then, turning to a dog which I had not till then noticed, he said, Crunch, poor Crunch! Hungry too, eh? Sad, very sad, isn't it? Never mind; there's the bone. Make the best of it. Thank you. Good morning. Remember, there may be Britishers in Cossack garb just as there are wolves in sheep's clothing. Sad, isn't it? Very sad!' Those of my readers who have read The Wanderings of a War Artist in its earlier stages, will be familiar with our old friend of the Quartier Latin, who, during the siege of Paris, lived as best he could by his wits, and who, it will be remembered, drank several glasses of bock at my expense, and accepted cheerfully, but with apologies, several small silver coins-as a loan only-pending those better days which were in store for him—which, however, had not yet arrived, as may be seen by the fact that he was now doing odd jobs in connection with the armies of the Czar, as a sort of general utility man, his knowledge of French and English standing him in good stead with the officers, who, as a rule, seemed to me better versed in these than in their native tongue. Nor was this by any means the last I saw or heard of my eccentric friend, who was attached for some little time to the camp situated nearest to our own bivouac, and whose accomplishments as a ne'er-do-weel were, I found out, quite equalled by his skill as a flute-player. Some of these evenings round the camp-fire (which, by the way, at the ordinary rate of siege prices for wood, have often cost us ten or fifteen shillings to replenish for yet another hour's comfort) were pleasant enough, and a popular volume might have been written on the stories then told; one of which, by Coningsby, touching a little experience of his own, I remember ran as follows: Filthy lucre was at the bottom of it, as it is at the bottom of most things. The British Consul (I think it was at Philippopolis) had certain valuable stores and money to send from one hospital to another across country; the money, I may mention, having been chiefly contributed by that most estimable of women, the Baroness Burdett-Coutts. Having no reliable man to look after its safety on the journey, he asked Coningsby-who, with his servant, was going in that direction to undertake the onerous office, which, the stores being packed on mule-back and the money safely deposited, he agreed to do; an escort of six Circassians having been specially provided for the greater safety of the little party. But to come at once to the point. Having been on their journey for some time, and having reached the most sequestered part of a wood they had to traverse, Coningsby's dragoman came to him and declared to having overheard a plot on the part of the Circassian escort, who, having found in some way how valuable a charge they had, had determined to murder Coningsby and himself and make off with it. An inspiration seemed to possess the Times correspondent. He mustered the six immediately, and, declaring there were brigands in the wood, ordered two to gallop off and scour the neighbourhood in one direction, again ordering two more to ride off in another, while he awaited the tidings they should bring him. All this, being enforced at a revolver's muzzle, was subscribed to, since the opportunity for carrying out their scheme of murder and robbery could be put into effect later on. Thus, having got rid of four out of six, Coningsby now turned with his dragoman on the other two, and compelled them to gallop in front of them in yet a third direction, while the mules were driven as best they could in the middle, Coningsby and his servant still covering the backs of their advance-guard with their six-shooters. What became of the outwitted four, I never heard. Yes, we had some merry moments, though some very miserable ones too during the silent watches of the night, I can assure you. Indeed, I remember one bitterly cold night, a little group of benumbed correspondents were seated round the almost dead embers of our camp-fire. We had quite exhausted our supply of wood and animal spirits, and had run short, too, I remember, in the important matter of tobacco; even the last bugle had long since sounded, and, save for the monotonous cannonade, and lurid light which lit up the redoubts from time to time, all was quiet as the grave. We were truly in sorry plight; at the lowest ebb of that depression which, when, as now, all things tend towards it, will sometimes affect the most volatile. It was at this supreme moment that we heard a familiar sound suddenly break through the stillness of the night. We all listened intently. Yes, it must be it was! It could be no individual phantasy, for we all heard it. It was in the most perfect time, with the most refined feeling-the strains of an air which thrilled us with new life, which brought back the blood to our half-curdled veins again, as we caught the rhythm of that dear old melody, so familiar to us all, of 'Home, sweet Home.' We rose with one accord and listened. It floated across 'HOME, SWEET HOME.' IM the still night air, to remind us, in pathetic strains, of the homes, the wives and sweethearts we had left behind us. Need I say that it proceeded from the rough reed-pipe of my friend the Cossack camp-follower, whom I had met, in an earlier stage of existence, in the Quartier Latin ? ‘Odd, isn't it? Very odd,' as he said when I unearthed him the next morning. 'If I'd only devoted half the time to playing the flute which I have devoted to playing the-foolI might have been better off now-eh? Sad, isn't it?—very sad!' CHAPTER VIII. QUALIFICATIONS OF A WAR CORRESPONDENT 'WANTED -A REFINED CRUELTY CAPRICE OF WAR-A MEMORABLE SNOWDRIFT. THE qualifications of a war correspondent should be threefold an iron constitution; a laconic, incisive style, be it with pen or pencil; and sufficient tact to establish a safe and rapid connecting link between the forefront of battle and his own headquarters in Fleet Street or elsewhere. I have known several good men and true, eminently fitted by their skill, power of endurance, and pluck, to have played conspicuous parts, but who, lacking the strategy necessary to their office, have comparatively come to grief. Hundreds of their sketches or letters sent from the front have gone no farther than the military field-post, where they have been destroyed, or, on the other hand, given to unscrupulous messengers, who, once paid, have made small work of them. As I have already said, our most trusty postmen in Asia Minor were brigands, who, having everything to gain by the delivery of what was to them valueless, found honesty for the time being the best policy. For my own part, in all Bulgaria, I found only two men devoted to my interests, my servantt--a most invaluable fellow -and myself. During the time I was at Plevna, I never once trusted to the tender mercies of the Russian field-post; I always sent, or personally took, my sketches across the Danubian frontier, and when they were actually deposited in Roumanian mail-bags, I knew that within a measurable time they would find their way to the editorial sanctum of the Illustrated London News. On one occasion, when returning across the Danube's blue waters to Plevna from one of these errands, I witnessed a scene which I at once made note of and sent on to my paper, and when, in due course, it appeared in the pages of the Illustrated, I found myself very much 'wanted' by the incensed Russian authorities, who may now learn, for the first time, that camp-followers are as capable of contrivance as Muscovite diplomatists. The incident forms a subject for illustration, representing a number of Turkish prisoners, occupied in the unsavoury task of breaking up the gravestones of their ancestors to make roads over which to drag the heavy Russian field-pieces to Plevna. To a sensitive mind this would be a refined punishment indeed; but let us hope the average Turk introduced little sentiment into his task. Yet there were many, I noticed, who felt it acutely, and who even chose the alternative-imprisonment -rather than desecrate God's acre. Here and there Russian artillerymen posted themselves, ready to menace with knotted whips those who were tardy in the work of demolition. How that sketch ever circumvented the Russians, and arrived in the Strand, puzzled more than one wiseacre at Porodim and elsewhere, for little did they suppose at that time that, with 'a smile which was childlike and bland,' there was a camp-follower among them taking notes. There is something mysteriously capricious about war: you turn out in the morning, are out all day, often all night too, for the matter of that, yet it is impossible to foretell, ever so vaguely, what may happen the next moment. Experience teaches nothing; all seems as incomprehensible as the animal you found in the Noah's Ark of your childhood, when you |