It was in something less than a week after that I entered upon my new career as orderly in the staff, when I began to believe myself the most miserable of all human beings. On the saddle at sunrise, I never dismounted, except to carry a measuring chain, ‘to step distances,’ mark out intrenchments, and then write away, for hours, long enormous reports, that were to be models of caligraphy, neatness and elegance—and never to be read. Nothing could be less like soldiering than the life I led; and were it not for the clanking sabre I wore at my side, and the jingling spurs that decorated my heels, I might have fancied myself a notary’s clerk. It was part of General Moreau’s plan to strengthen the defences of Kehl before he advanced farther into Germany; and to this end repairs were begun upon a line of earthworks, about two leagues to the northward of the fortress, at a small village called ‘Ekheim.’ In this miserable little hole, one of the dreariest spots imaginable, we were quartered, with two companies of sapeurs and some of the waggon-train, trenching, digging, carting earth, sinking wells, and in fact engaged in every kind of labour save that which seemed to be characteristic of a soldier.
I used to think that Nancy and the riding-school were the most dreary and tiresome of all destinies, but they were enjoyments and delight compared with this. Now it very often happens in life that when a man grows discontented and dissatisfied with mere monotony, when he chafes at the sameness of a tiresome and unexciting existence, he is rapidly approaching to some critical or eventful point, where actual peril and real danger assail him, and from which he would willingly buy his escape by falling back upon that wearisome and plodding life he had so often deplored before. This case was my own. Just as I had convinced myself that I was exceedingly wretched and miserable, I was to know there are worse things in this world than a life of mere uniform stupidity. I was waiting outside my captain’s door for orders one morning, when at the tinkle of his little hand-bell I entered the room where he sat at breakfast, with an open despatch before him.
‘Tiernay,’ said he, in his usual quiet tone, ‘here is an order from the adjutant-general to send you back under an escort to headquarters. Are you aware of any reason for it, or is there any charge against you which warrants this?’
‘Not to my knowledge,mon capitaine,’ said I, trembling with fright, for I well knew with what severity discipline was exercised in that army, and how any, even the slightest, infractions met the heaviest penalties.
‘I have never known you to pillage,’ continued he, ‘have never seen you drink, nor have you been disobedient while under my command; yet this order could not be issued on light grounds; there must be some grave accusation against you, and in any case you must go; therefore arrange all my papers, put everything to rights, and be ready to return with the orderly.’
‘You’ll give me a good character,mon capitaine,’ said I, trembling more than ever—‘you’ll say what you can for me, I’m sure.’
‘Willingly, if the general or chief were here,’ replied he; ‘but that’s not so. General Moreau is at Strasbourg. It is General Régnier that is in command of the army, and unless specially applied to, I could not venture upon the liberty of obtruding my opinion upon him.’
‘Is he so severe, sir?’ asked I timidly.
‘The general is a good disciplinarian,’ said he cautiously, while he motioned with his hand towards the door, and accepting the hint, I retired.
It was evening when I re-entered Kehl, under an escort of two of my own regiment, and was conducted to the ‘Salle de Police.’ At the door stood my old corporal, whose malicious grin, as I alighted, revealed the whole story of my arrest; and I now knew the charge that would be preferred against me—a heavier there could not be made—was, ‘disobedience in the field.’ I slept very little that night, and when I did close my eyes, it was to awake with a sudden start, and believe myself in presence of the court-martial, or listening to my sentence, as read out by the president. Towards day, however, I sank into a heavy, deep slumber, from which I was aroused by the reveille of the barracks.
I had barely time to dress when I was summoned before the ‘Tribunale Militaire’—a sort of permanent court-martial, whose sittings were held in one of the churches of the town. Not even all the terror of my own precarious position could overcome the effect of old prejudices in my mind, as I saw myself led up the dim aisle of the church towards the altar rails, within which, around a large table, were seated a number of officers, whose manner and bearing evinced but little reverence for the sacred character of the spot.
Stationed in a group of poor wretches whose wan looks and anxious glances told that they were prisoners like myself, I had time to see what was going forward around me. The president, who alone wore his hat, read from a sort of list before him the name of a prisoner and that of the witnesses in the cause. In an instant they were all drawn up and sworn. A few questions followed, rapidly put, and almost as rapidly replied to. The prisoner was called on then for his defence: if this occupied many minutes, he was sure to be interrupted by an order to be brief. Then came the command to ‘stand by’; and after a few seconds’ consultation together, in which many times a burst of laughter might be heard, the Court agreed upon the sentence, recorded and signed it, and then proceeded with the next case.
If nothing in the procedure imposed reverence or respect, there was that in the despatch which suggested terror, for it was plain to see that the Court thought more of the cost of their own precious minutes than of the years of those on whose fate they were deciding. I was sufficiently near to hear the charges of those who were arraigned, and, for the greater number, they were all alike. Pillage, in one form or another, was the universal offending, and from the burning of a peasant’s cottage, to the theft of his dog or hispoulet, all came under this head. At last came number 82—‘Maurice Tiernay, hussar of the Ninth.’ I stepped forward to the rails.
‘Maurice Tiernay,’ read the president hurriedly, ‘accused by Louis Gaussin, corporal of the same regiment, “of wilfully deserting his post while on duty in the field, and in the face of direct orders to the contrary, inducing others to a similar breach of discipline.” Make the charge, Gaussin.’
The corporal stepped forward, and began—
‘We were stationed in detachment on the bank of the Rhine, on the evening of the 23rd——’
‘The Court has too many duties to lose its time for nothing,’ interrupted I. ‘It is all true. I did desert my post, I did disobey orders; and, seeing a weak point in the enemy’s line, attacked and carried it with success. The charge is, therefore, admitted by me, and it only remains for the Court to decide how far a soldier’s zeal for his country may be deserving of punishment. Whatever the result, one thing is perfectly clear, Corporal Gaussin will never be indicted for a similar misdemeanour.’
A murmur of voices and suppressed laughter followed this impertinent and not over-discreet sally of mine, and the president, calling out, ‘Proven by acknowledgment,’ told me to ‘stand by.’ I now fell back to my former place, to be interrogated by my comrades on the result of my examination, and hear their exclamations of surprise and terror at the rashness of my conduct. A little reflection of the circumstances would probably have brought me over to their opinion, and shown me that I had gratuitously thrown away an opportunity of self-defence; but my temper could not brook the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation and the stupid malevolence of the corporal, whose hatred was excited by the influence I wielded over my comrades.
It was long past noon ere the proceedings terminated, for the list was a full one, and at length the Court rose, apparently not sorry to exchange their tiresome duties for the pleasant offices of the dinner-table. No sentences had been pronounced, but one very striking incident seemed to shadow forth a gloomy future. Three, of whom I was one, were marched off, doubly guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate cells of the ‘Salle,’ where every precaution against escape too plainly showed the importance attached to our safe keeping.
At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on my bed—if that inclined plane of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve the name—a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and water. He placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few seconds gazing at me.
‘What age art thou, lad?’ said he, in a voice of compassionate interest.
‘Something over fifteen, I believe,’ replied I.
‘Hast father and mother?’
‘Both are dead!’
‘Uncles or aunts living?’
‘Neither.’
‘Hast any friends who could help thee?’
‘That might depend on what the occasion for help should prove, for I have one friend in the world.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Colonel Mahon, of the Cuirassiers.’
‘I never heard of him—is he here?’
‘No, I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him.’
‘It would be too late, much too late.’
‘How do you mean—too late?’ asked I tremblingly.
‘Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,’ replied he in a low, hesitating voice.
‘What? the—the——’ I could not say the word, but merely imitated the motion of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence.
‘What hour is it to take place?’ asked I.
‘After evening parade. The sentence must be signed by General Berthier, and he will not be here before that time.’
‘It would be too late then, sergeant,’ said I, musing, ‘far too late. Still I should like to write the letter; I should like to thank him for his kindness in the past, and show him, too, that I have not been either unworthy or ungrateful. Could you let me have paper and pen, sergeant?’
‘I can venture so far, lad; but I cannot let thee have a light, it is against orders; and during the day, thou ‘ll be too strictly watched.*
‘No matter; let me have the paper, and I’ll try to scratch a few lines in the dark; and thou ‘lt post it for me, sergeant? I ask thee as a last favour to do this.’
‘I promise it,’ said he, laying his hand on my shoulder. After standing for a few minutes thus in silence, he started suddenly and left the cell.
I now tried to eat my supper, but although resolved on behaving with a stout and unflinching courage throughout the whole sad event, I could not swallow a mouthful. A sense of choking stopped me at every attempt, and even the water I could only get down by gulps. The efforts I made to bear up seemed to have caused a species of hysterical excitement that actually rose to the height of intoxication, for I talked away loudly to myself, laughed and sung. I even jested and mocked myself on this sudden termination of a career that I used to anticipate as stored with future fame and rewards. At intervals, I have no doubt that my mind wandered far beyond the control of reason, but as constantly came back again to a full consciousness of my melancholy position, and the fate that awaited me. The noise of the key in the door silenced my ravings, and I sat motionless as the sergeant entered with the pen, ink, and paper, which he laid down upon the bed, and then as silently withdrew.
A long interval of stupor, a state of dreary half consciousness, now came over me, from which I aroused myself with great difficulty to write the few lines I destined for Colonel Mahon. I remember even now, long as has been the space of years since that event, full as it has been of stirring and strange incidents, I remember perfectly the thought which flashed across me, as I sat, pen in hand, before the paper. It was the notion of a certain resemblance between our actions in this world with the characters I was about to inscribe upon that paper. Written in darkness and in doubt, thought I, how shall they appear when brought to the light! Perhaps those I have deemed the best and fairest shall seem but to be the weakest or the worst! What need of kindness to forgive the errors, and of patience to endure the ignorance! At last I began: ‘Mon Colonel,—Forgive, I pray you, the errors of these lines, penned in the darkness of my cell, and the night before my death. They are written to thank you ere I go hence, and to tell you that the poor heart whose beating will soon be still, throbbed gratefully towards you to the last! I have been sentenced to death for a breach of discipline of which I was guilty. Had I failed in the achievement of my enterprise by the bullet of an enemy, they would have named me with honour; but I have had the misfortune of success, and to-morrow am I to pay its penalty. I have the satisfaction, however, of knowing that my share in that great day can neither be denied nor evaded; it is already on record, and the time may yet come when my memory will be vindicated. I know not if these lines be legible, nor if I have crossed or recrossed them. If they are blotted they are not my tears have done it, for I have a firm heart and a good courage; and when the moment comes——’ Here my hand trembled so much, and my brain grew so dizzy, that I lost the thread of my meaning, and merely jotted down at random a few words, vague, unconnected, and unintelligible, after which, and by an effort that cost all my strength, I wrote ‘Maurice Tiernay, late Hussar of the 9th Regiment.’
A hearty burst of tears followed the conclusion of this letter; all the pent-up emotion with which my heart was charged broke out at last, and I cried bitterly. Intense passions are, happily, never of long duration, and, better still, they are always the precursors of calm. Thus, tranquil, the dawn of morn broke upon me, when the sergeant came to take my letter, and apprise me that the adjutant would appear in a few moments to read my sentence, and inform me when it was to be executed.
‘Thou’It bear up well, lad; I know thou wilt,’ said the poor fellow, with tears in his eyes. ‘Thou hast no mother, and thou ‘lt not have to grieve for her.’
‘Don’t be afraid, sergeant; I’ll not disgrace the old 9th. Tell my comrades I said so.’
‘I will. I will tell them all! Is this thy jacket, lad?’
‘Yes; what do you want it for?’
‘I must take it away with me. Thou art not to wear it more?’
‘Not wear it, nor die in it! and why not?’
‘That is the sentence, lad; I cannot help it. It’s very hard, very cruel; but so it is.’
‘Then I am to die dishonoured, sergeant; is that the sentence?’
He dropped his head, and I could see that he moved his sleeve across his eyes; and then, taking up my jacket, he came towards me.
‘Remember, lad, a stout heart; no flinching. Adieu—God bless thee.’ He kissed me on either cheek, and went out.
He had not been gone many minutes, when the tramp of marching outside apprised me of the coming of the adjutant, and the door of my cell being thrown open, I was ordered to walk forth into the court of the prison. Two squadrons of my own regiment, all who were not on duty, were drawn up, dismounted, and without arms; beside them stood a company of grenadiers and a half battalion of the line, the corps to which the other two prisoners belonged, and who now came forward, in shirtsleeves like myself, into the middle of the court.
One of my fellow-sufferers was a very old soldier, whose hair and beard were white as snow; the other was a middle-aged man, of a dark and forbidding aspect, who scowled at me angrily as I came up to his side, and seemed as if he scorned the companionship. I returned a glance, haughty and as full of defiance as his own, and never noticed him after.
The drum beat a roll, and the word was given for silence in the ranks—an order so strictly obeyed, that even the clash of a weapon was unheard, and, stepping in front of the line, the Auditeur Militaire read out the sentences. As for me, I heard but the words ‘Peine afflictive et infamante‘; all the rest became confusion, shame, and terror commingled; nor did I know that the ceremonial was over when the troops began to defile, and we were marched back again to our prison quarters.
It is a very common subject of remark in newspapers, and as invariably repeated with astonishment by the readers, how well and soundly such a criminal slept on the night before his execution. It reads like a wonderful evidence of composure, or some not less surprising proof of apathy or indifference. I really believe it has as little relation to one feeling as to the other, and is simply the natural consequence of faculties overstrained, and a brain surcharged with blood; sleep being induced by causes purely physical in their nature. For myself, I can say that I was by no means indifferent to life, nor had I any contempt for the form of death that awaited me. As localities which have failed to inspire a strong attachment become endowed with a certain degree of interest when we are about to part from them for ever, I never held life so desirable as now that I was going to leave it; and yet, with all this, I fell into a sleep so heavy and profound, that I never awoke till late in the evening. Twice was I shaken by the shoulder ere I could throw off the heavy weight of slumber; and even when I looked up, and saw the armed figures around me, I could have lain down once more and composed myself to another sleep.
The first thing which thoroughly aroused me, and at once brightened up my slumbering senses, was missing my jacket, for which I searched every corner of my cell, forgetting that it had been taken away, as the nature of my sentence was declaredinfamante. The next shock was still greater, when two sapeurs came forward to tie my wrists together behind my back; I neither spoke nor resisted, but in silent submission complied with each order given me.
All preliminaries being completed, I was led forward, preceded by a pioneer, and guarded on either side by two sapeurs of ‘the guard’; a muffled drum, ten paces in advance, keeping up a low monotonous rumble as we went.
Our way led along the ramparts, beside which ran a row of little gardens, in which the children of the officers were at play. They ceased their childish gambols as we drew near, and came closer up to watch us. I could mark the terror and pity in their little faces as they gazed at me; I could see the traits of compassion with which they pointed me out to each other, and my heart swelled with gratitude for even so slight a sympathy. It was with difficulty I could restrain the emotion of that moment, but with a great effort I did subdue it, and marched on, to all seeming, unmoved. A little farther on, as we turned the angle of the wall, I looked back to catch one last look at them. Would that I had never done so! They had quitted the railings, and were now standing in a group, in the act of performing a mimic execution. One, without his jacket, was kneeling on the grass. But I could not bear the sight, and in scornful anger I closed my eyes, and saw no more.
A low whispering conversation was kept up by the soldiers around me. They were grumbling at the long distance they had to march, as the ‘affair’ might just as well have taken place on the glacis as two miles away. How different were my feelings—how dear to me was now every minute, every second of existence; how my heart leaped at each turn of the way, as I still saw a space to traverse and some little interval longer to live!
‘And mayhap after all,’ muttered one dark-faced fellow, ‘we shall have come all this way for nothing. There can be no fusillade without the general’s signature, so I heard the adjutant say; and who’s to promise that he ‘ll be at his quarters?’
‘Very true,’ said another; ‘he may be absent, or at table.’
‘At table!’ cried two or three together; ‘and what if he were?’
‘If he be,’ rejoined the former speaker, ‘we may go back again for our pains! I ought to know him well; I was his orderly for eight months, when I served in the “Légers,” and can tell you, my lads, I wouldn’t be the officer who would bring him a report or a return to sign when once he had opened out his napkin on his knee; and it’s not very far from his dinner-hour now.’
What a sudden thrill of hope ran through me! Perhaps I should be spared for another day.
‘No, no we’re all in time,’ exclaimed the sergeant; ‘I can see the general’s tent from this; and there he stands, with all his staff around him.’
‘Yes; and there go the other escorts—they will be up before us if we don’t make haste; quick-time, lads. Come along,mon cher,’ said he, addressing me—‘thou’rt not tired, I hope?’
‘Not tired!’ replied I; ‘but remember, sergeant, what a long journey I have before me.’
‘Pardi!I don’t believe all that rhodomontade about another world,’ said he gruffly; ‘the Republic settled that question.’
I made no reply, for such words, at such a moment, were the most terrible of tortures to me. And now we moved on at a brisker pace, and crossing a little wooden bridge, entered a kind of esplanade of closely shaven turf, at one corner of which stood the capacious tent of the Commander-in-chief, for such, in Moreau’s absence, was General Berthier. Numbers of staff-officers were riding about on duty, and a large travelling-carriage, from which the horses seemed recently detached, stood before the tent.
We halted as we crossed the bridge, while the adjutant advanced to obtain the signature to the sentence. My eyes followed him till they swam with rising tears, and I could not wipe them away, as my hands were fettered. How rapidly did my thoughts travel during those few moments. The good old Père Michel came back to me in memory, and I tried to think of the consolation his presence would have afforded me; but I could do no more than think of them.
‘Which is the prisoner Tiernay?’ cried a young aide-decamp, cantering up to where I was standing.
‘Here, sir,’ replied the sergeant, pushing me forward.
‘So,’ rejoined the officer angrily, ‘this fellow has been writing letters, it would seem, reflecting upon the justice of his sentence, and arraigning the conduct of his judges. Your epistolary tastes are like to cost you dearly, my lad; it had been better for you if writing had been omitted in your education. Reconduct the others, sergeant, they are respited; this fellow alone is to undergo his sentence.’
The other two prisoners gave a short and simultaneous cry of joy as they fell back, and I stood alone in front of the escort.
‘Parbleu!he has forgotten the signature,’ said the adjutant, casting his eye over the paper: ‘he was chattering and laughing all the time, with the pen in his hand, and I suppose fancied that he had signed it.’
‘Nathalie was there, perhaps,’ said the aide-de-camp significantly.
‘She was, and I never saw her looking better. It’s something like eight years since I saw her last; and I vow she seems not only handsomer but fresher, and more youthful, to-day than then.’
‘Where is she going?—have you heard?’
‘Who can tell? Her passport is like a firman—she may travel where she pleases. The rumour of the day says Italy.’
‘I thought she looked provoked at Moreau’s absence; it seemed like want of attention on his part, a lack of courtesy she’s not used to.’
‘Very true; and her reception of Berthier was anything but gracious, although he certainly displayed all his civilities in her behalf.’
‘Strange days we live in!’ sighed the other; ‘when a man’s promotion hangs upon the favourable word of a——’
‘Hush!—take care!—be cautious!’ whispered the other. ‘Let us not forget this poor fellow’s business. How are you to settle it? Is the signature of any consequence? The whole sentence is all right and regular.’
‘I shouldn’t like to omit the signature,’ said the other cautiously; ‘it looks like carelessness, and might involve us in trouble hereafter.’
‘Then we must wait some time, for I see they are gone to dinner.’
‘So I perceive,’ replied the former, as he lighted his cigar, and seated himself on a bank. ‘You may let the prisoner sit down, sergeant, and leave his hands free; he looks wearied and exhausted.’
I was too weak to speak, but I looked my gratitude; and sitting down upon the grass, covered my face and wept heartily.
Although quite close to where the officers sat together chatting and jesting, I heard little or nothing of what they said. Already the things of life had ceased to have any hold upon me; and I could have heard of the greatest victory, or listened to a story of the most fatal defeat, without the slightest interest or emotion. An occasional word or a name would strike upon my ear, but leave no impression nor any memory behind it.
The military band was performing various marches and opera airs before the tent where the general dined, and in the melody, softened by distance, I felt a kind of calm and sleepy repose that lulled me into a species of ecstasy.
At last the music ceased to play, and the adjutant, starting hurriedly up, called on the sergeant to move forward.
‘By Jove!’ cried he, ‘they seem preparing for a promenade, and we shall get into a scrape if Berthier sees us here. Keep your party yonder, sergeant, out of sight, till I obtain the signature.’
And so saying, away he went towards the tent at a sharp gallop.
A few seconds, and I watched him crossing the esplanade; he dismounted and disappeared. A terrible choking sensation was over me, and I scarcely was conscious that they were again tying my hands. The adjutant came out again, and made a sign with his sword.
‘We are to move on!’ said the sergeant, half in doubt.
‘Not at all,’ broke in the aide-de-camp; ‘he is making a sign for you to bring up the prisoner! There, he is repeating the signal—lead him forward.’
I knew very little of how—less still of why—but we moved on in the direction of the tent, and in a few minutes stood before it. The sounds of revelry and laughter—the hum of voices, and the clink of glasses-together with the hoarse bray of a brass band, which again struck up—all were commingled in my brain, as, taking me by the arm, I was led forward within the tent, and found myself at the foot of a table covered with all the gorgeousness of silver plate, and glowing with bouquets of flowers and fruits. In the one hasty glance I gave, before my lids fell over my swimming eyes, I could see the splendid uniforms of the guests as they sat around the board, and the magnificent costume of a lady in the place of honour next the head.
Several of those who sat at the lower end of the table drew back their seats as I came forward, and seemed as if desirous to give the general a better view of me.
Overwhelmed by the misery of my fate, as I stood awaiting my death, I felt as though a mere word, a look, would have crushed me but one moment back; but now, as I stood there before that group of gazers, whose eyes scanned me with looks of insolent disdain, or still more insulting curiosity, a sense of proud defiance seized me, to confront and dare them with glances haughty and scornful as their own. It seemed to me so base and unworthy a part to summon a poor wretch before them, as if to whet their new appetite for enjoyment by the aspect of his misery, that an indignant anger took possession of me, and I drew myself up to my full height, and stared at them calm and steadily.
‘So, then!’ cried a deep soldierlike voice from the far end of the table, which I at once recognised as the general-in-chief s—‘so, then, gentlemen, we have now the honour of seeing amongst us the hero of the Rhine! This is the distinguished individual by whose prowess the passage of the river was effected, and the Swabian infantry cut off in their retreat! Is it not true, sir?’ said he, addressing me with a savage scowl.
‘I have had my share in the achievement,’ said I, with the cool air of defiance.
‘Parbleu!you are modest, sir. So had every drummer-boy that beat his tattoo! But yours was the part of a great leader, if I err not?’
I made no answer, but stood firm and unmoved.
‘How do you call the island which you have immortalised by your valour?’
‘The Fels Insel, sir.’
190
‘Gentlemen, let us drink to the hero of the Fels Insel,’ said he, holding up his glass for the servant to fill it. ‘A bumper—a full, a flowing bumper! And let him also pledge a toast in which his interest must be so brief. Give him a glass, Contard.’
The order was obeyed in a second; and I, summoning up all my courage to seem as easy and indifferent as they were, lifted the glass to my lips, and drained it off.
‘Another glass now to the health of this fair lady, through whose intercession we owe the pleasure of your company,’ said the general.
‘Willingly,’ said I; ‘and may one so beautiful seldom find herself in a society so unworthy of her!’
A perfect roar of laughter succeeded the insolence of this speech; amid which I was half pushed, half dragged, up to the end of the table where the general sat.
‘How so,coquin; do you dare to insult a French general at the head of his own staff!’
‘If I did, sir, it were quite as brave as to mock a poor criminal on his way to his execution!’
‘That is the boy!—I know him now!—the very same lad!’ cried the lady, as, stooping behind Berthier’s chair, she stretched out her hand towards me. ‘Come here; are you not Colonel Mahon’s godson?’
I looked her full in the face; and whether her own thoughts gave the impulse, or that something in my stare suggested it, she blushed till her cheeks grew crimson.
‘Poor Charles was so fond of him!’ whispered she in Berthier’s ear; and as she spoke, the expression of her face at once recalled where I had seen her, and I now perceived that she was the same person I had seen at table with Colonel Mahon, and whom I believed to be his wife.
A low whispering conversation now ensued between the general and her, at the close of which he turned to me and said—
‘Madame Merlancourt has deigned to take an interest in you—you are pardoned. Remember, sir, to whom you owe your life, and be grateful to her for it.’
I took the hand she extended towards me, and pressed it to my lips.
‘Madame,’ said I, ‘there is but one favour more I would ask in this world, and with it I could think myself happy.’
‘But can I grant it,mon cher?’ said she, smiling.
‘If I am to judge from the influence I have seen you wield, madame, here and elsewhere, this petition will easily be accorded.’
A slight flush coloured the lady’s cheek, while that of the general became dyed red with anger. I saw that I had committed some terrible blunder, but how, or in what, I knew not.
‘Well, sir,’ said Madame Merlancourt, addressing me with a stately coldness of manner, very different from her former tone, ‘let us hear what you ask, for we are already taking up a vast deal of time that our host would prefer devoting to his friends—what is it you wish?’
‘My discharge from a service, madame, where zeal and enthusiasm are rewarded with infamy and disgrace; my freedom to be anything but a French soldier.’
‘You are resolved, sir, that I am not to be proud of my protégé,’ said she haughtily; ‘what words are these to speak in presence of a general and his officers?’
‘I am bold, madame, as you say, but I am wronged.’
‘How so, sir—in what have you been injured?’ cried the general hastily, ‘except in the excessive condescension which has stimulated your presumption. But we are really two indulgent in this long parley. Madame, permit me to offer you some coffee under the trees. Contardo, tell the band to follow us. Gentlemen, we expect the pleasure of your society.’
And so’ saying, Berthier presented his arm to the lady, who swept proudly past without deigning to notice me. In a few minutes the tent was cleared of all, except the servants occupied in removing the remains of the dessert, and I fell back, unremarked and unobserved, to take my way homeward to the barracks, more indifferent to life than ever I had been afraid of death.
As I am not likely to recur at any length to the somewhat famous person to whom I owed my life, I may as well state that her name has since occupied no inconsiderable share of attention in France, and her history, under the title ofMémoires d’une Contemporaine, excited a degree of interest and anxiety in quarters which one might have fancied far above the reach of her revelations. At the time I speak of, I little knew the character of the age in which such influences were all powerful, nor how destinies very different from mine hung upon the favouritism of ‘La belle Nathalie.’ Had I known these things, and, still more, had I known the sad fate to which she brought my poor friend, Colonel Mahon, I might have scrupled to accept my life at such hands, or involved myself in a debt of gratitude to one for whom I was subsequently to feel nothing but hatred and aversion. It was indeed a terrible period, and in nothing more so than the fact that acts of benevolence and charity were blended up with features of falsehood, treachery, and baseness, which made one despair of humanity, and think the very worst of their species.
Nothing displays more powerfully the force of egotism than the simple truth that, when any man sits himself down to write the events of his life, the really momentous occurrences in which he may have borne a part occupy a conspicuously small place, when each petty incident of a merely personal nature is dilated and extended beyond all bounds. In one sense, the reader benefits by this, since there are few impertinences less forgivable than the obtrusion of some insignificant name into the narrative of facts that are meet for history. I have made these remarks in a spirit of apology to my reader; not alone for the accuracy of my late detail, but also, if I should seem in future to dwell but passingly on the truly important facts of a great campaign, in which my own part was so humble.
I was a soldier in that glorious army which Moreau led into the heart of Germany, and whose victorious career would only have ceased when they entered the capital of the Empire, had it not been for the unhappy mistakes of Jourdan, who commanded the auxiliary forces in the north. For nigh three months we advanced steadily and successfully, superior in every engagement; we only waited for the moment of junction with Jourdan’s army, to declare the Empire our own; when at last came the terrible tidings that he had been beaten, and that Latour was advancing from Ulm to turn our left flank, and cut off our communications with France.
Two hundred miles from our own frontiers—separated from the Rhine by that terrible Black Forest whose defiles are mere gorges between vast mountains—with an army fifty thousand strong on one flank, and the Archduke Charles commanding a force of nigh thirty thousand on the other—such were the dreadful combinations which now threatened us with a defeat not less signal than Jourdan’s own. Our strength, however, lay in a superb army of seventy thousand unbeaten men, led on by one whose name alone was victory.
On the 24th of September the order for retreat was given; the army began to retire by slow marches, prepared to contest every inch of ground, and make every available spot a battlefield. The baggage and ammunition were sent on in front, and two days’ march in advance. Behind, a formidable rear-guard was ready to repulse every attack of the enemy. Before, however, entering those close défiles by which his retreat lay, Moreau determined to give one terrible lesson to his enemy, like the hunted tiger turning upon his pursuers, he suddenly halted at Biberach, and ere Latour, who commanded the Austrians, was aware of his purpose, assailed the Imperial forces with an attack on right, centre, and left together. Four thousand prisoners and eighteen pieces of cannon were the trophies of the victory.
The day after this decisive battle our march was resumed, and the advanced-guard entered that narrow and dismal defile which goes by the name of the ‘Valley of Hell,’ when our left and right flanks, stationed at the entrance of the pass, effectually secured the retreat against molestation. The voltigeurs of St. Cyr crowning the heights as we went, swept away the light troops which were scattered along the rocky eminences, and in less than a fortnight our army debouched by Fribourg and Oppenheim into the valley of the Rhine, not a gun having been lost, not a caisson deserted, during that perilous movement.
The Archduke, however, having ascertained the direction of Moreau’s retreat, advanced by a parallel pass through the Kinzigthal, and attacked St. Cyr at Nauen-dorf, and defeated him. Our right flank, severely handled at Emmendingen, the whole force was obliged to retreat on Hüningen, and once more we found ourselves upon the banks of the Rhine, no longer an advancing army, high in hope, and flushed with victory—but beaten, harassed, and retreating!
The last few days of that retreat presented a scene of disaster such as I can never forget. To avoid the furious charges of the Austrian cavalry, against which our own could no longer make resistance, we had fallen back upon a line of country cut up into rocky cliffs and precipices, and covered by a dense pine forest. Here, necessarily broken up into small parties, we were assailed by the light troops of the enemy, led on through the various passes by the peasantry, whose animosity our own severity had excited. It was, therefore, a continual hand-to-hand struggle, in which, opposed as we were to overpowering numbers acquainted with every advantage of the ground, our loss was terrific. It is said that nigh seven thousand men fell—-an immense number, when no general action had occurred. Whatever the actual loss, such were the circumstances of our army, that Moreau hastened to propose an armistice, on the condition of the Rhine being the boundary between the two armies, while Kehl was still to be held by the French.
The proposal was rejected by the Austrians, who at once commenced preparations for a siege of the fortress with forty thousand troops, under Latour’s command. The earlier months of winter now passed in the labours of the siege, and on the morning of New-year’s Day the first attack was made; the second line was carried a few days after, and, after a glorious defence by Desaix, the garrison capitulated, and evacuated the fortress on the 9th of the month. Thus, in the space of six short months, had we advanced with a conquering army into the very heart of the Empire, and now we were back again within our own frontier, not one single trophy of all our victories remaining, two-thirds of our army dead or wounded—more than all, the prestige of our superiority fatally injured, and that of the enemy’s valour and prowess as signally elevated.
The short annals of a successful soldier are often comprised in the few words which state how he was made lieutenant at such a date, promoted to his company here, obtained his majority there, succeeded to the command of his regiment at such a place, and so on. Now my exploits may even be more briefly written as regards this campaign—for, whether at Kehl, at Nauendorf, on the Elz, or at Huningen, I ended as I began—a simple soldier of the ranks. A few slight wounds, a few still more insignificant words of praise, were all that I brought back with me; but if my trophies were small, I had gained considerably both in habits of discipline and obedience. I had learned to endure, ably and without complaining, the inevitable hardships of a campaign, and, better still, to see that the irrepressible impulses of the soldier, however prompted by zeal or heroism, may oftener mar than promote the more mature plans of his general. Scarcely had my feet once more touched French ground, than I was seized with the ague, then raging as an epidemic among the troops, and sent forward with a large detachment of sick to the Military Hospital of Strasbourg.
Here I bethought me of my patron, Colonel Mahon, and determined to write to him. For this purpose I addressed a question to the Adjutant-General’s office to ascertain the colonel’s address. The reply was a brief and stunning one—he had been dismissed the service. No personal calamity could have thrown me into deeper affliction; nor had I even the sad consolation of learning any of the circumstances of this misfortune. His death, even though thereby I should have lost my only friend, would have been a lighter evil than this disgrace; and coming as did the tidings when I was already broken by sickness and defeat, more than ever disgusted me with a soldier’s life. It was then with a feeling of total indifference that I heard a rumour which at another moment would have filled me with enthusiasm—the order for all invalids sufficiently well to be removed, to be drafted into regiments serving in Italy. The fame of Bonaparte, who commanded that army, had now surpassed that of all the other generals; his victories paled the glory of their successes, and it was already a mark of distinction to have served under his command.
The walls of the hospital were scrawled over with the names of his victories; rude sketches of Alpine passes, terrible ravines, or snow-clad peaks, met the eye everywhere; and the one magical name, ‘Bonaparte,’ written beneath, seemed the key to all their meaning. With him war seemed to assume all the charms of romance. Each action was illustrated by feats of valour or heroism, and a halo of glory seemed to shine over all the achievements of his genius.
It was a clear, bright morning of March, when a light frost sharpened the air, and a fair, blue sky overhead showed a cloudless elastic atmosphere, that the ‘invalides,’ as we were all called, were drawn up in the great square of the hospital for inspection. Two superior officers of the staff, attended by several surgeons and an adjutant, sat at a table in front of us, on which lay the regimental books and conduct-rolls of the different corps. Such of the sick as had received severe wounds, incapacitating them for further service, were presented with some slight reward—a few francs in money, a greatcoat, or a pair of shoes, and obtained their freedom. Others, whose injuries were less important, received their promotion, or some slight increase of pay, these favours being all measured by the character the individual bore in his regiment, and the opinion certified of him by his commanding officer. When my turn came, and I stood forward, I felt a kind of shame to think how little claim I could prefer either to honour or advancement.
‘Maurice Tiernay, slightly wounded by a sabre at Nauendorf—flesh-wound at Biberach—enterprising and active, but presumptuous and overbearing with his comrades,’ read out the adjutant, while he added a few words I could not hear, but at which the superior laughed heartily.
‘What says the doctor?’ asked he, after a pause.
‘This has been a bad case of ague, and I doubt if the young fellow will ever be fit for active service—certainly not at present.’
‘Is there a vacancy at Saumur?’ asked the general. ‘I see he has been employed in the school at Nancy.’
‘Tes, sir; for the third class there is one.’
‘Let him have it, then. Tiernay, you are appointed as aspirant of the third class at the College of Saumur. Take care that the report of your conduct be more creditable than what is written here. Your opportunities will now be considerable, and, if well employed, may lead to further honour and distinction; if neglected or abused, your chances are forfeited for ever.’
I bowed and retired, as little satisfied with the admonition as elated with a prospect which converted me from a soldier into a scholar, and, in the first verge of manhood, threw me back once more into the condition of a mere boy.
Eighteen months of my life—not the least happy, perhaps, since in the peaceful portion I can trace so little to be sorry for—glided over beside the banks of the beautiful Loire, the intervals in the hour of study being spent either in the riding-school, or the river, where, in addition to swimming and diving, we were instructed in pontooning and rafting, the modes of transporting ammunition and artillery, and the attacks of infantry by cavalry pickets.
I also learned to speak and write English and German with great ease and fluency, besides acquiring some skill in military drawing and engineering.
It is true that the imprisonment chafed sorely against us, as we read of the great achievements of our armies in various parts of the world—of the great battles of Cairo and the Pyramids, of Acre and Mount Thabor, and of which a holiday and a fête were to be our only share.
The terrible storms which shook Europe from end to end only reached us in the bulletins of new victories, and we panted for the time when we, too, should be actors in the glorious exploits of France.
It is already known to the reader that of the country from which my family came I myself knew nothing. The very little I had ever learned of it from my father was also a mere tradition; still was I known among my comrades only as ‘the Irishman,’ and by that name was I recognised, even in the record of the school, where I was inscribed thus—‘Maurice Tiernay,dit l’Irlandais.’ It was on this very simple and seemingly unimportant fact my whole fate in life was to turn; and in this wise-But the explanation deserves a chapter of its own, and shall have it.