I see, [wrote Trist at this time in a private letter to his editor, which was not published until later,] a subtle change in the atmosphere of events. It seems to me that the tide is turning. I will now attach myself definitely to the fortunes of Plevna. The time has come for me to give up my ubiquitous endeavours; to watch one spot only. My colleagues are splendid fellows, full of dash and energy; on them you must now depend for the other movements of the campaign. Osman is here, and Skobeleff is in this part of the country as far as I can learn—there is a feverish restlessness among the Russians, which suggests his presence. With these two men face to face Plevna will become historical, if it is not so already, for it will mark, firstly, the greatest military bungle of the age (Krüdener’s neglect); secondly … who knows? Osman is a wonderful fellow—that is all I can tell you now. I remain here, and if we are surrounded I will stick to Plevna until the end.
The recipient of this letter, sitting in his quiet little room in Fleet Street, looked at the last words again. They were underlined with a firm dash, and immediately below followed the simple signature. About the entire letter there was a straightforward sense of purpose—a feeling, as it were, that this man knew what he was doing, and was ready to face the consequence of every action. The editor shook his vast head from side to side with a quiet and tolerant smile.
“The fever is upon him,” he said. “It is a thousand pities that he is not a soldier.”
Then he leant forward and took an envelope from the stationery case upon the table in front of him. Into this he slipped the folded letter, addressing it subsequently to Mrs. Wylie, at Wyl’s Hall, Wyvenwich.
On the last day of July, Prince Schahofsky and Baron Krüdener attacked Plevna. A combination had been intended, but Krüdener was again in fault. He was not ready at the hour appointed, and Schahofsky was led into the fatal error of attacking a superior force of Turks in a fortified position. The result of this was the loss of almost the whole of his fine army corps. The Russian soldiers charged gallantly but foolishly upon a literal wall of fire, for there is no man steadier in a trench than the fatalist. In some years, when the quick-firing rifle is perfected, there will be no such thing as carrying a breastwork at the point of the bayonet, for no man will live to stand up within forty yards of the position held. Even at Plevna, against an imperfect rifle in the hands of a half-trained, badly fed, poorly-accoutred soldier, the slaughter was terrible, and the result small. Only Skobeleff succeeded in really and literally carrying an intrenchment by the bayonet; and had he not been half mad with excitement and wholly carried away by the wild lust of battle, he would never have attempted it, for the men literally crawled over heaps of their slain comrades. The terrible work of the quick-firing rifle was only too apparent.
After the first assault upon Plevna the Russians settled down to a long siege, and heavy artillery was brought to bear upon the ill-fated town from every point of vantage on the surrounding hills. Step by step the northern foe crept up towards the town, until the sombre-clad figures within the redoubts were almost recognisable from the Russian lines.
Finally, it was one day announced that the last communication had been cut off and Plevna was surrounded. Like some sullen prisoner in the hands of a ruthless enemy, the fortress stood grimly silent, and all the world wondered pitifully what terrible tragedy might be working out its latest chapters within that small circle of bloodstained steel.
Vague reports reached England that there could not now be any food in Plevna. The garrison must be starving. Women and children were—thank God!—but few; for Osman had sent them away. Day by day the fall of this unforeseen, unsuspected stronghold was predicted, but day after day the dingy Crescent hung in the morning breeze, and every point was guarded.
The editor of the great English newspaper sat in his little room in Fleet Street and watched events from afar. No word reached him, for Plevna was silent, but he displayed no anxiety.
“Wait!” he said to all inquirers. “Wait a bit. Trist is in there, and when the time comes he will astonish us all. One can always rely implicitly on Trist!”
XIII
Plevna
There is in one of the minor streets of Plevna a small baker’s shop, with no other sign indicating that bread may be bought within than the painted semblance of a curiously twisted cake upon the yellow wall between the window and the low door.
On the seventh of September, eighteen hundred and seventy-seven, this painted cake was the nearest approach to bread that could be seen in the neighbourhood. For many weeks there had been no pleasant odour of browning loaves, no warm air from the oven at the back of the shop. Curious irony of fate! The baker had died of starvation. I almost hesitate to tell that the foul heap of clothing lying in the ditch a few yards down the hill was all the earthly remnant of the late owner of this useless establishment. Useless because there was nothing in Plevna now to bake. He had been dead many days, but there seemed to be no question of burying him. There were too many wounded, too many sick, dying, and festering men, for the living to have time to think of the dead. The heavy pestilential air was full of the groans of these poor wretches.
Within the little shop were three men—one seated at a rough table, a second standing before him, the third perched nonchalantly on the windowsill smoking a cigarette. The last-mentioned had
