.
I knew too that across there in Scutari was the burial-ground where the bones of those English officers and men who died in hospital after the Crimea lay buried, and I felt that with the brave dead of my own race so near me I was in good company. The old military hospital at Scutari has been turned into barracks now; but the room which Miss Florence Nightingale occupied while she was performing her mission of mercy to the wounded there is still preserved untouched, while her name is kept in affectionate remembrance by the sons of many whom she nursed back to life, or whose last hours she soothed with womanly ministering. As I looked out upon the landscape, I saw it set in the clear atmosphere of Southern Europe, so that every separate minaret stood sharply out and the marble domes of St. Sophia glistened in the bright sunlight.
All is warmth and colour, life and brightness, in Stamboul by day. By night, however, the difference is appalling. The streets were never lighted, and people were not supposed to be out after nine o'clock. If one went out at all, one went at one's own risk, and took the chance of attack by any of the thousands of stray dogs that prowl at will about the city and camp undisturbed in the streets. To one who had been accustomed to Paris and Vienna, where it is never night in this sense, where gas and arc lamps form an admirable substitute for sunlight, and where the patter of feet on the trottoirs and the hum of human life in the cafés are practically ceaseless, the sensation of wandering through these dark, deserted streets among hordes of starving curs was a strange one. By day Constantinople is modern, pulsating, alive. By night, with those dogs about, it is like one of those deserted cities of a long forgotten civilization, in which Briton Rivière shows us the panther and the tiger that have taken the place of man.
During my stay in Stamboul I often walked through the bazaars, where solemn old Turks in baggy breeches sought to swindle me with polite decorum, and where the whole atmosphere breathed of the Arabian Nights. One half expected to see Prince Camaralzaman come swaggering down the street, with his scimitar clanking on the pavement behind him; or Amina or Zobeide, heavily veiled, and with only her dark eyes showing through the yashmak's folds, slide past demurely with a sidelong glance at the stranger from the West.
The population of Constantinople do not believe in overwork; and for business purposes there are practically three Sundays in the week—namely, the Turkish Sunday, which falls on our Friday; the Jewish Sunday, which falls on Saturday; and the Christian Sunday. I went out one day to the "Sweet Waters," a favourite picnic place near the head of the Golden Horn, where the Turkish women and children enjoy their holiday under the trees, and the real Turkey lolly-men drive a thriving trade in sweetmeats and sherbet. It was curious to note how the veneer of Western social routine was superimposed upon the changeless institutions of the East. I saw the ladies from the harems of sundry wealthy Turkish gentlemen driving out to "Sweet Waters" in the afternoon in carriages as perfectly appointed as any that roll through Hyde Park or the Bois de Boulogne in the height of the London or Paris season. Two ladies from one harem generally occupied one carriage; and the gigantic eunuch on the box, who was responsible for them while they were out under his charge, would use his London carriage whip without hesitation on the heads and shoulders of any young Turkish or Giaour mashers who attempted to make eyes at the closely guarded beauties.
I spent many a pleasant hour too in the long, narrow caïques that plied for hire on the waters of the Golden Horn like the gondolas of Venice; but I still had much to see when, after a week's stay, an official communication was handed to me informing me that I had been appointed regimental surgeon to the Kyrchehir Regiment, so named from the town in Asia Minor where it had been raised. I packed my portmanteau at once, and followed the messenger, who led me to the barracks where the regiment was quartered, and where I was introduced to my new colonel. He was most polite, and invited me to have supper with him; and then it was that I had my first really Turkish meal. I cannot truthfully say that I enjoyed it; and when my host, to mark the warmth of his hospitality, picked up a piece of chicken off his own plate in his fingers and placed it in my mouth, I must confess that I almost spoilt all my chances of a distinguished military career by an instantaneous attack of nausea. I spent the night in the barracks tossing sleeplessly on a divan, and soon after daybreak marched down with my regiment to the railway station.
The regiment, which was eight hundred strong, was officered by a colonel, two majors, eight captains, sixteen lieutenants, and a paymaster. When the process of entraining was completed, I found myself en route at six o'clock in the morning for a destination of which I knew nothing, and in company with a regiment of troops who were as ignorant of English as I was of Turkish. I was accommodated in a compartment with the colonel, the two majors, and the paymaster, Mehemet Ali, with whom I afterwards chummed up and lived on terms of the closest friendship. It was decidedly awkward, however, at first; for as the Turkish officers could speak neither French nor German, all communications between us had to be by signs. The men were packed closely together, and the train crawled slowly on towards the terminus, stopping for one hour in every three. We were three days and two nights on the journey towards Tatar Bazardjik, and I had plenty of time and opportunities for forming an opinion as to the kind of men with whom my lot was cast. I found that these men, who were all conscripts, formed the second regiment which had been raised at Kyrchehir, and fine fellows they were. I could have picked fifty men from among them who were as grand specimens of physical humanity as could be found anywhere in the world. They were all well clothed in the serviceable infantry uniform, and were armed with the Martini-Peabody rifle.
We camped each night at a railway station, and I remember on the morning of the second day seeing an old pasha who was organizing troops locally come galloping down to inspect us. Our regiment was paraded, and the pasha rode down the lines scanning the men closely. Presently he spotted me, and, seeing at a glance that I was not a Turk, he addressed a question to the colonel, who evidently replied that I was their new English surgeon. The pasha trotted up to where I stood at attention, and addressed some incoherent query to me; but as I could not even conjecture what it was all about, I imitated the gentleman whom Tennyson speaks of, and "smiling put the question by." I thought that the old pasha looked hurt; but the mystery was soon cleared up by the arrival of his own private barber with razor, soap, and brush. It seemed that "side boards" were not allowed in the Turkish army, and the small hairy appendages which covered my youthful cheeks, and of which, to tell the truth, I was rather proud, had deeply offended the old pasha's trained sense of order. So I had to submit myself to the pasha's barber, and in a few minutes the offensive adornments were removed, and I could no longer be distinguished from any of my Turkish colleagues.
At last we reached Tatar Bazardjik at eleven o'clock at night; and as there was no accommodation at the railway station, camp-fires were lit, and the regiment bivouacked for the night. Next morning at five o'clock I was roused up, and the colonel brought up four horses, giving me to understand by signs that I was to select one for a charger. I chose a little grey stallion, a powerful animal, with a look of endurance about him. He had a heavy Turkish peaked saddle on him, a most uncomfortable thing to ride in until one gets used to it; but there was no choice in the matter, so I had to make myself as comfortable in it as I could. Then we started on the march for Sofia, and a very unpleasant march it was at first.
It was then the month of June, and the weather was intensely hot; while, to add to our discomforts, a terrific duststorm swept down on us soon after leaving the bivouac, filling eyes, noses, and ears with fine, impalpable powder, and getting down the men's throats so that they could hardly breathe. The regiment marched all day, and of course I assumed that a good many of the men would be knocked up; but at five o'clock we halted, and pitched camp for the night, having covered about twelve miles of the journey.
Soon after the tents were pitched I had my first patient to attend. They brought up a man who had all the symptoms of an ordinary fit, and I had to make up my mind at once whether it was a genuine fit or whether he was malingering to avoid duty. It seemed to be a real fit, and then again there was something suspicious about it. I knew that if I was imposed upon at the outset I should have endless trouble, so I took my resolution at once, and explained by signs to Colonel Suleiman, who was standing by, that the man was shamming. The colonel's remedy for cases of this kind was drastic, but very effective. He had the patient sent to the rear, and given a round three dozen with a stick on that part of the person which schoolmasters have found to be especially suited for the receipt of chastisement. Of course the word was