Don Juan Part 24

Within the extent of this fortification A borough is comprised along the height Upon the left, which from its loftier station Commands the city, and upon its site A Greek had raised around this elevation A quant.i.ty of palisades upright, So placed as to impede the fire of those Who held the place, and to a.s.sist the foe's.

This circ.u.mstance may serve to give a notion Of the high talents of this new Vauban: But the town ditch below was deep as ocean, The rampart higher than you 'd wish to hang: But then there was a great want of precaution (Prithee, excuse this engineering slang), Nor work advanced, nor cover'd way was there, To hint at least 'Here is no thoroughfare.'

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet; Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, Case-mated one, and t' other 'a barbette,'

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; While two and twenty cannon duly set Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, Forty feet high, upon a cavalier.

But from the river the town 's open quite, Because the Turks could never be persuaded A Russian vessel e'er would heave in sight; And such their creed was, till they were invaded, When it grew rather late to set things right.

But as the Danube could not well be waded, They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, And only shouted, 'Allah!' and 'Bis Millah!'

The Russians now were ready to attack: But oh, ye G.o.ddesses of war and glory!

How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque Who were immortal, could one tell their story?

Alas! what to their memory can lack?

Achilles' self was not more grim and gory Than thousands of this new and polish'd nation, Whose names want nothing but--p.r.o.nunciation.

Still I 'll record a few, if but to increase Our euphony: there was Strongenoff, and Strokonoff, Meknop, Serge Lwow, Arsniew of modern Greece, And Tschitsshakoff, and Roguenoff, and Chokenoff, And others of twelve consonants apiece; And more might be found out, if I could poke enough Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet), It seems, has got an ear as well as trumpet,

And cannot tune those discords of narration, Which may be names at Moscow, into rhyme; Yet there were several worth commemoration, As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime; Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration Of Londonderry drawling against time, Ending in 'ischskin,' 'ousckin,' 'iffskchy,' 'ouski: Of whom we can insert but Rousamouski,

Scherematoff and Chrematoff, Koklophti, Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, All proper men of weapons, as e'er scoff'd high Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin: Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin Out of their hides, if parchment had grown dear, And no more handy subst.i.tute been near.

Then there were foreigners of much renown, Of various nations, and all volunteers; Not fighting for their country or its crown, But wishing to be one day brigadiers; Also to have the sacking of a town,-- A pleasant thing to young men at their years.

'Mongst them were several Englishmen of pith, Sixteen call'd Thomson, and nineteen named Smith.

Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson; all the rest Had been call'd 'Jemmy,' after the great bard; I don't know whether they had arms or crest, But such a G.o.dfather 's as good a card.

Three of the Smiths were Peters; but the best Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or ward, Was he, since so renown'd 'in country quarters At Halifax;' but now he served the Tartars.

The rest were jacks and Gills and Wills and Bills; But when I 've added that the elder jack Smith Was born in c.u.mberland among the hills, And that his father was an honest blacksmith, I 've said all I know of a name that fills Three lines of the despatch in taking 'Schmacksmith,'

A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein He fell, immortal in a bulletin.

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a G.o.d Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin May make up for a bullet in his body?

I hope this little question is no sin, Because, though I am but a simple noddy, I think one Shakspeare puts the same thought in The mouth of some one in his plays so doting, Which many people pa.s.s for wits by quoting.

Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young, and gay: But I 'm too great a patriot to record Their Gallic names upon a glorious day; I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word Of truth;--such truths are treason; they betray Their country; and as traitors are abhorr'd Who name the French in English, save to show How Peace should make John Bull the Frenchman's foe.

The Russians, having built two batteries on An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view; The first was to bombard it, and knock down The public buildings and the private too, No matter what poor souls might be undone.

The city's shape suggested this, 't is true; Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling Presented a fine mark to throw a sh.e.l.l in.

The second object was to profit by The moment of the general consternation, To attack the Turk's flotilla, which lay nigh Extremely tranquil, anchor'd at its station: But a third motive was as probably To frighten them into capitulation; A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, Unless they are game as bull-dogs and fox-terriers.

A habit rather blamable, which is That of despising those we combat with, Common in many cases, was in this The cause of killing Tchitchitzkoff and Smith; One of the valorous 'Smiths' whom we shall miss Out of those nineteen who late rhymed to 'pith;'

But 't is a name so spread o'er 'Sir' and 'Madam,'

That one would think the first who bore it 'Adam.'

The Russian batteries were incomplete, Because they were constructed in a hurry; Thus the same cause which makes a verse want feet, And throws a cloud o'er Longman and John Murray, When the sale of new books is not so fleet As they who print them think is necessary, May likewise put off for a time what story Sometimes calls 'murder,' and at others 'glory.'

Whether it was their engineer's stupidity, Their haste, or waste, I neither know nor care, Or some contractor's personal cupidity, Saving his soul by cheating in the ware Of homicide, but there was no solidity In the new batteries erected there; They either miss'd, or they were never miss'd, And added greatly to the missing list.

A sad miscalculation about distance Made all their naval matters incorrect; Three fireships lost their amiable existence Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: The match was lit too soon, and no a.s.sistance Could remedy this lubberly defect; They blew up in the middle of the river, While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept fast as ever.

At seven they rose, however, and survey'd The Russ flotilla getting under way; 'T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, Within a cable's length their vessels lay Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade, Which was return'd with interest, I may say, And by a fire of musketry and grape, And sh.e.l.ls and shot of every size and shape.

For six hours bore they without intermission The Turkish fire, and aided by their own Land batteries, work'd their guns with great precision: At length they found mere cannonade alone By no means would produce the town's submission, And made a signal to retreat at one.

One bark blew up, a second near the works Running aground, was taken by the Turks.

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men; But when they saw the enemy retire, Their Delhis mann'd some boats, and sail'd again, And gall'd the Russians with a heavy fire, And tried to make a landing on the main; But here the effect fell short of their desire: Count Damas drove them back into the water Pell-mell, and with a whole gazette of slaughter.

'If' (says the historian here) 'I could report All that the Russians did upon this day, I think that several volumes would fall short, And I should still have many things to say;'

And so he says no more--but pays his court To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray; The Prince de Ligne, and Langeron, and Damas, Names great as any that the roll of Fame has.

This being the case, may show us what Fame is: For out of these three 'preux Chevaliers,' how Many of common readers give a guess That such existed? (and they may live now For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; There 's fortune even in fame, we must allow.

'T is true the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's screen.

But here are men who fought in gallant actions As gallantly as ever heroes fought, But buried in the heap of such transactions Their names are rarely found, nor often sought.

Thus even good fame may suffer sad contractions, And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: Of all our modern battles, I will bet You can't repeat nine names from each Gazette.

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was a fault, And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) Most strongly recommended an a.s.sault; In which he was opposed by young and h.o.a.ry, Which made a long debate; but I must halt, For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, I doubt few readers e'er would mount the breach.

There was a man, if that he was a man, Not that his manhood could be call'd in question, For had he not been Hercules, his span Had been as short in youth as indigestion Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on The soil of the green province he had wasted, As e'er was locust on the land it blasted.

This was Potemkin--a great thing in days When homicide and harlotry made great; If stars and t.i.tles could entail long praise, His glory might half equal his estate.

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise A kind of phantasy proportionate In the then sovereign of the Russian people, Who measured men as you would do a steeple.

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent A courier to the prince, and he succeeded In ordering matters after his own bent; I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, But shortly he had cause to be content.

In the mean time, the batteries proceeded, And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order.

But on the thirteenth, when already part Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to raise, A courier on the spur inspired new heart Into all panters for newspaper praise, As well as dilettanti in war's art, By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase; Announcing the appointment of that lover of Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souvaroff.

The letter of the prince to the same marshal Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause Been one to which a good heart could be partial-- Defence of freedom, country, or of laws; But as it was mere l.u.s.t of power to o'er-arch all With its proud brow, it merits slight applause, Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 'You will take Ismail at whatever price.'

'Let there be light! said G.o.d, and there was light!'

'Let there be blood!' says man, and there 's a seal The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night (For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree More evil in an hour, than thirty bright Summers could renovate, though they should be Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit; For war cuts up not only branch, but root.

Our friends the Turks, who with loud 'Allahs' now Began to signalise the Russ retreat, Were d.a.m.nably mistaken; few are slow In thinking that their enemy is beat (Or beaten, if you insist on grammar, though I never think about it in a heat), But here I say the Turks were much mistaken, Who hating hogs, yet wish'd to save their bacon.

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew In sight two hors.e.m.e.n, who were deem'd Cossacques For some time, till they came in nearer view.

They had but little baggage at their backs, For there were but three shirts between the two; But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, Till, in approaching, were at length descried In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide.

'Great joy to London now!' says some great fool, When London had a grand illumination, Which to that bottle-conjurer, John Bull, Is of all dreams the first hallucination; So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, That Sage (said john) surrenders at discretion His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his nonsense, To gratify, like a huge moth, this one sense.

'T is strange that he should farther 'd.a.m.n his eyes,'

For they are d.a.m.n'd; that once all-famous oath Is to the devil now no farther prize, Since John has lately lost the use of both.

Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise; And Famine, with her gaunt and bony growth, Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine.

But to the tale:--great joy unto the camp!

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cossacque, O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, Presaging a most luminous attack; Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, Which leads beholders on a boggy walk, He flitted to and fro a dancing light, Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or right.

But certes matters took a different face; There was enthusiasm and much applause, The fleet and camp saluted with great grace, And all presaged good fortune to their cause.

Within a cannon-shot length of the place They drew, constructed ladders, repair'd flaws In former works, made new, prepared fascines, And all kinds of benevolent machines.