At this time our regiment was then in the East, awaiting with the rest
of the army some movement to be made from Varna, either towards
Bessarabia or the Crimea--men's minds were undecided as to which,
while her Majesty's Ministers seemed to have no thought on the
subject. Our depôt belonged to the provisional battalion at
Winchester, where Caradoc, Gwynne, two other subalterns, and I, with
some two hundred rank and file, expected ere long the fiat of the
fates who reign at the Horse Guards to send us forth to win our
laurels from the Russians, or, what seemed more probable, a grave
where the pest was then decimating our hapless army, in the beautiful
but perilous vale of Aladdyn, on the coast of Bulgaria. We had
just adjourned from mess, to have a quiet cheroot and glass of
brandy-and-water in my quarters, when I received from my man, Owen
Evans, the letter the contents of which awakened so many new hopes and
tantalising wishes in my heart, and on which so much of my fate in the
future might hinge.
The bare, half-empty, or but partially-furnished single room accorded
by the barrack authorities to me as a subaltern, in that huge square
edifice built of old by Charles II. for a royal residence, seemed by
its aspect but little calculated to flatter the brilliant hopes in
question. Though ample in size, it was far from regal in its
appurtenances--the barrack furniture, a camp-bed, my baggage trunks
piled in one corner, swords and a gun-case in another, books, empty
bottles, cigar-boxes, and a few pairs of boots ostentatiously
displayed in a row by Evans, making up its entire garniture, and by
very contrast in its meagreness compelling me to smile sadly at myself
for the ambitious ideas the letter of my old friend had suggested; and
thus, for a minute or so ignoring, or rather oblivious of, the
presence of my two companions, my eye wandered dreamily over the
far-extended mass of old brick houses and the gray church towers of
the city, all visible from the open window, and then steeped in the
silver haze of the moonlight.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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