The Thin Red Line; and Blue Blood Part 51

"Get up!" cried a voice; but McKay was too much dazed and distracted by all he had endured to understand that the command was addressed to him.

It was repeated more arrogantly, and accompanied by a brutal kick.

He rose slowly and reluctantly, and asked in a sullen voice--

"Where are you taking me?"

"Before his Excellency. Step out, or must we p.r.i.c.k you along?"

A march of half-an-hour under a strong escort brought them to a large camp. They pa.s.sed through many lines of tents, and halted presently before a smart marquee.

The Cossack officer in charge entered it, and presently returned with the order--

"March him in!"

McKay found himself in the presence of a broadly-built, middle-aged man, in the long grey great-coat worn by all ranks of the Russian army, from highest to lowest, and the flat, circular-topped cap carried also by all. There was nothing to indicate the rank of this personage but a small silver ornament on each shoulder-strap, and another in the centre of the cap. At a b.u.t.ton-hole on his breast, however, was a small parti-coloured rosette, the simple record of orders and insignia too precious to carry in the field.

There was unbounded arrogance and contempt in his voice and manner as he addressed the prisoner, who might have been the vilest of created things.

"So"--he spoke in French, like most well-educated Russians of that day, to show their aristocratic superiority--"you have dared, wretch, to thrust yourself into the bear's mouth! You shall be hanged in half-an-hour."

"I claim to be treated as a prisoner of war," said McKay, boldly.

"You! impudent rogue! A low camp-follower! A sneaking, skulking spy--taken in the very act! You!"

"I am a British officer!" went on McKay, stoutly. He was not to be browbeaten or abashed.

"Where is your uniform?"

"Here!" replied McKay, throwing open the _greggo_, which he still wore, and showing the red waistcoat beneath, and the black breeches with their broad red stripe.

"You said he was a civilian in Tartar disguise," said the general,--for such was the officer's rank,--turning to one of his staff and seeming rather staggered at McKay's announcement. He spoke in Russian.

"Take care, Excellency; the prisoner speaks Russian."

"Is that so?" said the general to McKay. "An unusual accomplishment that, in English officers, I expect."

"Yes, I am acquainted with Russian," said McKay. Why should he deny it? They had heard him use that language at the time of his capture.

"How and when did you learn it?"

"I do not choose to say. What can that matter?"

Again the staff-officer interposed and whispered something in the general's ear.

"Of course; I had forgotten." Then, turning to McKay, he went on: "What is your name?"

"McKay."

"Your Christian names in full?"

"Stanislas Anastasius Wilders McKay."

"Exactly. Stanislas Alexandrovich McKay. I knew your father when he was a captain in the Polish Lancers; was he not?"

"I cannot deny it."

"He was a Russian, in the service of our holy Czar, and you, his son, are a Russian too."

"It is false! I am an Englishman. I have never yielded allegiance to the Czar."

"You will find it hard to evade your responsibility. It is not to be put on or off like a coat. You were born a Russian subject, and a Russian subject you remain!"

"I bear a commission in the army of the British Queen. I dare you to treat me as a Russian now!"

"We will treat you as we find you, Mr. McKay: as an interloper disguised for an improper purpose within our lines."

"What shall you do with me?" asked McKay, in a firm voice, but with a sinking heart.

"Hang you like a dog to the nearest tree. Or, stay! out of respect for your father, whom I knew, and if you prefer it, you shall be shot."

"I am in your power. But I warn you that, if you execute me, the merciless act will be remembered throughout Europe as an eternal disgrace to the Russian arms."

This bold speech was not without its effect. The general consulted with his staff, and a rather animated discussion followed, at the end of which he said--

"I am not to be deterred by any such threats: still, it will be better to refer your case to my superiors. I shall send you into Sebastopol, to be dealt with as Prince Gortschakoff may think fit, only do not expect more at his hands than at mine. Rope or rifle--one of them will be your fate. See he is sent off, Colonel Golopine, will you? And now take him away."

McKay was marched out of the marquee, still under the escort of Cossacks. But outside he was presently handed over to a fresh party; they brought up a s.h.a.ggy pony--it might have been the fellow of the one he had left behind the previous night--and curtly bade him mount.

When, with hands still tied, he scrambled with difficulty into his saddle, they tied his legs together by a long rope under the pony's belly, and, placing him in the centre of the escort, they started off at a jog-trot in the direction of the town.

CHAPTER III.

A PURVEYOR OF NEWS.

Mr. Hobson gave his address at Duke Street, St. James's, a lodging-house frequented by gentlemen from the neighbouring clubs. But he was never there except asleep. There was nothing strange in this as none of the occupants of the house were much there, except at night-time--they lived at their clubs.

So, for all the landlady knew, did Mr. Hobson. But we know better. He had no club, and his daily absence from breakfast--simply a cup of coffee and a roll, which he took in the French fas.h.i.+on, early--till late at night was to be accounted for by his constant presence at his office or place of business, although it was both and neither. This was in a little street off Bloomsbury, the first floor over a newspaper shop.

Mr. Hobson pa.s.sed here as an agent for a country paper. It was supposed to be his business to collect and transmit news to his princ.i.p.als at a large seaport town on the East Coast. These were days before the present development of newspaper enterprise, when leading provincial journals have their own London offices and a private wire.

Mr. Hobson's principles were very liberal according to the idea of that time; they seemed to grudge no expense with regard to the transmission of news.

Telegrams were costly things in those days, but Mr. Hobson sometimes sent off half-a-dozen in the course of a morning. He was served too, and exceedingly well, by special agents of his own, who came to him at all hours--in cabs driven recklessly, or on foot, in a stealthy, apologetic way, as though doubtful whether the news they brought would be acceptable.

The office upstairs bore out the notion of the news-agency. Its chief furniture consisted of two long, sloping tables, on which lay files of daily papers. There was one big book-case handy near the fireplace, and over the desk at which Mr. Hobson sat. On the shelves of this were ranged a couple of dozen volumes, each bearing a label on which were various letters and numerals.