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CHAPTER XVIII.

A "CAMP DINNER" IN CENTRAL ASIA.

"VITE, mein friend!" shouts my fellow-prisoner, Dr Engelbrecht, bursting into the little brick-paved room in which I am sitting over my tea and camp-biscuit. "We go to dejeûner wid de voisko in de lager, and all shall be fertig in una hora!"

By this polyglot announcement, the Doctor means to intimate that we are to lunch to-day with the officers of the newly-arrived detachment. Khiva having fallen, troops are now coming up from all points to relieve the army of occupation. One of the flying columns from Orenburg has just bivouacked on the Syr-Daria, beside Fort No. I; and to-day we are to be its guests.

"Shall I take my sauce-pan?"

"Yes, sure! and de spirit-lamp, and de bif-extrait, and all! We must have one very good essen to-day, or de officers shall say dat I know not how to cook."

And, stimulated by this awful possibility, the Doctor hurries off to the post-house to procure a "trap," while I hasten to fish out my cooking apparatus, not forgetting the "bif-extrait"-i.e., Baron Liebig's famous invention. In an hour, as my comrade prophesied, all is ready; and away we go in gallant style, over a series

of ruts, holes, banks, and pools of water, that might shake the nerves of a Tipperary carman-till at length we come out upon the great plain beyond, wind our way deftly among the countless tents with which it is studded, and finally pull up in front of a more pretentious "canvas than the rest, at the door of which the Russian regimental doctor (a long, lean, dried-up old fellow, with a lancet-shaped face and castor-oil complexion) stands ready to greet his confrère.

And now, is not this a gallant sight? Just below the fort, the river makes a wide bend to the south, enclosing a broad sweep of grassy turf, usually tenanted only by a few stray cattle, but to-day humming like a hive with the bustle of twelve hundred fighting men. From the outer ditch to the brink of the Syr-Daria, the whole plain is alive with the glitter of lances and bayonets, the flitting of white uniforms, the neighing and pawing of horses, the shouts and laughter of the rough, good-humoured, overgrown schoolboys, who chaff, and halloo, and play tricks on each other, without a thought of what is to come. The river, where I bathed in utter solitude two days ago, is now dotted. with scores of sunburned faces; and the wild-fowl are scared from their reeds by the smoke of countless fires, upon which bubble iron pots, whose savoury steam allures the Kirghiz dogs from any distance to sniff hungrily around them. In a word, the whole tableau is an admirable specimen of one of the most picturesque sights on earth-a real Cossack camp on the steppes of Central Asia.

But at present we have no leisure for admiration. The day is wearing towards afternoon, and our meal is still to be cooked; so to work we go in earnest. The soldiers make a fire of dried manure, wood being as rare in these parts as honesty or clean linen; our host sends his servant to the river for water; I take upon myself the keeping up of the fire and the stirring of the soup-kettle; while the German doctor, turning up his sleeves with a professional air, begins chopping meat as heartily as if he were taking off a leg. And so, for the next two or three hours, the work goes on vigorously, Dr Engelbrecht every now and then tasting the soup with the air of a connoisseur, and giving his orders with the calm dignity of superior knowledge. At length all is ready; and while the chef and his aidesde-camp are serving up, I take a hasty stroll through the camp, in order to appreciate more fully its picturesque details.

The bivouac forms a kind of irregular oblong, on three sides of which the horses are tethered and the arms piled. The fourth faces the river; and here, enjoying the cool breeze that blows across it, are to be found all who are not otherwise engaged. To my right, as I pass by, an eager circle is gathered round a greyhaired Cossack, who, between the puffs of his short black pipe, is spinning an amazing yarn about some forgotten campaign against the Turkomans. To my left sits a hulking lad astride of a half empty biscuitchest, while a comrade, standing behind him, is vigorously chopping off his hair with a pair of scissors big

enough to serve a gardener. Close beside me, a dozen pair of huge dusty boots suddenly protrude themselves from beneath the cover of a "dog-tent" (a sheet of felt fixed upon forked poles three feet high), showing that the sleepers are uncoiling from their afternoon's nap.

A little farther on, a long, gaunt, Don Quixote-like fellow, squatting cross-legged on the grass, is tailoring his nether garments with a dexterity which Poole himself might applaud. On the bank itself, a grim veteran, with a broken nose, is watching a simmering camp-kettle, while half a dozen others are paddling about in the river, and splashing each other amid roars of laughter. And yonder, behind a pile of boxes, apart from all the noise and bustle, a tall, handsome, smooth-faced lad, with a very fair complexion for a Cossack, is sitting bent forward over a soiled and ill-written letter-perhaps from his mother, perhaps from some bright-eyed Natalia or Tatiana far away on the slopes of the Ural -whose contents, misspelt and blotted as they are, suffice to make the brave fellow's eyes glisten in a way of which he would be sorely ashamed, did he dream that any one saw him. Let us leave him in peace, and pass on.

"Hoy! where were you? Come!"

It is the stentorian voice of Dr Engelbrecht, making itself heard from the distance; a warning that dinner is served, and that I must hasten back. And a most original dinner it is, the "gipsy style" in its fullest development. Chairs are replaced by chests, barrels, or camp-bedsteads; wooden ladles do the duty of knife, fork, and

spoon; instead of plates we use saucers, canisters, wooden bowls, and what not, each, as he finishes, washing out his dish and passing it to his neighbour, till all are served. Only one tumbler is to be found, which we unanimously vote to the president, contenting ourselves with horns or pewter mugs. But what matter such trifles in a place like this? Every fresh deficiency only provokes a fresh shout of laughter; and, despite our scanty commisariat and ragged uniforms, we are probably the merriest party assembled this day between the Aral Sea and the Himalaya. At any rate, there is no trace of discontent or ennui in the full-mouthed chorus, in which we all join, when our youngest member strikes up the famous old camp song which I learned years ago from the veterans of Nicholas in the heart of Central Russia :—

THE SOLDIER'S FAMILY.

"Soldiers, soldiers, lads of the Czar,

Who are your fathers, say?'

'Our fathers are battles whose fame rings loud,
They are our fathers, they I'

"Soldiers, soldiers, lads of the Czar,

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Who are your mothers, say?

Our mothers are tents standing white on the field,

They are our mothers, they !'

Soldiers, soldiers, lads of the Czar,
Who are your sisters, say?'

'Our sisters are sabres whetted to smite,
They are our sisters, they !'

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