The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"Grant, James
General
The Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"
Grant, James
Adventure stories; British -- Foreign countries -- Fiction; Soldiers -- Fiction
He heard me address the Prophet, and remembering the faith of his
fathers, felt his heart moved within him; so he had compassion upon
me, and took me to his hut, which, like all the Tartar dwellings, was
little better than a rabbit-hole, burrowed on the face of a hill,
with a rude verandah in front. Fortunately it lay in a wild and
secluded place; so I dwelt for some days in safety with this good
man, who guided me across the plains of Grodno, until I passed the
Prussian frontier, when I knelt with my face to the east, and gave
thanks to Heaven--thanks that I was safe from Russia, although eight
hundred miles lay between me and the hills of my beloved Circassia.
Zupi, my horse, the noble animal which had borne me this incredible
distance, was my first care, and to procure new garments in lieu of
the tattered uniform of the Tenginski Hussars was the second; and
intent only on reaching Britain, which was about to declare war
against Russia, I travelled through part of Prussia by railway, a
mode of locomotion, which I there saw for the first time, and which
filled me with wonder and awe.
On reaching that kingdom, I thought my troubles were at an end; but
there, alas! I found myself accused of a murder, stripped of the
little sum I had about me, separated from Zupi, cast into prison, and
in danger of being hanged; or what was worse, sent back to the
Russian General Todleben, who commanded at Grodno. It happened thus.
I travelled towards Dantzig in a second-class carriage, in which the
only other passenger was a pale and careworn young man, whose
profusion of beard, braided coat, and small cap, with its square
peak, gave him somewhat the aspect of a student. Taciturn and
thoughtful, and being full of astonishment at the speed with which we
swept over plain and valley, across rivers and under
mountains--travelling as it were on the skirts of a whirlwind--I did
not address my companion, who after smoking a large pipe for some
time, covered his head with his cloak, and threw himself at full
length along the seat, where he lay, long, as I thought, asleep. A
jolt of the train threw him on the floor, and perceiving that he lay
motionless and still, I hastened to lift him; but how great was my
emotion, to find my hands covered with blood--for this silent
fellow-passenger was a suicide, who had cut his throat from ear to
ear, by a knife, which he grasped in his now rigid hand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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