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Phantom Regiment; or, Stories of "Ours"

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<h3> CHAPTER XIX WE REACH HEAD-QUARTERS. </h3> Such was the story of the Circassian captain, and it occupied the greater part of the time during which the San Lucar packet steamed along the south-west coast of Andalusia, passing Cape Plata, and entering the Straits of Gibraltar, had rounded the promontory which is crowned by towers and ramparts of Tarifa, after which a run of seventeen miles brought us into the harbour of the great rock, where the babble of Spaniards, Moors, Italians, French, and Gitanas was ringing in our ears again, as we landed with our horses on the quay. Taking our new friend with us—for we could not but have a lively interest in a brother patriot of the valiant Schamyl—the Washington of the Caucasus, the Wallace of Circassia, we repaired at once to headquarters, and related the success of our visit to Seville, reserving future relations until we went to mess in the evening. We introduced Captain Osman Rioni to Morton, our colonel, who immediately spoke to him of service in the Turkish Contingent, urging it upon him the more vehemently, as there were then in the harbour six transports full of French and British troops en route to Sebastopol. But Osman thanked the good colonel, and shook his head, saying,— "Mohammed was the first Prophet of God, and the holy Murid Schamyl is the second! Our destiny is written on our foreheads; may it be mine to die in the ranks of war! Every man hath his part in life allotted to him; may it be mine to fight for my country, and fight again I shall! Is not her blood red on the Russian bayonets? I will carry a lance under no flag but the green Sangiac Sheerif of Circassia. Would to heaven I saw it now with the twelve stars of the confederated tribes, for then I should see the Abassian peaks and the wilds of Daghestan, the warriors in their mail of links, and the linden trees that shade those cottage doors from which our women bless us, and we ride to war against the Buss. Yes, yes; I will return to Circassia on her shore alone to fight with Schamyl against the foes of God, and to see once more the snowy rocks of Elbrus, where the ark of Noah first rested before it lay on Ararat." His story, his peculiar language and bearing, his horse Zupi, and his love for that gallant animal made him quite a seven days' wonder with "Ours," and he was the lion of the mess table. Every one who had any pretension to be a connoisseur in horse-flesh had visited, criticised, and caressed Zupi, which was a long-bodied, wiry, and, to our taste, somewhat short-legged nag, with small ears, a noble head, full chest and flanks, compact and close. "A hundred times and more he has stood still as a stone wall, and allowed me to fire my long Albanian gun between his ears, using his head as a rest," said Osman; "courage, brave Zupi—courage! Ere long thou shalt snuff the air in woody Daghestan, and drink of the foaming Koissons." We raised a handsome subscription for him in one night at our mess table, and procured him a passage in a French cavalry transport; so he left us, with lips that quivered as he said "farewell," and a heart that yearned with gratitude. He said that one day we should hear of him when Schamyl and his host marched towards the shores of the Sea of Azov. Whether Osman reached his own wild and war-like country we have yet to learn; for since the day on which the "Napoleon III." steamed away past the New Mole fort, with her deck crowded by Zouaves, and our Circassian among them waving his red cap in adieu to us, we have heard no more of him; for the tidings of the Caucasian strife that reach Europe are meagre, doubtful, and vague, as those that came from the Holy Land of old. Slingsby and I were complimented in garrison orders for the manner in which we had accomplished our little diplomatic trip to Seville, and were praised for the dangers we had encountered and escaped. Our adventures, with those of Osman Rioni, infected the mess with a desire to "spin yarns," and the result was, that from being the most matter-of-fact fellows in the world, every one of "Ours" had a romantic story to tell. "Now, gentlemen," said the colonel, one evening when I had brought my narrative down to the happy epoch of our embarkation on board the steamer at San Lucar de Barameda, "how much more pleasant and entertaining has all this been to us than the usual absurd chit-chat which reigns supreme at a mess table; the everlasting quiz about the curl of Ramble's mustachios; the banter about Bob's whiskers, or Slingsby's bay mare, and how Shafton craned at the hedge in the steeple-chase; the odds on the Derby; the last new singer; the latest ballet importation, with the shape of her ancles, and so forth; the last novel or polka, or belle, or piece of humbug; now is it not so?" Hereupon all those whose constant topics the colonel had just enumerated, warmly assented that it was, and that the narrative had proved immensely interesting. "Deuced instructive, too!" yawned the most stupid fellow at the table. "Might spin three volumes out of it, Ramble. 'Men and Manners in Andalusia!'" said another. "No banter now, gentlemen!" said the colonel; "pass the bottles, Shafton. Mr. Vice-President, another allowance of wine; I have a proposal to make. We have been—that is, the most of us—have been in all the quarters of the globe, and have seen life in all its phases and varieties. Therefore, I beg to move that each of us who has a story to tell should forthwith tell it for the amusement of the mess, under the penalty of a dozen of wine." "Bravo," said every one. "I beg to second the motion," said Jack Slingsby. "With an amendment," added Shafton, "that the colonel should tell the first story himself, the said amendment to be inserted in the minutes of the mess committee." It was carried unanimously, amid much fun and laughter. Our colonel, who is a fine, frank, and brave-hearted old fellow, had no idea that he was so suddenly to find himself in his own trap. He laughed and reflected a little, as he stroked the wiry, grey mustache which, in compliance with the late general order, he had just begun to cultivate after forty years of close shaving; and then he smoothed his thin white hair, for he was an old soldier, and (but for the favouritism of the Horse Guards) would have been a general twenty years ago, being one of the few survivors of that army which gave battle to France on the shores of Aboukir, where, as he was wont to say, "he had carried the colours of Geordie Moncrief's lambs—the old Perthshire Greybreeks." He had also been through the whole Peninsular war, and served in the Fifth Hussars, with Sir Colquhoun Grant's brigade under Wellington in Flanders. "I have seen much in my time, gentlemen," said he, good humouredly, as he tossed off a glass of claret, "but have no adventures of my own to relate—at least none that are at all worth your attention. I can, however, tell you the story of another, whose scrapes were somewhat remarkable, and were in some respects—as far as Spanish robbers were concerned—like those of Ramble and Jack Slingsby. They were told me by a French officer, a gay fellow, but a regular candle-snuffer at twelve paces, whom I met at Paris when the allies were there; by this you will perceive that the affairs I refer to happened many a year ago." The glasses were filled; the cracking of nuts ceased; the heavy crystal decanters were slid noiselessly over the long smooth mess-table, the well-polished surface of which reflected the red coats around it, and all was hushed as our grave and gentle old colonel began the following narrative, to which I beg leave to devote my next three chapters. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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