Adventure, December 1914 — page 213: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

The Sinews of War had been carefully concealed from the Ser- vian and Greek scouts, became known to all. This meant that the Bulgars had thrown away their last advantage. What follows is what men call history. In the dull, stifling heat of late June, Dimitrieff hurled his scanty forces at the connecting link between the Greek and Servian armies, the village of Ghuevgheli and the heights that surround it, hoping to cut them in two and then turn on the flank of each and smash them to atoms. . The strategy was well devised, and as a matter of fact the plan came within an ace of suc- ceeding. A few more rounds of shrapnel for his artillery, a few more reserves to throw against the positions he failed to carry, and Dimitrieff would have won. For a week the battle raged indeterminedly. Then sheer weight of numbers and lack of ammu- nition told. The Bulgarian regiments that had never known defeat began to retreat. The roar of the pursuing guns drew nearer and nearer to Sofia. We who had gone out into the southwestern mountains to listen to the combat raging far off across the fron- tier found as we returned toward the capital that the thunder of the artillery kept pace with us—sure sign of a relentless pursuit. It was then that the Roumanian jackals, seeing the Bulgarian Lion beaten to its knees, decided they might risk the offensive. There were no soldiers to oppose their ad- vance across the Danube. Every Bulgarian under arms had been rallied to the defense of Sofia. After this no one was much surprised at the news that the Turks had advanced from Tchataldja, brushing back the thin line of Bulgarian pickets that were the only force between the lines and Adrianople. Yet in the streets men wept with rage at the thought that the great fortress, which so many thousands of Bulgarians had died to win, might again fall into the hands of the infidels. It could not be. People refused to believe that God could be so unkind. But Provi- dence was determined to test the Bulgars with exceeding bitterness. Enver Bey and his Nizams swept down upon Adrianople— denuded of troops, its magazines empty— and occupied the gaping circle of forts with- out any opposition. By now, however, the Bulgars’ case was too desperate for them to think over-much of Adrianople’s loss. It was a question of 2II saving Sofia, of preserving the capital itself, around which four hostile armies were weld- ing a far-flung circle of steel. Panic broke out. Men and women fled through the streets seeking means of escape. But how could they escape? Only one path lay open, and that was by way of the Black Sea ports —and presently the Roumanian cavalry had cut this route. Sofia, like Paris in the Winter of 1870-71, lay as helpless as a sprawling giant, hemmed in behind her impassable barrier of hills. It was impossible even to telegraph any ap- preciable distance out of the city. Com- munication was feasible only so far as the farthest Bulgarian bayonets. Into this turmoil I rode with the little squad of dispatch-bearers and aides who brought back to the Czar the official news that the campaign had failed and that the only recourse left was submission. For of what avail was continued resistance without cartridges to shoot at the invaders? Men might be willing to die in defense of the homeland, yet no man could be expected to want to die, knowing that he had no chance to hurt his enemies, that all he had to expect was to be shot down by men he could not see. Bulgaria was beaten. The proud land of the Lion, which had emerged victorious from every previous venture of her brief career, was prostrate before foes outnum- bering her three to one. I knew it; the dispatch-bearers knew it. They who had seen whole batteries of field artillery captured with the gunners standing with arms folded, motionless beside their pieces, because they had no more ammuni- tion, not even for the revolvers in their holsters—they had no illusions. Yes, they knew; and they rode like men who had lost all hope as we parted company in Palace Square—they to bear their tale of disaster to the Czar, I to tell Masoya that her dream of empire was ended. Perhaps that was why I was not alto- gether unhappy. Selfish, you say? Possi- bly. Yet I defy any man to be wholly un- selfish, placed as I was. Bulgaria, what was the whole Slav race to me, compared with this woman? Noth- ing. They, did not count. I knew now that my fervor in their cause, personal though it had been in the begin- ning and founded on my old love of this gallant little land, had become entirely merged with my love for her, for her own MICLOOOK After all, what was C©@