listened. Evidently the man was a sentry, and had heard something suspicious, for next moment he challenged loudly.

Long ere this Phil had learnt that polite words are not usually wasted on Russian privates, and he determined to take advantage of the fact.

“Idiot!” he answered roughly. “Cannot you see that I am your officer, and can I not give instructions to my lieutenant without your challenging?”

“My orders are to challenge everyone,” the sentry answered humbly. “Excellency, give the countersign and I shall know you better. Some dogs of prisoners have recently escaped, for I heard the bell, therefore I must be cautious.”

“My word, we’re done again!” groaned Phil. Then taking the bull by the horns, he advanced a pace and said roughly, “How can I remember the word every night after all these weeks? Wait, though – ah, was not the first letter ‘N’?”

“That is right, excellency; and our master the Czar’s name also commences with that letter,” the sentry replied encouragingly.

“Nicolas!” cried Phil boldly.

“Excellency, your pardon on my insisting; pass whither you will. All is well.”

“That is good, fellow,” Phil cried. “Come, comrades, we have business with the Malakoff.”

Another fire minutes, and the sentry and trench were passed. Skirting by the great fortress, they bore up for the British trenches, crossing as they did so several rows of ditches and earthworks. Then they lay down and listened. Close at hand there was a hum of voices, while away on the left a sharp musketry fire was being maintained, the flicker of the exploding powder cutting the darkness at every second. In front all was pitch blackness in the valley in which they stood, but higher up on the elopes beyond fires were burning, and dark figures were occasionally silhouetted against them as they passed.

“Now for it!” whispered Phil. “If there is any firing lie on your faces. We don’t want to be killed by our own side.”

Sneaking through the mud and mire on hands and knees the three crept forward in absolute silence. Soon the last trench was passed, and the British earthworks loomed in the distance. At last they were close to liberty and friends. Not more than sixty yards separated them, and already the murmur of the men’s voices could be heard, when, with a sharp exclamation, Phil disappeared.

There was a scuffle, a startled cry of astonishment and fear, and the loud report of a musket.

“Quick, help me!” Phil cried from the rifle-pit into which he had fallen. Then there was a choked cry, and all was silence for a few moments.

With a growl of rage Tony threw himself into the pit, almost smashing Phil as he fell.

“That you, Tony?” the latter asked coolly.

“Yes, it’s me sure enough, mate. Are yer hurt, old man?”

“Not a bit, but it was a hard struggle. I fancy the Russian is dead, for I gave him a tremendous blow on the head with my iron bar. Now, let us push on, for the alarm has been given, and it will mean capture if we stay.”

But the Russian sharpshooters had taken the alarm. Occupying a row of pits, each of which was sufficiently large to hold one man, they had orders to worry the besiegers by their fire, and to be always on the look-out for an assault. At the report of their comrade’s weapon they imagined that they were about to be attacked, and poured volley after volley at the British earthworks. Instantly the sharp crackle of Minié rifles broke out, and Phil and his friends found themselves in the awkward position of receiving fire from their friends.

“Down in here for your lives,” cried Phil; and within half a minute they were wedged in the pit, while a perfect hail of bullets swept overhead. Both sides imagined that a sortie was taking place, and the alarm spreading, the guns on either side opened fire, and a perfect torrent of shell hummed in the air and burst with deafening crashes in the darkness. A loud scuffling was then heard in the British trenches, there was a sharp order, and a host of dark figures sprang over the earthworks and dashed at the Russians.

Phil and his friends lay flat upon their faces, while the Russians in the other pits for the most part fled for their lives. Those who did not were bayoneted.

“Hallo, come out of it, you skulkers!” a voice cried; and, looking up, Phil caught sight of the figures of English soldiers at the mouth of the pit.

“Don’t fire,” he shouted, “we are friends. We are escaping prisoners.”

“Now, then, none of yer sauce,” the same voice answered wrathfully. “Most like you’re deserters. Out yer come and let’s take a look at yer.”

In a trice they were dragged ignominiously from the pit.

“Why, what’s this?” the sergeant, who had charge of the party, exclaimed. “The light’s bad, but blow me if there ain’t two British officers here. Get round ’em, boys, and bring ’em along.”

With a rush the group of soldiers returned, bearing Phil and his friends with them.

“Now, send along that lamp,” cried the sergeant, as soon as they were safely sheltered by the earthworks. “Blow me, but I’m right. They’re Britishers or I’m a wrong ’un,” he cried, lifting the lantern to their faces. “Hi, pass the word to Mr Ellis there.”

A moment later an officer came hurrying along.

“What is all this commotion about?” he asked sharply. “The whole camp is disturbed, and you seem to have made a sortie, Sergeant.”

“Quite right, sir! There was a bit of a ruction over in them rifle-pits, and as I knew you was anxious to teach them Russians a lesson, and the boys was mad to get at ’em, why, we did a rush and cleared ’em out like rats. We found these three there. They said they were escaping prisoners, so we brought ’em along.”

“Who are you, then?” asked the officer, examining them by the aid of his lantern.

“Why, bless my life if it isn’t Western, reported drowned at sea!” he exclaimed with a start. “You’re like a jack-in-the-box, Western. Who are your friends?”

Phil mentioned their names.

“We had a near squeak for it,” he said faintly. “By the way, Ellis, is there a doctor near? McNeil is in need of dressing, and I fear I have got a bullet in my ribs.”

That was the case. At the first outburst of firing, a bullet had struck him in the side like a sledge-hammer, but Phil kept his groans to himself. Now, however, when all need for further silence and exertion had passed, he sat down suddenly, and went off into a dead faint, frightening poor Tony almost out of his life. A few drops of brandy were forced between his teeth, and by the time he had been placed on a blanket he was conscious again. Then he was carried with great gentleness up to the field-hospital.

“Another bullet wound, my lad,” said the surgeon kindly. “That makes the fifth I have seen already to-night. Let me have a look at it;” and with the greatest sympathy and gentleness he removed Phil’s clothing and examined the wound.

“Ah! a nasty one,” he said gravely. “Two ribs badly smashed, and the lung injured. Not fatal, though. Oh, no! not by any means. We’ll dress it carefully and get you out of this.”

Phil gave an exclamation of disgust.

“It’s awfully bad luck, doctor,” he said testily. “Here I am, scarcely landed on the Crimea, and already I have been captured twice. And now I am to be sent away for the second time. Couldn’t I possibly stay? I am very anxious to serve to the end of the campaign with my regiment.”

“Yes, I know you are, my lad, but Scutari is where you are going,” the doctor answered firmly. “Twice captured since you landed! Yes, but you forget to mention that in the short time that has elapsed, you have escaped twice from the Russians, taken part in two pitched battles, and joined in a famous cavalry charge, not to mention having been promoted to a commission for distinguished gallantry. Now, no more talking. To-morrow you go, and your friend too.”