CHAPTER XXXIV
"MESSIRIE'S"
A narrow street, paved with the roughest and sharpest of flints,debouching into three other streets even less commodious than itself; aTurkish sentry dozing torpid at his post--half-a-dozen _hamauls_[#] cladin rough frieze jackets, and wide pantaloons of the same material,gathered in at the knee, scratching their brown herculean legs, andexamining their broad flat feet, as they recline against a dirty deadwall, and interchange their jests with a degree of humour foreign to ourEnglish ideas of Turkish gravity--a rascally-looking dragoman in a blackfrock-coat and a fez, rolling a cigarette, prepared to cheat, rob,swindle, or lie at the shortest notice, a slave to every sensual viceexcept drunkenness, and speaking all the languages on earth in badItalian--a brace of English Jack-tars, afire with raki, trolling out"Cheer, boys, cheer," and a stray Zouave, equally exhilarated, joiningin chorus; a T.G., or travelling gent, with nascent beard, and towelwound turban-wise around his straw-hat, wishing himself in Pall Mall,and indignant at the natives, who call him "_Johnny_."
[#] Porters.
The REAL thing from the Crimea, in a curiously worn-out shell jacket,patched and darned, stained and tarnished, with a bronzed face, a bushybeard of two years' growth, and a slight limp that for the rest of hislife will bid him "remember the fifth of November," and the turning ofthe tide upon the declivity of Inkermann.
Two or three English merchants, like crows, to be seen all over theworld, and everywhere in the same dress, with white shirts, and honestbroad-cloth coats, that remind one of home; a Queen's messenger, withtweed shooting-jacket and official forage-cap, clean shaved andclear-looking, after the bad passage and gale of wind he is sure at allseasons to encounter in the Mediterranean, a miracle to us _habitues_ ofthe place, being actually as fresh from London as yonder copy of _TheTimes_ newspaper, which came with him by the same mail, the onlyunfeathered biped in creation that thoroughly carries out the idea of"Here to-day, gone to-morrow." Such are the concomitants of the sceneupon which I enter at the door of Messirie's hotel, that well-knownrendezvous in Pera where congregate all that have any connection withthe mother country; a place where every rumour is to be heard with itslatest embellishments, and where, for the sum of seventeen francs a day,I can command a moderate breakfast, a dinner into the components ofwhich it is better not to inquire, and a murky bedroom, where the fiercemosquito shall drain my life-blood all the weary night.
"Is Major Manners in the hotel?" I inquire, as I throw myself off thePasha's horse, and, glancing at a face in the street very like that ofthe man I knocked down some three-quarters of an hour ago, reflect whata family resemblance reigns amongst the wretched sons of Ham. Bold is inhis worst of humours, and growls ominously. "Is Major Manners here?" Irepeat, and three Greek servants, with an abortive attempt to pronouncethe Frankish name, shrug their shoulders and open their hands to expressthe hopeless imbecility in which they rejoice. I perceive a stout manin a white hat, picking his teeth unconcernedly in the passage, and,recognising him for the master, I apply at once for the information Irequire. He looks contemptuously at me in reply, and, turning his broadback upon me, walks off without deigning to take any further notice of acustomer; but I have been here before, and I know there is balm inGilead. I know that in a certain little room on the left I shall findthe hostess, and that she, the mainstay and prop of the establishment,will spare no pains to assist a countryman. Kindly Madame Messirie!always ready to aid one in a difficulty, always busy, alwaysgood-humoured, always so thoroughly English, it was quite refreshing tohear the tones of your homely voice, and fancy oneself in the "WhiteLion," or the "Blue Bear," or some other pleasant hostelry, withpost-horses and a bar, and an ostler's bell, far away in merry England.
"Vere Egerton! can that be you?" said a voice that I thought Irecognised, as I entered the sanctum in which the hostess reignedsupreme. "Little Egerton, as I'm alive, growed out of knowledge, anddoubtless by this time a Pasha with three tails, and a true believer.Tell me all about the process of conversion and the tenets of yourfaith."
It was indeed Ropsley,--Ropsley the Guardsman--Ropsley the dandy, buthow altered! The attenuated _roue_ of former days had grown large andmuscular, his face was brown and healthy, his forehead frank and open,the clear grey eye was brighter and quicker than it used to be; it hadcaught the ready, eager glance of those who look death habitually in theface, but had lost much of the cruel, calculating, leaden expression Iremembered so well. Despite his worn-out uniform, the rents in whichshowed here and there a red flannel shirt,--despite his close-croppedhair and flowing beard,--I could not but confess to myself, as I graspedhis hand, that Ropsley looked ten years younger and ten times handsomerthan when I saw him last.
Yes, I met him cordially, and as an old friend. 'Tis true he had beenmy greatest enemy, 'tis true he had inflicted on me a wound, the scar ofwhich I felt I should carry to my grave; but months had passed awaysince then; months which, crowding events upon events, had seemed likeyears; months of danger, labour, hardship, and tribulation. Of whatavail is suffering if it does not soften and purify the heart? Why arethose that mourn blessed, if it is not that they learn the bitter lessongrief alone can teach? My task had been a hard one--how hard none knewsave the poor humbled scholar who conned it day by day, and blisteredthe page with his tears; but I had conquered it at last, and so I freelyforgave Ropsley, and clasped him by the hand.
"You dine here, of course," he said, in his old half-humorous,half-sarcastic voice. "Madame Messirie, princess of Pera, and queen ofmy soul, order a place to be set for my friend the Pasha, and lots ofchampagne to be put in ice. I have only just come down from the front;I have scarcely had a decent dinner, or seen a silver fork, for a yearand a half. It's an endless business, this, Egerton; hammer, hammer,hammer, yet nothing comes of it, and the old place looks whiter and moreinviting than ever, but we _can't get in_!"
"And the Mamelon?" said I, eager for the last news from the spot towhich millions of hearts were reaching, all athirst for hope.
"Got it at last," was his reply, "at least, our neighbours have; I hopethey'll keep it. We made a sad mess last week, Egerton; lost no end ofmen, and half our best officers. Whew! I say nothing, only mark mywords, if ever--but there's the bell! Never mind the siege now. War's amistake, but dinner (if you can get it) never deceives you." And sosaying, the _ci-devant_ dandy patted me on the back, and pushed mebefore him into the well-lighted and now crowded _salon_.
In that strange country, so thoroughly Asiatic, which we call Turkey inEurope, there were so few links to connect us with the life ofcivilisation which seemed to have passed from us like a dream, that itwas no wonder we clung to Messirie's hotel and thronged its _tabled'hote_ with a constancy and devotion less to be attributed to its ownintrinsic merits than to the associations and reminiscences it calledforth. Here were to be met all the gallant fellows who were going to,or coming from, the front. Heroes, whose names were destined to gildthe page of history, might here be seen drinking bad tea and complainingof the butter like ordinary mortals; but always in the highest spirits,as men seem invariably to be during the short lulls of a campaign. Whenyou are likely to be shot next Monday week, if you have small hopes, youhave few anxieties. Here, too, you might sit opposite a diplomatist,who was supposed to know the innermost secrets of the court at Vienna,and to be advised of what "the Austrians meant to do," whilst rubbingshoulders with you as he helped himself to fish; and confronting the manof ciphers, some heroic refugee, Pole, Croat, or Hungarian, whose namewas in every journal in Europe, as it was inscribed on every militarypost in Austria or Russia, munched away with a capital appetite, andappeared only conspicuous for the extreme modesty and gentleness of hisdemeanour. Contractors of every nation jabbered in every language, norwas the supple Armenian, grafting the bold spirit of Europeanspeculation on his own Oriental duplicity, wanting to grasp his share ofthe plunder, which John Bull was so magnanimously offering as a premiumto e
very description of fraud. Even the softer sex was not without itsrepresentatives. Two or three high-born English ladies, whose lovinghearts had brought them hovering as near the seat of war as it waspossible for a non-combatant to venture, daily shed the light of theirpresence at the dinner-table, and were silently welcomed by many a boldspirit with a degree of chivalrous enthusiasm, of which, anxious andpre-occupied, they were but little aware. A man must have been livingfor months among men, must have felt his nature gradually brutalisingamidst the hardships, the sufferings, and the horrors of war, thoroughlyto appreciate the softening influence of a woman's, and especially of a_countrywoman's_, society. Even to look on those waving white dresses,those gentle English faces, with their blooming cheeks and rich brownhair, was like a draught of water to a pilgrim in a weary land. Itreminded us of home--of those we loved--and we went our way back intothe desert a thought saddened, perhaps, yet, for all that, kindlier andhappier men.
"What a meeting!" exclaimed Manners, as, gorgeously arrayed in thesplendours of a full-dress uniform, he took his seat by my side andshook hands with Ropsley, who returned his greeting with a cordialpressure and a look of quiet amusement in his eye that almost upset mygravity: "Everdon at Constantinople!" continued our former usher; "weonly want De Rohan to make our gathering quite perfect!"
I winced, and for the first time in my life I saw Ropsley colour, butManners was too much occupied to notice the emotion of either of us;for, during his many visits to Constantinople, the dashing officer ofBashi-Bazouks had made such numerous acquaintances, and become sonecessary an ingredient in the society of Pera, that there seemed to behardly an individual at table, from the _attache_ of the Embassy down tothe last-joined officer of the Commissariat, with whom he was not onterms of intimate familiarity. He had scarcely taken his seat andunfolded his dinner-napkin, ere the cross-fire of greetings andinquiries began. Manners, too, in the sunshine of all his popularity,had expanded into a wag; and although his witticisms were of a somewhatprofound order, and not always very apparent to the superficialobserver, they were generally well received; for a wag was a scarcerarticle in Constantinople than at the front.
So Manners proceeds with his dinner in great satisfaction and glory.After a couple of glasses of champagne he becomes overpoweringlybrilliant. He is good enough, too, to take upon himself the oneroustask of drilling the waiters, which he affects in bad French, and ofabusing the deficiencies of the _cuisine_; a topic affording, indeed,ample scope for declamation. The waiters, especially a cunning oldGreek, with a most villainous expression of countenance, betray animmense respect for Manners, tinged with an amused sort of amazement,and always help him first.
They bring him a dish of hare, large of limb and venerable in point ofyears. Our Bashi-Bazouk exclaims indignantly, "_Qu'est que ca?_"
"_C'est un lievre, M'sieur_," replies the waiter, with a forced smile,as of one who expects a jest he will not comprehend.
"_C'est un chat!_" gasps out Manners, glaring indignantly on theofficial.
"_Pardon, M'sieur,_" says the waiter, "_c'est trop gros pour un chat._"
"_Chat_," repeats Manners; "_Chat_ THOMAS!" he adds, in a sepulchralvoice, and with a frowning brow. The waiter shrinks abashed, thecompany laugh, and Manners's observation counts for a joke.
By this time conversation begins to buzz pretty freely around.Everybody drinks champagne, and tongues soon become loosened by theexhilarating fluid. Various topics are discussed, including a newbeauty that has just arrived from Smyrna, of French extraction, andsupposed to possess a fortune that sounds perfectly fabulous whencalculated in francs. Manners listens attentively, for he has nottotally abandoned the idea of combining the excitement of war with thepursuit of beauty--properly gilded, of course--and his maxim is that"None but the brave deserve the fair." Her praises, however, as alsoher name and address, are intercepted by the voluble comments of twostout gentlemen, his neighbours, on the utter incapacity of the TurkishGovernment, and the hopeless imbecility of "the people of this unhappycountry, Sir,--a people without a notion of progress---destined todecay, Sir, from the face of the earth," as the stouter of the two, aBritish merchant, who is about investing in land here, remarks to hisneighbour, a jovial Frenchman, who has already bought many a fertileacre in the neighbourhood of Constantinople, under the newHatti-Sheriff;[#] and who replies, fixing his napkin securely in hisbutton-hole--
[#] An act empowering foreigners to hold land in Turkey.
"_Pourri, voyez-vous, mon cher. Crac! ca ne durera pas trois ans._"
Opposite these worthies, an ensign in the Guards, and the Queen'smessenger, who is of a theatrical turn, are busy with the character,private as well as professional, of a certain star of the Opera, whomthe latter has already criticised in the execution of his duty atVienna, and an ardent desire to hear whom haunts the former enthusiastto such a degree, even in the very trenches, that he longs to attack andtake Sebastopol single-handed, in order to get home again before sheleaves London for the winter. The Turkish Ministry, changing as it doesabout once a week; the policy of Austria; the Emperor Napoleon's energy;the inefficiency of our own Commissariat; the ludicrous blunders of theWar Office, and the last retort courteous of Lord Stratford, all come infor their share of remark from prejudiced observers of every party andevery opinion; but by degrees one voice rises louder than the rest, oneindividual attracts the notice of the whole dinner-table, and nowiseabashed, but rather encouraged by the attention he commands, detailsvolubly his own account of the capture of the Mamelon. He is aFrenchman, and a civilian, but somehow he has a red ribbon on hisbreast, and belongs to the Legion of Honour, so he "assisted," as hecalls it, at the attack; and if he speaks truth, it must indeed havebeen an awful sight, and one in which his countrymen outdid themselvesfor valour, and that quality peculiar to the soldiers of France whichthey term _elan_, a word it is hopeless to think of translating. Hisopinions are decided, if not satisfactory; his plan of storming theplace an excellent one, if it could only be carried out.
"We have taken the Mamelon!" says he, "and what remains? Bah! TheMalakhoff Tower is the key to the whole position. What would you have?Every simple soldier in the army knows it as well as you and I do. Itell you I 'assisted' at the capture of the _Mamelon Vert_. Theyreceived us with a fire, well sustained, of grape and small arms. Ourammunition failed us at the critical moment. I was in theditch--_me!_--when the Zouaves came on with their yell--the 152nd of theline were in front of them. It must be carried with thebayonet!--_Pflan!_--our little red pantaloons were swarming up the workand over the parapet ere you could count ten--the tricolor was hoistedand the guns spiked in a twinkling--that is the only way to arrangethese affairs. Now, see here--you have your Redan, you others--you havesapped up to it, as near as you can get. There must be a combinedattack. You cannot hold it till we have silenced that little rogue of aMalakhoff. What to do? One of these '_four mornings_,' as it was withthe Mamelon so will it be with the Malakhoff! Give me a thick column,with the Zouaves in front and rear. These are not follies. I advancemy column under cover--I pour in a volley!--I rush on with the bayonet!At the same moment the Redan falls. Your Guards and Scotchmen run inwith their heads, a thousand cannon support you with their fire, theAllies hold the two most important defences, the Garden Batteries aresilenced. Chut! the place is ours! France and England are looking on.I do not say that this will be done; but this is how it ought to bedone. If your generals are fools, what is that to me? I am not ageneral--I!--but a simple civilian!--Waiter, a cigar! _Qui vivra,verra_."
It is all _pipe-clay_, as the soldiers call it, now. The one engrossingtopic silences every other. Alma, Inkermann, Lord Raglan's flank march,and the earlier incidents of the siege, are related by the very men whotook an active share in those deeds of glory. Two cavalry officers,both wounded on the fatal day, recapitulate once more the _pros_ and_cons_ of the immortal charge at Balaklava--a question that has beenvexed and argued till the very actors themselves in that most brilliantof disasters sca
rcely know how they got in, and still less how they evergot out. Though struck down by the same shell, and within ten yards ofone another, each takes a diametrically opposite view of the wholetransaction from his comrade. They differ materially as to time,position, pace, and results; above all, as to the merits of the leaderwhose wreath of laurels faded as undeservedly as it bloomed prematurely.
"I was close behind him the whole way," says the one; "I never saw afellow so cool in my life, or so well 'got up.' He regulated everystride of that good chestnut horse like clock-work. When we came intofire, our line was dressed as if on parade. I know it by my ownsquadron. Will you tell me _that_ man lost his head?"
"But where was he after we rode through the guns?" replied the other."Answer me that! I grant you he took us in like a _brick_. But whydidn't he bring us out? I never saw him after I was hit, and I _must_have seen him if he had rallied the first line, and been in his properplace to look out for his support. You were close to me, old fellow! Inever knew before that bob-tailed Irish horse of yours could gallop amile and a half. You were sickish, my boy, for I saw your face; butyour eyesight was unimpaired. Tell me, did _you_ see him, and what washe doing?"
"I _did_, I'll swear!" answers the partisan, as fine a specimen of ayoung hussar as ever drew a sword. "And I'll tell you what he wasdoing. Mind, I don't say it because I _like him_, for I don't.Confound him! he put me under arrest once in Dublin, and I believe itwas only because my boots weren't well blacked. But I saw him, with myown eyes, striking at three Cossacks, who were prodding him with theirlong lances; and if poor old Champion had not dropped under me just atthat moment, I'd have gone in and had a shy to help him, if I lost mystick. No, no! he's game as a pebble, let them say what they will; andif it wasn't for those cursed papers, he'd have had all the credit hedeserves. It was the quickest thing I ever rode to, my boy," adds theyoung one, rather flushed, and drinking off his champagne at a gulp inhis excitement. "He had a _lead_, and he kept it right well, and Iwon't hear him run down."
"I don't care," replies his friend. "I maintain it's a general's dutyto know everything that's going on. I maintain he ought to have stoodstill and looked about him (to be sure, we couldn't see much in thatsmoke); ay! and, if necessary, waited there for the Heavies to come up.Now, I'll prove it to you in five minutes, if you'll only listen, youobstinate young beggar! Do you remember, just before we were both hit,your saying to me, 'What a go this is!' and my answering, 'Whatever wedo, we must keep the men together, but half my horses are blown.' Doyou remember that?"
"I _admit_ nothing," answers the young man, laughing, "but I do rememberthat. It was just before we saw that strong body of Russian cavalry inrear of the guns, and I don't make out now why they weren't down uponus."
"Never mind that," pursues his opponent. "They behaved very steadily,and retired in good order; but you remember the circumstance. Well, hewas then about six horses' lengths from us on our fight."
"On our left," interposes the younger man--"on our left; for I rememberpoor Blades was knocked over between me and him."
"On our _right_," persists the other. "I am certain of it, my dearfellow, for I remarked at the time----"
"I am positive he was on our left! I remember it as well as if it wasyesterday."
"I could take my oath he was on our right; for I recollect seeing hissabretasche swinging."
"Left!" says one, "Right!" says the other; and they never advance onestep farther in the discussion, which will be prolonged far into thenight, to the consumption of much brandy and water, together withcountless cigars, but with no further result.
If no two men see any one action of common life in the same light, howhopeless must it be to endeavour to get at the true statement of anevent which takes place in the presence of a crowd of witnesses, allexcited, all in peril of their lives, all enveloped in the dense smokeof a hundred guns, all maddening with the fierce, blood-stirring turmoilof such a deed of arms as the death-ride at Balaklava.
The instant dinner is finished, and coffee served, cigars are lit. Itis a signal for the ladies to retire, and our handsome countrywomen sailout of the room, with that stately walk that none but an English ladyever succeeds in effecting. Many a glance follows them as theydisappear; many a stout heart tightens under its scarlet covering, tothink of the ideal at home--her gloves, her dress, her fragrant hair,her graceful gestures, and the gentle smile that may never gladden himagain. Men are strange mixtures! the roughest and the coldest exteriorssometimes hide the most sensitive feelings; and when I hear a manprofessing audacious libertinism, and a supreme contempt for women, Ialways mistrust the bravado that is but a covering for his weakness, andset him down at once as a puppet, that a pair of white hands--if oneonly knew where to find them--can turn and twist and set aside at will.
Ropsley was much softer in his manner than he used to be. Had he, too,experienced the common fate? Was the dandy Guardsman no longerimpervious, _nulli penetrabilis astro_? Painful as was the subject, hetalked much of the De Rohans. He had seen Constance married; he hadheard repeatedly from Victor during the past year; and though heevidently knew my hopes and their disappointment, by the tenderness withwhich he handled the subject, he could not resist enlarging on thetopic, and talking to me of that family, in which I could never cease totake the warmest interest. I winced, and yet I listened, for I longedto know and hear of her even now. I would have lain quietly on the rackonly to be told of her welfare. It _was_ painful too. Perhaps there isno moment at which the heart feels so empty--at which the hopelessnessof a loss is so completely realised, as when we hear the idol of ourlives talked of in a matter-of-course way, as being totally unconnectedwith, and independent of, ourselves.
I remarked that, of his own accord, Ropsley never mentioned Valerie. Toan inquiry of mine as to the welfare of my kind and handsome nurse, hegave, I thought, rather an abrupt reply; and, turning suddenly round toManners, asked him "if there was nothing to be done in the evening inthis stupid place?" To which our gallant Bashi-Bazouk, who consideredhimself responsible for our amusement, answered delightedly, "No operayet, Ropsley, though we shall have one in six weeks; no evening partieseither, except a few amongst the French inhabitants--delightful people,you know, and very select. I am invited to-night to a little music, notfar from here. I could take you both, if you like, with _me_. Asfriends of mine you would be most welcome. You speak French, Ropsley,if I remember right?"
"A little," replied the latter, much amused, "but _not_ with _youraccent_;" which, indeed, was true enough; for he had lived a good dealat Paris, and knew Chantilly as well as Newmarket. "Am I well enoughdressed, though, for your fastidious friends?" he added, glancing, notwithout a gleam of inward satisfaction, from his own war-worn,threadbare uniform, to Manners's brilliant and somewhat startlingcostume.
"Couldn't be better!" replied the latter; "looks workmanlike, and allthat. This time next year I only hope mine will be half as good.Meanwhile, come along, you and Egerton; never mind your cigars, they allsmoke here."
"What! ladies and all, at these _select_ parties?" laughed Ropsley. "Ithought we were going amongst a lot of duchesses: but I hope they don'tdrink as well?"
"Custom of the country, my dear sir," replied Manners, gravely--"onlycigarettes, of course. If a young lady offers to roll you one, don'trefuse it. These little things are matters of etiquette, and it is aswell to know beforehand." So, drilling us on the proper behaviour to beobserved at a Pera party, our cicerone swaggered out into the night air,clanking his spurs, and rattling his sabre, with a degree of jinglingvigour which seemed to afford him unlimited satisfaction. It was rathergood to see Ropsley of the Guards--the man who had the _entree_ to allthe best houses in London, the arbiter of White's, the quoted ofdiners-out, the favourite of fine ladies--listening with an air of thegreatest attention to our former usher's lectures on the properdeportment to be assumed in the company to which he was taking us, andthanking him with the utmost gravity for his judicious hints and ki
ndintroduction to the _elite_ of Pera society.
"Go home, Bold, go home." The old dog _would_ accompany me out of thehotel, _would_ persist in following close at my heel along the narrowstreet. Not a soul but our three selves seemed to be wandering aboutthis beautiful starlight night. The Turkish sentry was sound asleep onhis post; a dark figure, probably some houseless _hamaul_, crouched nearthe sentry-box. Savage Bold wanted to fly at it as he passed.
"How cantankerous the old dog grows," remarked Ropsley, as Bold stalkedbehind us, ears erect, and bristling all over with defiance. Ere wewere fifty yards from the hotel he stopped short and barked loudly; afootstep was rapidly approaching up the street. Murders and robberieswere at this time so frequent in Constantinople, that every passengerwas an object of mistrust in the dark. We, however, were three strongmen, all armed, and had nothing to fear. Bold, too, seemed to recognisethe step. In another moment the Beloochee overtakes us, and with even amore imperturbable air than usual salutes me gravely, and whispers a fewwords in my ear. On my reply, he places my hand against his forehead,and says, "The brothers of the sword are brothers indeed. Effendi, youknow Ali Mesrour, the son of Abdul. From henceforth my life is at thedisposal of my Frankish brother."
A hurried consultation between the three Englishmen succeeds. Mannersmakes a great virtue of sacrificing sundry waltzes on which he seems tohave set his heart, and is pathetic about the disappointment his absencewill too surely inflict on Josephine, and Philippine, and Seraphine, butis amazingly keen and full of spirits notwithstanding. Ropsley, nolonger the unimpressionable, apathetic dandy, whom nothing can excite oramuse, enters with zest into our project, and betrays a depth offeeling,--nay, a touch of romance--of which I had believed himincapable. Bold is ordered peremptorily to "go home," and obeys, thoughmost unwillingly, stopping some twenty paces off, and growling furiouslyin the darkness. Two and two we thread the narrow streets that leaddown to the water's edge. The Beloochee is very silent, as is his wont,but ever and anon draws his shawl tighter round his waist, and loosenshis dagger in its sheath. It is evident that he means _real business_.Manners and Ropsley chat and laugh like boys out of school. The latternever seemed half so boyish as now; the former will be a boy all hislife--so much the better for him. At the bridge Ali gives a low shrillwhistle. It reminds me of the night we escaped from the Cossacks inWallachia; but the good mare this time is safe in her stable, and littlethinks of the errand on which her master is bound. The whistle isanswered from the water, and a double-oared caique, with its white-robedwatermen, looms through the darkness to take us on board. As we glidesilently up the Bosphorus, listening to the unearthly chorus of thebaying wild-dogs answering each other from Pera to Stamboul, Mannersproduces a revolver from his breast-pocket, and passing his finger alongthe barrel shining in the starlight, observes, "Four of us, and five_here_, make nine. If the gate is only unlocked, we can carry the placeby storm."