A War Correspondent's Tragedy At Constantinople.

New York Times 100 years ago today, December 1, 1912:
Never-Before-Told Story of How MacGahan, an American, Defied General Skobeleff in the Turko-Russian War and Became His Closest Friend Till Black Plague Cut Him Down. 
By Richard Barry.
    SKOBELEFF stood six feet two in his military boots; MacGahan stood six feet three. Skobeleff was born in a hamlet in the Caucasus; MacGahan in a little town in mid-Ohio. At the time of which I write Skobeleff wore the tunic of a Major General in the Russian army; MacGahan the leather jacket of an American war correspondent. Skobeleff was commanding the centre of the Russian advance on Constantinople in the war of 1877-78; MacGahan was representing there The London Daily News. Januarius Aloysius MacGahan was his full name, and nobody ever knew him well enough to call him "Jack."
    The two had become bosom friends; they ate in the same mess, slept in the same tent, spent practically all their time together. Both were linguists. Frequently Skobeleff would address MacGahan in English, and MacGahan would reply in Russian.
    When MacGahan died, at the most glorious moment in Skobeleff's career, the Russian — but this is ahead of the story. Let me tell it in full detail as it was related to me one starlit night, on the top of a Manchurian mountain, by Frederic Villiers, the English war artist, who was there and saw what happened. To my knowledge it has not been published before, and it seems especially pertinent just now when another army, other generals and other correspondents are on the heights above the Bosphorus looking down at that Stambul which has been the goal of seven nations for more than two thousand years.
    The Russo-Turkish war covered the same ground as the present war. It was waged ostensibly for the same purpose, to punish Turkey for her abuse of the inhabitants of her provinces, but really that Russia might realize her dream of centuries and acquire a port on the western sea. It lasted for thirteen months, from February, 1877, to March, 1878. At the end Constantinople lay, as now, supine before her enemies.
    Out of that war Skobeleff emerged as its most thrilling figure, just as Savoff, the Bulgarian commander, will emerge from the present war. Yet there were half a dozen Russian Generals of superior rank and greater authority. In fact, the division of authority in the Russian army was the chief cause that the war was not finished in thirteen weeks instead of thirteen months. The Russian Emperor and the Grand Duke Nicholas, the nominal Commander in Chief of the Russian armies, were both present in person.
    At the beginning Skobeleff commanded a division, consisting of about 20,000 men. He had won this position in the Russian army through a succession of brilliant feats, covering a score of years, chiefly in campaigns against the marauding tribes in the Caucasus. It was well known that he was daring, fearless, and possessed of military genius of a high order. That he was finally to be listed as one of the world's great Generals was not apparent until the siege of Plevna, where, after months of terrible losses and bitter defeat, he at last, alone of all the Russian commanders, succeeded in breaking the inner line of Turkish defense, and then captured the chief Turkish citadel outside the capital.
    After that, although he still commanded little more than a third of the Russian army, supreme control of every important movement was given to him, and it was his soldiers who first saw Constantinople. At length, in February, 1878, he climbed the heights above the little village of San Stefano, only a dozen miles from the palace of the Sultan, and looked down on the Golden Horn.
    Throughout this year MacGahan was the close companion of Skobeleff. I know of no other episode in history which parallels this in which a non-combatant, a civilian writer, was not only the close friend, but the daily, constant associate of the commanding General. To explain this close friendship between men of far different blood and of opposite calling, let me go back a number of years and relate the episode which first brought Skobeleff and MacCahan together.
    It was in the Caucasus, during the campaign against Khiva. MacGahan had been in that country for a number of years. He knew it well, spoke the language, was acquainted with the customs of the people, and was as competent to take care of himself among the wild mountaineers as any Russian. His book, "Campaigning on the Oxus," is one of the classics of war correspondence.

Turned Back by Skobeleff.
    At the beginning of the campaign MacGahan received instructions from his newspaper to accompany the column which was being sent into the interior under Skobeleff. He presented himself at headquarters and asked for credentials to accompany the troops.
    Skobeleff, whom he did not see personally, sent word that no foreigners at all, and no correspondents, not even Russian, would be permitted with his command. It was a dangerous country and the enemy to be sought must have no opportunity to get information concerning the Russian advance.
    Accordingly MacGahan, apparently, turned his back on the enterprise, evidently returning to civilization. Skobe-leff started on, and, by forced marches, advanced two hundred miles in eight days. He was then three hundred miles beyond reach of the telegraph. His force, of only a few thousand men, all cavalry, had not yet been molested, but the silence was ominous, and every day he expected to find an ambuscade.
    The eighth night, when Skobeleff had pitched his tent at the outskirts of a mountain village, his pickets came in with word that they had found a foreigner, billeted on one of the houses, that the foreigner was a "white man" — the Caucasus mountaineers being swarthy in complexion — and perhaps a spy. Skobeleff ordered the suspect to appear at once before him in his tent.
    MacGahan appeared. He was a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in his early thirties, with a full beard, a very gentle manner, and an ascetic appearance. Villiers has told me that MacGahan in those days closely resembled the idealized pictures of the Christ which artists were then fond of drawing. He had a spiritual look in his face, and a modest, quiet manner. He never protested or excused.
    "What do you mean by disobeying my orders?" exclaimed Skobeleff, when he discovered with whom he had to deal.
    "I am sorry to annoy you," replied MacGahan, "but I have been unable to see how your orders could concern me once I left the lines of your army. Besides, I have orders under which I am operating, which are fully as imperative as yours. I am ordered to report this campaign, and I am as much beholden to do that as you are to carry out the orders of your chiefs."
    Skobeleff laughed. He half thought the man unbalanced, for not even a Russian would have dared alone to penetrate that country, whose inhabitants were then highly incensed against all invaders and who hesitated no more at murder than they would in decapitating a hen. "That is no concern of mine," he said, "and you must clear out of here at once. Take the road back in the morning. You may find it clear, and if you get out alive be thankful."
    MacGahan expressed his gratitude for this "consideration" and withdrew. The next morning he rode out of the camp early and disappeared in the direction from which the army had advanced. Skobeleff immediately continued his progress, by forced marches, twenty-five to thirty miles a day. The way grew lonelier, the mountains steeper, the villages more widely separated, the silence more ominous.
    In another week they had gone another hundred and fifty miles, and were only a few days' journey from their objective — Khiva. Then, one night, again the pickets brought word of the presence of another mysterious "white man" in the village. The suspected "spy" was instantly ordered before the commander.
    Again it was MacGahan. Instead of going back he had circled the army, had avoided all the pitfalls of the mountaineers, and had actually outridden the Cossacks under Skobeleff's command, supposedly the best riders in the world.
    "Well," exclaimed Skobeleff, always an impulsive Slav, "there are three things I can do with you: shoot you as a spy, which I would be justified in doing after your disobedience of my orders; send you back, or keep you here. If I send you back I think you would have as little chance as if I put you up against a wall with a firing squad in front, for the mountaineers have closed in behind us and we are shut off. And I rather like your nerve, so I won't have you shot. The only thing to do with a fellow like you is to keep you right under my eye.
    I can't afford to have you knocking around the country. Therefore, you may consider yourself attached to my headquarters staff from this time on."
    MacGahan accepted the situation gravely, as a mere incident of the day's work. The campaign lasted for three months. MacGahan never abused his privileges, never intruded on the commander, never left the lines, and submitted all he wrote to Skobeleff's chief of staff, a young fellow named Kuropatkin, destined, a generation later, to lead the largest army Russia ever raised into her most crushing defeat.

Saved Skobeleff's Life.
    One day, before Khiva, Skobeleff found it necessary to advance personally into one of the breastworks and inspect a portion of the enemy's defenses. While he was kneeling there, looking through a hole, a bullet entered, from the side, and missed his head by a few inches. Being always thoughtless of his own welfare he paid no attention to it and did not turn around. MacGahan happened to be standing near and he saw that a sharpshooter on the enemy's battlements had found the range and had a direct line on the person of the commander. Instantly, without attracting Skobeleff's attention, MacGahan hurled a sandbag into the aperture through which the sharpshooter was firing. Skobeleff went on with his observations unconscious of what had been done for him.
    That night, after dark, one of his aids showed the commander the bag which the correspondent had providentially placed at the side of his head. It was riddled with bullets. Skobeleff, emotional, generous, undeterred by discipline, sent hastily for MacGahan. When he arrived the Russian embraced the American and kissed him on both checks. In this manner he hailed him as a brother-in-arms.
    In that campaign, however, they were not messmates. That intimacy came later, during the Turko-Russian war. In the interim the two had become close friends, during several weeks of gay life in Paris. Then, when war was declared against Turkey and Skobeleff as well as MacGahan was ordered to the front, the Russian invited the American to share his mess, and, on occasion, to occupy his tent.
    This was an unprecedented condition. No other General than Skobeleff would have ventured to so disrupt military discipline. But Skobeleff was a law unto himself. He fought, lived, and died in his own way.
    Thus they went through the campaign from the Danube down to Plevna. At the celebrated Grivitza redout, before Plevna, occurred another incident that served to cement the intense admiration and loyal friendship that Skobeleff felt toward MacGahan. The two were walking one day behind an earthwork which protected the Russian soldiers. The Turks lay a quarter of a mile away, behind their fortifications.
    Suddenly the General and the correspondent came to a place where the earth wall was lowered for a few paces. Skobeleff instinctively lowered his head and walked along in a crouched position. The wall was perhaps five feet high, and he was sheltering the top foot or more of his body. MacGahan, however, paid no attention to the need for shelter. This was not through bravado, but through sheer obliviousness of danger. A number of officers and quite a few soldiery near by saw the trifling incident, saw what appeared to be the ducking of the commander and the uprightness of the American.
    The moment the two had reached the full six-foot shelter of the higher embankment Skobeleff realized what had happened. He was a great stickler for personal daring on the part of officers under his command and never hesitated to go himself into any place where he might order his men. Doubtless he thought that this trifling incident would result in some damage to his reputation.
    Therefore, without an instant's delay he sprang to the top of the embankment, and, for a dozen paces or more walked along on top, oblivious of the bullets which promptly began to whistle about his careless head. None who saw that, and the incident, of course, was promptly spread throughout the army could ever doubt the courage of the commander.
    MacGahan, however, was highly alarmed. Knowing Skobeleff so well he fully realized his foolhardiness. He called to Skobeleff to come down, but the General waved him off airily. Then MacGahan reached up, grasped Skobeleff's sword by its scabbard, and, in full sight of his staff, literally pulled the protesting commander out of danger. This act was cheered by those who saw it.
    Shortly after this Plevna fell, and the Russian Army proceeded down the peninsula, where, in battle after battle, they successively defeated the de-moralized Turks. At each movement Skobeleff's force was in the height of the action. Finally the Turks were driven into their last defenses about Constantinople. It was then early in March, 1878.
    Skobeleff made his headquarters in the suburb called San Stefano, six miles from the walls of the city, and from there was about to make the final attack which would have given Russia possession of the port for which she had so desperately striven. But before he could strike the final blow the Emperor and the Grand Duke arrived. The imperial party pre-empted San Stefano and told Skobeleff to retire with his army to a position behind St. George, a small town a dozen miles away, on the heights above the city. This was a hard blow to Skobeleff, yet he could do nothing but obey.
    Skobeleff did not know at the time that the powers had taken a hand in the affair, that the work of the Russian Army was over, and that the fruits of their victory were to be snatched from them by the hand of diplomacy. Even then the Berlin Congress of July, 1878 was being assembled.
    The impetuous soldier and daring commander who had caused the Russian arms to triumph chafed unutterably at the delay. It filled him with resentment to see his prey lying at his feet and yet be unable to take it. In this unhappy hour MacGahan was his chief comfort and his closest friend. To MacGahan he confided his troubles, his resentment at the complexity of the Russian military system, the bungling of the Grand Duke, the supineness of the Emperor. MacGahan steadied and reassured him. Skobeleff, now that the stress of the campaign had largely passed, began to drink. MacGahan prevailed on him to be more careful of his habits. Day and night MacGahan stuck to him, preventing him from folly after folly.

MacGahan's Death and Skobeleff's Grief.
    One night they were playing cards in Skobeleff's tent when MacGahan suddenly complained of faintness and fell over in his chair. Skobeleff instantly summoned the chief surgeon. A cursory examination revealed the terrible truth. MacGahan had the black typhus, the scourge which had broken out in the army during its inaction. He was hastened to a hospital and Skobeleff spent part of the night personally tending him.
    Two days later a special courier arrived from the Emperor bearing to Skobeleff word that he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant General and that the Order of Alexander, one of the most exclusive within the Emperor's gift, would be conferred upon him.
    Skobeleff, part child, all Russian, much genius, with wholehearted simplicity rushed to the hospital to tell the good news to his friend. MacGahan was dying. With tears in his eyes Skobeleff told of his aggrandizement. Smiling, and in a weak voice, MacGahan said: "Good! You will have more than that some day!"
    These were practically his last words. In an hour he was dead. All through the last moments of the American Skobeleff sat holding his hand and striving to reassure him with accounts of what a fine time they would have in Paris and St. Petersburg once peace had been declared.
    Then, when it was all over, Skobeleff retired to his tent to think of what he could do to show his esteem for  this foreigner and non-combatant who had been closer to him than any of his own countrymen.
    The next day the army saw what Skobeleff had determined to do. It was to he a military funeral, on the battlefield, with all the honors of war.
    A burial place was chosen on the heights of St. George. From the spot Constantinople and the beautiful expanse of the Bosphorus were plainly visible. To it there proceeded a naked gun carriage, with the gun displaced, and, in its stead, a simple board coffin containing MacGahan's remains. Behind the coffin, alone on foot, walked Skobeleff, with bared head. Following him came his staff.
    Then, as the coffin was lowered into the grave, a company of infantry fired a volley in final salute. The soldiers, in obedience to quiet commands, turned to go. Tho gun carriage lumbered away. The members of the staff walked slowly back.
    But, as the last clods fell on the coffin, Skobeleff, with a cry that all could hear, fell face foremost on the top of the new grave, and lay there, convulsed in terrible sobs.
    For long minutes no one approached him. At length Skobeleff regained his feet. All had tactfully moved away except Kuropatkin, who dutifully remained to accompany his chief back to the camp and the duties of the day. For a moment Skobeleff stood looking down into the capital of the Turks.
    Then he turned to Kuropatkin and in a mood of savage despair said to him as he gestured toward the city:
    "There is buried my ambition!"
    Then, more gently, he pointed to the grave and added: "And there is my heart. I have nothing left. I will never do anything again."
    The Congress of Berlin did shear the Russians of their victory, and the intrigues of the St. Petersburg Court deinied Skobeleff much of the credit he deserved. A few years later he died in Moscow in an orgy of dissipation.