At last, in the extremity of his misery. he sent for Isabelle, that he might, to her at least, absolve himself from the crime of which he was accused. She came clad in deep mourning, and the meeting between them was painful and affecting. But as it was known that they had been lovers in their youth, Paris was ready to believe the worst; and as the sordid M. du Platel and d'Escombas' kinsman, the Governor of the Conciergerie, cried "fire and sword" against them both, rumour succeeded in having Madame accused of being "art and part" in her husband's death. So she was arrested, and committed to a separate vault in La Force, one of the places namedles Secretsin that formidable edifice, which is formed entirely of hewn stone and enormous bars of iron, and in the construction of which neither wood nor plaster are employed.
There they languished for many months without a trial, as it happened that just about this time the chief court of justice in France, theParlement de Paris—without the full concurrence of which no criminal can be arraigned—was removed, first to Pontoise and thereafter to Soissons, on account of their severe proceedings against the Archbishop of Paris, who (to repress the disorderly lives of the people) had issued a pastoral letter "forbidding all priests and curs to administer the sacrament to any one, no matter of what rank, unless they could produce a certificate from their father confessor"—a pastoral which gave great offence to the court of the Most Christian king.
To be brief: when the Court ultimately assembled, poor Monjoy was brought to trial, and on being put to torture admitted that he was guilty of the murder in the Rue de Tournon, and consequently was sentenced to be broken alive upon the wheel.
When asked who were his accomplices, amidst torments the most excruciating, he persisted in affirming that he had none; that Madame d'Escombas was guiltless and pure as when she left her convent. French medical skill was brought to bear upon his quivering limbs, and then, maddened by agony, he continued deliriously to acknowledge himself guilty of the murder again and again; but on being questioned for the last time concerning Madame d'Escombas, he accused her too!
On this the windlass of the rack was instantly relaxed, and he fainted, with blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils.
When his keener agony was over, on his knees, before my old friend Père Celestine (once curé of St. Solidore, and now coadjutor Bishop of Paris), with tears of blood and agony the unhappy Monjoy retracted all that had been wrung from him under torture; but it was too late.
Onhisaccusation and confession she too was tried, and sentenced to death, and then both were committed to the Conciergerie du Palais, and to the care of that grim governor, the kinsman of d'Escombas—he of whom Monjoy had such an instinctive dread of old.
The entrance to this frightful old prison is by a low and narrow door, over which might well be carved the well-known line from Dante's "Inferno."
Isabelle was conducted to the greffe or female prison, by that sombre vestibule which is lighted by lamps even at mid-day; but Monjoy was thrust, bleeding and mangled, perspiring in every limb with recent torture, into one of the old and dark dungeons of the Conciergerie, from whence, after a time, they were both conveyed in a tumbril, and clad in sackcloth, to the Place de Greve, where she was hanged by the neck, and he, after making a pathetic declaration of her innocence, underwent the dreadful death of being broken alive upon the wheel!
With his last breath he implored the executioner to see that a blue ribbon, some gift of happier years, which he wore round his neck, should be buried with him.
Such was the miserable fate of this young Frenchman who befriended me so much at Ysembourg, and whom I last saw galloping gallantly along the road from the old ruined schloss, with his epaulettes and gay uniform glittering in the morning sunshine.
And now, with a pardon for this digression, I return to my own more matter-of-fact story.
By a narrow path between leafless woods, I proceeded for two miles in the direction indicated by Monjoy, and then saw before me the Lahn, a stream which rises in the west of Germany, and, as any Gazetteer will inform us, passes by the hill which is crowned by the castle of Marburg, the old Bailiwick of Giessen, the walled town of Wetzlar, and the city of Nassau (in which and in other places along its banks we had garrisons or outposts), until it flows into the famous Rhine near Upper Lahnstein.
That portion of the stream which I now approached, though broad, was shallow and frozen hard. Its banks were thickly fringed by willow trees, amid which the morning mist was rolling lazily. Here and there some of those great masses of detached copper-coloured rock which stud the scenery of Waldeck overhung the stream, and had their bases crusted with frozen foam.
The region being high and hilly, and the season midwinter, the atmosphere was intensely cold, yet I was dubious of the strength of the ice, and feared that my horse, with its wounded off hind leg, might flounder and fall if its hoofs pierced the covering of the stream. As this idea occurred to me I was about to dismount, and hold the animal by the bridle, when the appearance of a well-bearded human visage regarding me steadily from a cleft in the rocks, made me pause with a hand on my holster-flap, a motion which made the person instantly vanish.
The mist enveloping the willow-covered bank I had to traverse before reaching the stream was dense, and curling up in the sunshine, and it seemed to me that certain objects which at first resembled stumps of trees suddenly took the form of men, clad in white coats, the uniform of the French line; and, as the event proved, here were six men of the Regiment de Bretagne, a foraging party suborned by Bourgneuf to cut me off, and with them was the identical peasant whom Monjoy and I had met near the ruins of the old schloss—Karl Karsseboom.
I had the marshal's signed passport, but feared to ride forward or deliver it, and for a time remained unchallenged and irresolutely watching those men whose white-clad figures amid the frosty mist and tossing willows seemed indistinct and wavering, like Banquo's shadowy line of kings, or the weird sisters in "Macbeth."
I waved aloft the paper given me by Bourgneuf, the immediate reply to which was the levelling of four muskets; but three flashed in the pan, the priming having probably become wet over night. The bullet from the fourth, however, knocked my grenadier cap awry.
I then shook a white handkerchief, and demanded a parley; but a fifth and sixth musket flashed redly out of the white mist, making a hundred reverberations amid the river's bed, and another bullet grazed my left ear like a hot searing-iron. I was full of fury now, and while these would-be assassins were casting about and reloading, I heard a voice shout clearly in French, and with a mocking laugh—
"Peste! Arnaud de Pricorbin—il ne sait pas distinguer une femme d'une girouette!" (He knows not a woman from a weathercock—meaning that he was a bad shot, and could hit neither.)
The brother of the executed Volontaire de Clermont was here, and had preceded me to the ford; thus I was in peculiarly bad hands it would appear. Their six muskets were unserviceable as yet, so, spurring furiously, I rushed sword in hand at the whole group, firing a pistol and hurling it after the shot as I advanced.
Gored by the spurs, the poor old horse forgot his wound, and swept through my adversaries, crashing among the frozen willows, reeds, icicles, and rotten ice. For a moment I saw six fierce, dark-visaged fellows, with white coats, red epaulets, and black crossbelts, with their muskets clubbed to beat me down. By a backhanded stroke I slashed one across the face; but at the same moment a bayonet pierced my horse in the bowels, and he received a long wound that ripped open his near hind flank; this was from the musket of the German forester, who levelled it deliberately over a fragment of rock.
Maddened by pain and fury, the animal reared wildly back upon its haunches, and then, instead of riding towards the ford, swerved round, and treading some of our assailants under his hoofs, galloped straight along a road which led towards Wildungen, in a direction nearly opposite to that I wished to pursue.
Wild, terrified, and dying, with the bit clenched tightly between his teeth, the horse was for a time quite unmanageable, and I had not power to stop him, even if inclined to do so, which I certainly was not, until beyond musket range of the discomfited rascals who guarded the frozen ford.
In short, I was borne away by my wounded horse in a manner nearly similar to that which had occurred after one of our skirmishes with the French Hussars in Brittany. I know not why it was, but I felt more excited by this encounter than by the whole day at Minden, and when riding on, seemed still to hear the report of the muskets, and to see them flashing out of the mist before me.
Dropping blood and foam upon the snow with every bound, the poor animal, covered with perspiration and enveloped in a steam induced by the frosty air, carried me a few miles almost at racing speed. This, however, slacked suddenly, and on coming to a thicket where a spring (the water of which had a warm or peculiar mineral property, as it was quite unfrozen) flowed freely, I rode for nearly a mile up its bed or course, so that if followed by Arnaud de Pricorbin and other faithful Bretons of the Comte de Bourgneuf, the track of blood so visible in the snow would be lost in the running stream.
Perceiving a sequestered cottage upon the slope of a hill, sheltered by some great fir trees, I approached it, and was made welcome by the occupants, who appeared to be only a poor woman and her blind daughter; but they had no fear of me, as my uniform showed them—the former at least—that I was one of those who had come to assist in freeing Westphalia and Waldeck from those unscrupulous invaders, the French.
With some difficulty I made them understand, by a broken jargon, that we had been engaged in a skirmish, and that my horse had been wounded. It was placed in an outhouse or shed, where a cow was munching some chopped straw and frozen turnips. I removed the heavy demi-pique saddle, bridle, and holsters, putting the remaining pistol in my belt. While doing so the poor animal, lying among the straw, with its bowels protruding through the bayonet wound, whinnied and rubbed its nose upon the sleeve of my red coat, as if recognising thecolour; and in that lonely place I felt as if I had lost my only friend, when the old grey trooper died about two hours after.
I remember partaking with the poor cottager and her blind daughter of a savoury dish of stewed hare, which had been netted by herself in the adjacent fir thicket. We had also a warm jug of mulled Wildungen beer, making a repast for which I was both grateful and well appetized, after the adventures of so cold a morning. I ate and drank to strengthen me for whatever might follow, as I was still in the land of toil and danger; and for the same end I carefully re-charged, primed, and flinted anew my solitary pistol, and then slept for an hour or so by the peasant's fire of turf, wood, and fir-cones.
By the devious course of the river it would appear that I was still only a few miles from the Lahn; but I knew that if Arnaud de Pricorbin escaped my scuffle with him and his comrades, it would be duly reported to the Count that I was yet on the French side of the stream; thus more ample means would be taken by him to guard it, and to cut me off at any possible point elsewhere.
In the distance I could see the quaint old city of Wildungen, seated between two snow-clad mountains, with the dun smoke of its winter fires ascending into the clear, cold sky. At one time I thought of venturing there and endeavouring to procure a guide or escort from any French officer who was in command; and either one or other the Duke's passport would certainly have procured me; but whom might I meet on the way? was the next idea.
The jealousy of Bourgneuf was so insane, and his whole proceedings were so cruel and unwarrantable, that my heart boiled with rage against him; and in this new cause for anger I forgot even Shirley, whose jealousy in another matter had cast me into these toils by an effort of cunning and poltroonery which I hoped one day to requite, and amply too.
Resolving to wait until nightfall, and then set forth alone, I passed the day at the cottage of the peasant woman, who urged me to await the return of her husband, who had been absent all day with his gun in search of a deer, and could guide me with certainty.
"What is he?" I inquired, carelessly.
"A forester of the Baron Von Freyenthal."
"Indeed!" said I, becoming suddenly interested. "I met such a person this morning. Does he wear a fur cap and deerskin boots, and has he a large black shaggy wolf dog?"
"Exactly, Mein Herr—you have met my husband Karl Karsseboom and his dog Jager."
"If I meet him again!" thought I, with a hand on my pistol.
After this information, and the discovery of who was my landlord (ah! if the fellow had returned when I was asleep!) I resolved to lose no time in endeavouring to reach the ford of the Lahn at any risk. Whoever was there, the night would favour me, and I was alike forewarned and forearmed.
I studied closely the features of the country from the cottage window, and repeatedly consulted a little pocket map of the principality of Waldeck, which had been given to me by Gervais Monjoy, two means of topographical knowledge that availed me little, when, a few hours after, without encountering the amiable Karl Karsseboom, I found myself on the rugged German highway alone, bewildered, and floundering along in the dark in my military jack-boots, with a heavy storm of snow drifting in my face, and the stormy and frosty north wind, which was so keen and cold that at times it well-nigh choked me.
The snow-flakes were thick and blinding; the roadway became less and less discernible as the white mantle of winter deepened; buried under it, shrubs, tall weeds, and everything that could mark the borders of the path, a very rough and occasionally steep one, disappeared, and I wandered on wearily and at random without knowing in what direction.
There was no one abroad at such an hour and in such a season, and no house was visible, for the district was wild and desolate, having been severely devastated by the French foragers.
No sound came to the ear but the occasional hiss of the sharp hail that mingled with the falling snow, rendering the winter blast more chilly, choking, and biting, till the lungs became acutely pained, and the heart throbbed wildly.
How far I struggled on inspiring that icy atmosphere I cannot say, but nature was beginning to sink, and in my heart grew the fear of being conquered altogether, and of perishing in the storm, when happily a light that shone down what appeared to be a kind of ravine or trench (I know not which with certainty, as the snow caused all forms and features to blend) filled me with new strength, and manfully I made towards it, keeping in the track or line it cast so brightly towards me.
Ere long I could discover other lights that shone high above me in the air; then all at once the outline of a great old schloss or castle loomed through the snowy atmosphere, and the light which had been my guide shone apparently from a window in the lower story of the edifice. This suggested ideas of robbers, for who has not heard or read of German robbers and their haunts in ruined castles of the Black Forest, or by the Rhine and Weser? A French outpost perhaps! Well, it mattered not; anything—even a few of the Volontaires de Clermont were better hosts than the snow and Jack Frost in such a night and in such a season.
Suddenly a cry escaped me, when, half-stifled in snow, I sank to the armpits—yea, to the very neck, struggling and floundering like a drowning man. In fact, I had tumbled into the dry ditch of the schloss, which was nearly filled with drifted snow, and across which I scrambled with great difficulty towards the light. Thrice I nearly surrendered altogether, before, panting, breathless, and chilled to the heart's core, I reached a kind of terrace, approached the window, and peeped in.
Between tapestry hangings and white curtains of Mechlin lace, there could be seen a cosy little room, lined with dark brown wainscot, the varnished panels of which shone in the light of a cheerful fire. Drapery also of Mechlin lace overhung an elegant bed, a handsome mirror, and toilet-table, on which were placed four tall candles in solid stands of mahogany and silver.
There were one or two ebony Dutch cabinets, on which stood rare Japan canisters, quaint Chinese figures, an ormolu clock, and various prettybijouterie, and there reigned within a sense of warmth, perfume, and comfort, that reached even to my chilly post without the casement.
But now, through the large pattern of the Mechlin lace hangings, I could discern two female figures near the fireplace; they were each kneeling at a carved oakprie-dieu, saying their prayers and warming themselves at the same time, thus combining their comfort with their piety. By her dress, and the contour of her head and shoulders, one appeared to be a lady; the other an attendant. Benumbed to agony, I felt dreamy, bewildered, and knew not what to do; sleep seemed to be stealing over my senses.
What if all I saw was an illusion, and these two fair ones were but Lurlies, like those who haunted the Lurliberg? What if the whole affair proved a dream, from which I should waken, if I ever woke at all, to find myself amid the snow-clad ruins of some old haunted schloss beside the Lahn?—for such is the plot of many a German story.
But when they rose from prayer I was quickly undeceived, and a cry almost escaped me on recognising Jacqueline de Broglie and her pretty attendant, the waggish Angelique!
Some minutes elapsed before I could sufficiently master my emotions to enable me to observe them particularly. Both seemed almost as unchanged as when we were together in the old château, especially Madame Tricot, the pretty piquante and black-eyed Bretonne. (Ah, she had soon tired of her M. Jacquot, who perhaps had given himself too many airs on becoming coachman to the coadjutor Bishop of Paris.) And she was here now with her former mistress (and mine too) in Germany, the land of the Seven Years' War.
The soft and charming features, the dark hair and eyes of Jacqueline, her air and manner, were all as I had seen them—not last, when lying, as it would seem, lifeless in the forest, but as they had been in our happier times. She was beautiful as ever; but the slightest symptom of dark down, like a shade, was visible at each corner of her pretty mouth—a symptom not uncommon among Frenchwomen after their twentieth year.
What was I to do now? To advance was to run into the jaws of danger; to retire was to perish amid the drifting snow, and already the very marrow seemed frozen in my bones. As she said something to Angelique, a thrill passed through me at the sound of her voice; something of my old love swelled up in my heart, and then pique repressed it; she seemed so happy and so smiling!
Had she been compelled to marry Bourgneuf? But, save her love, what was there to tie her unto me after I had disappeared from the château?
Suddenly the window against which I pressed (till my nose, had it been observed, must have presented a very livid aspect), and which had not been bolted, parted in two leaves that opened inwards, and heavily and awkwardly, with a shower of snow, I fell headlong into the apartment, and almost at the feet of Jacqueline, who, with her attendant, uttered a cry of terror; but both speedily recovered their presence of mind.
"Mon Dieu!what is this?—a drunken soldier!" exclaimed the first, with great asperity.
"A mousquetaire rouge—Grand Dieu!'tis an Englishman! We shall all be murdered. Help! help!" cried Madame Tricot, with new dismay.
"Jacqueline—Jacqueline! for Heaven's sake, hush! Have you quite forgotten me, Basil Gauntlet, and our pleasant days in old Bretagne?" I exclaimed, in an excited and imploring tone.
Terror, surprise, and anything but real pleasure, filled the eyes of Jacqueline us she recognised me. She trembled, and held up her hands as if to shield her averted face and keep me back; but this was needless, as I never approached, but stood near the open window, through which came the drifting snow and the night wind that waved the hangings.
"Oh, Jacqueline!" said I, while an irrepressible emotion of tenderness filled my heart, "how terrible was the time when last I saw you stretched upon the earth in the forest of St. Aubin de Cormier!—and why do you greet me so coldly now?"
"Monsieur," said Angelique, taking my hands kindly in hers, "she greets you as people of the world greet those whom they are anxious to forget."
"With a fearful and cold welcome, Angelique?"
"True,mon ami, it is so."
"Then I pray you to pardon this intrusion," said I, hurriedly; "in seeking the British lines I have lost my way, and my life is beset by other dangers than the winter storm. Tell me where the Lahn lies, and I shall go; but pity me, Jacqueline, for Heaven and my own heart alone know how well I loved you."
There was a gratified smile on her lovely lip; asmile—and at such a time—it went a long way to cure me of my folly.
"O, mon pauvre Basil!and so it is really you?" said she, regarding me with a certain vague interest sparkling in her fine dark eyes; "but here, at this time of night," she continued with alarm—"and the count—I expect him every moment! You know that I am married, do you not? Get him away—away from here. Oh, Angelique, where are your brains? Aid us, or he is lost, and I too, perhaps!"
"Lost, indeed!" I repeated, bitterly.
"Guillaume de Boisguiller, whom you found in that horrid English prison-ship, told you all about my marriage, did he not?" said Jacqueline, earnestly.
"Yes, madame."
"And you did not die of a broken heart?"
"Not at all, madame; I can assure you that broken hearts are articles quite as rare among us in England as with you in France."
"Ah, indeed!" said she, smiling again.
"'Tis so," said I, with a laugh, which sounded strangely in my own ears, and in which she joined, giving her shoulders the while a little French shrug.
And this was the Jacqueline about whom I had sighed, raved, and wept! So here was an extinction of love, and a great demolition of romance at one fell blow.
"Tell me where the Lahn lies, madame, and I shall not trouble you with my presence for a moment longer. I am in constant danger of my life, for your husband seeks to destroy me, and without a reason."
"Grands Dieux!" she exclaimed, with real alarm, "are you the fugitive to secure whom Bourgneuf has dispatched men in so many directions?"
"Yes, madame; so permit me to restore to you this emerald ring. It nearly cost me my life, and yet it won me my liberty yesterday at Ysembourg."
"From whom?" she asked, hurriedly.
"Your gallant old father, the Duc de Broglie."
Then drawing her ring from my finger, I laid it on the toilet-table with the air of Cromwell ordering the removal of "that bauble," the mace.
"He has no less than three parties out to cut you off—one in the direction of Hesse Cassel—one on the road to Wildungen—and a third at the ford near Zuschen, under Arnaud de Pricorbin."
"The bridges——"
"Alas! are all destroyed, and though a plank might aid you in crossing the one at Freyenthal, I heard him say that the Baron Konrad watches all the riverside with his foresters to prevent your passage.Mon Dieu!what shall be done?"
"Let me forth into the night again," said I, turning; "anywhere is better than here. Adieu, madame, adieu, and for ever!"
"Hola! mon bon Monsieur Gauntlet; so we meet again, do we?" exclaimed a familiar voice; and a cry escaped the women, when I found myself confronted by the Count de Bourgneuf, who shrugged his shoulders in the true French style, till his epaulettes touched his ears, while a fierce, ironical, and almost diabolical smile spread over his visage, and he ground his teeth. "Aha, mon garcon!" he continued, making me a series of mock bows, and then I perceived that he had a cocked pistol dangling in each hand: "so I've caught you at last, eh?"
In his rage, Bourgneuf, with each ironical bow, shook from his brigadier wig the white powder which he wore in great profusion.
The danger was imminent; peril menaced me in front and rear; the winter storm without, and an absurdly jealous foe within. I drew the pistol from my belt; but, alas! the pan was open, and the snow, when I fell into the ditch of the schloss, had replaced the priming. It was useless; however, as Bourgneuf was levelling his first weapon at my head, I rushed upon him, struck up the muzzle with my left hand, so that in exploding the ball pierced the ceiling. With my pistol-butt I struck the weapon from his other hand, and seized him by the throat; but the room was almost immediately filled by soldiers of the Regiment de Bretagne, who beat me down and disarmed me.
The count drew my sword from its scabbard, and contemptuously snapped the blade under his foot, saying, "Ha! pst-sacré coquin-pst!" as I was dragged into another apartment, and the door of the countess's room was closed and locked upon her and her attendant, whose cries I could hear ringing through the mansion; and as they seemed the prelude to some deed of cruelty and violence, I felt that in hands so unscrupulous I was helpless and completely lost.
However, I did not give in without a desperate struggle. From Tom Kirkton, who in his wilder days had practised at Marybone and Hockly-in-the-Hole, I had picked up a little of the good old English science of self-defence, so I struck out right and left, and knocked over the crapauds like ninepins, till the butt-end of a musket laid me on the field of battle, and for a time I thought all was over.
I was now rifled. The two louis of kind Boisguiller were speedily appropriated. The pass of the Duc de Broglie and the little laced handkerchief of Aurora, which I still preserved as a souvenir of my only relative, were handed to the count. He laughed at the first, but the sight of the second transported him with a fury only equal to that of the Moor on the loss of that important handkerchief which the Egyptian to his mother gave, and which had "magic in the web of it."
"Count Bourgneuf," I exclaimed, resolutely, on recovering my breath, for timidity, I found, would be of little avail here; "you have in your hand the signed passport of the Duc de Broglie; how dare you thus to violate it?"
"Dare—parbleu!from whom did you receive it?"
"From yourself, in presence of M. Monjoy and the Chevalier de Boisguiller."
"Signed, you say?"
"Yes—look at it."
"Ihavelooked; but it bears a signature Monseigneur de Broglie would scarcely recognise, and which no French soldier is bound to respect."
"A forgery! Mean you to say that it is a forgery of yours?" I exclaimed, furiously.
"Term it as you please," said he, tearing the paper to pieces; "'tis thus that I respect it."
"The duke released me," I began, with some emotion of alarm—"released me on parole, and complimented me——"
"Because you saved the life of his daughter from an outlaw—or pretend that you did so."
"But you, her husband, M. le Comte——"
"Mean to put you to death as a spy, who remained as such in Bretagne for several weeks, and who now as a prisoner seeks to escape, after lurking behind the French lines, of which the river Lahn is the present boundary."
"Say, rather," said I, with unwise bitterness, "that with a jealous cowardice which has no parallel, you resolve to destroy me as one who loved the countess before she had the misfortune to become your wife."
Enraged that this remark was made before the listening soldiers who crowded all the room, Bourgneuf said, with an oath and a scornful laugh—
"Ha!—think you so?"
"I both think and say so."
"What an intolerable world it would be if every man said all he thought, as you do; but I will meet you with the sword if you choose."
"I will not fight with a would-be assassin."
"The pistol then," he continued, grinding his teeth.
"I will not fight with an assassin, even though he wear the uniform of a colonel of the French Line," I replied, resolutely, though the soldiers began to mutter angrily, and beat the floor with the butts of their muskets.
"Bah—-pst! ce pistolet est en arrêt!" said Bourgneuf, turning on his heel with a sneer on his cruel lip, and this pet phrase of the French soldiers (implying the "white feather") so enraged me, that I could with pleasure have pistolled him on the spot.
Looking round for a man in whom he could trust, he selected a corporal, a most sinister-looking fellow, whose nose was quite awry, and whose shaggy eyebrows met over it in one. To him he gave awhispered order, and though my ear was painfully acute at such a time, I could only detect the words, "distance—sound of firing might not disturb—buried in the snow."
The man with the crooked nose and huge chevrons saluted his colonel, and desired me to follow him, which I did immediately, conceiving that my chances were always better with one man than with a score. As we left the room a gleam of triumphant malice sparkled in the eyes of Bourgneuf, and he gave me an ironical bow.
WhennextI saw his face its expression was very different.
In the vestibule of the schloss, which was full of sleeping soldiers, the corporal summoned a personage, in whom I recognised Karl Karsseboom, in whose ear he repeated the order of the count, and muttering curses at the trouble I caused them, these two worthies, after carefully loading their muskets, desired me gruffly to follow them, and leaving the schloss by a drawbridge which spanned the snow-filled ditch, we set forth, on what errand I knew not.
The storm of wind and snow was over now. Morning was at hand; the stars shone clear and brilliantly, and so bright was the reflection of the snow that every object could be discerned as distinctly as at noon-day. The silence was profound; even our foot-falls were muffled in the white waste, from amid which the fir-trees stood up like sheeted spectres.
I was weary and chilled, being without any muffling; my head was giddy with the recent blow, and the keen frosty air affected me severely.
I asked the corporal if they were conducting me to the ford of the Lahn.
"Not quite so far," replied he, gruffly.
My unexpected interview with Jacqueline, her coolness, her general bearing, had all bewildered me, and painfully wounded my self-esteem and pride, crushing my old love, and creating an emotion that wavered between wonder and—shall I term it so?—disgust. She had proved so cold-blooded, so—but enough of Jacqueline; let me to my story, or we shall never make an end.
Again I asked my guides whither they were conveying me, and their object?
"Beelzebub!" muttered the corporal; "how impatient you are. You will find out too soon, perhaps. Karl, are we a mile from the schloss yet?"
"Scarcely," grumbled Karsseboom, looking back.
I recalled the whispered order of Bourgneuf, and the terrible conviction came upon me that I was to be conducted to thedistanceof a mile or so, where thesound of firing might not disturbthe countess—to be there shot andburied in the snow!
Thus did a keen sense of danger supply the wanting words.
What was I to do—unarmed, weak, weary, and powerless? I could grapple with neither of my guards without the risk of being shot by the other; and to be led out thus—I, an officer on parole, a prisoner of war, protected by the promise of the Duc de Broglie—led out to be butchered by two unscrupulous ruffians, and without a struggle—the thought was too dreadful for contemplation.
But such was the intended sequel to that night's adventures.
Halting close to a thicket about a mile distant from the schloss, the irregular outline of which was clearly defined against the starry sky, the corporal told me to "stand still, or march ten paces forward, and then turn round."
"For what purpose?"
"You will soon see," replied Karsseboom, as he slapped the butt of his musket with cool significance, and proceeded to kick, or scoop with his feet, a long trench in the soft snow.
"You do not—you cannot mean to butcher me here?" said I, following them closely.
"Halte là! Stand where you are," cried the corporal, "or,nom d'un Pape! I will shoot you down with my muzzle at your head.Ah, sacre!—canaille—Rosbif!"
A wild beating of the heart; a dryness of the lips, which I strove to moisten with my tongue; a dull sense of stupor and alarm, all soon to end, come over me, when cocking their pieces they retired backward close to the thicket. After carefully examining their priming, they were in the act of raising the butts to their shoulder to take aim, when thinking that all was over with me in this world, I strove to call to memory a prayer, and something like a solemn invocation of God was forming on my lips, when both muskets exploded upwards in the air, and their reports rung far away on the frosty atmosphere, making me give an involuntary and spasmodic leap nearly a yard high.
I looked, and lo! there were my corporal and his Teuton comrade lying prostrate in the snow, while a man of great stature, armed with a large cudgel, was brandishing it above them, and kicking them the while with uncommon vehemence and vigour.
"Lie there, ye loons!" he exclaimed, in a dialect I had little difficulty in recognising even in that exciting moment; "I have gi'en you a Liddesdale cloure, andyoua Lockerbie lick on the chaffets—ye unco' vermin!" Then he proceeded to twirl his ponderous cudgel—a branch recently torn from a tree—round his head to dance among the snow and to sing—
"Wha daur meddle wi' me?Wha daur meddle wi' me?My name is wee Jock Elliot,So wha daur meddle wi' me?"
On advancing, I found to my astonishment that my protector was my comrade, Big Hob Elliot of the Scots Greys!
"'Ods, sir, the hand o' Providence is in this!" exclaimed Hob, capering among the snow with renewed joy, but rather clumsily in his heavy jack boots; "and so you are the puir Redcoat thae devils were gaun to butcher!"
"How came you here, Hob?" I inquired in a somewhat agitated voice.
"How came you here, yourself, sir? But we hae nae time for spiering; we'll tak' their muskets and awa' to some place o' safety."
In a trice Hob tumbled the French corporal, who was just recovering, out of his crossbelts, and appropriating his cartridge-box, handed me one musket, while arming himself with the other. We then hastened at a smart pace round the thicket, leaving the two scoundrels, French and German, to rouse them as best they could, or to smother amid the snow, for Hob had dealt each a stunning blow on the head.
As we hurried on, he told me briefly and hastily that he and nine other Scots Greys had been confined in a chamber of the outworks of Ysembourg, where they were packed as closely as ever Governor Holwell's unfortunate companions were in the Black Hole at Calcutta; but suffered from extreme cold in place of heat. It occurred to one who had been a stonemason, that the paved floor was hollow underneath, so this suggested the idea of attempting an escape.
Hob had been left with his spurs on his heels, so with these he proceeded to pick out the lime, and on raising a stone slab a vaulted place was discovered below. They resolved to explore it, and soon found that it was a passage or gallery leading to the dry ditch of the fortress, and lighted by a row of loopholes meant for enfilading by musketry the ditch itself.
Two of these loopholes were rapidly beaten or torn into one by Hob's powerful hands armed with a stone, and then the whole party crawled through into the fosse undiscovered, and just as day was breaking.
The snow, which was falling fast, concealed all noise and kept the sentinels within their boxes, so by expertly using their hands and feet the fugitives crossed the ditch and clambered up the opposite side; but there a wooden stockade of considerable height presented itself, and while searching for an outlet they were fired on by a sentinel from above, and at the same moment encountered an officer going his rounds with an escort of the inlying picket.
An alarm was immediately given; a scuffle, in which the escort opposed their bayonets to the unarmed men, ensued, and all were retaken save Hob Elliot, whose vast strength and activity enabled him to elude the levelled muskets, beat down two or three of the escort, reach an open wicket, and escape into the obscurity of the snowy morning. He had wandered all the ensuing day without knowing which way to turn, inspired only by the hope of reaching the Lahn, but a skirmish which had been going on between the Light Dragoons of the allies and the French Hussars had compelled him to lurk in woods and thickets, as he feared being shot at by both alike; for in his present plight and after all he had undergone, very little of poor Hob's red coat remained, and of that the colour was somewhat dubious. Besides he was worn out with fatigue, and now nearly dead of cold, though his animal spirits bore bravely up against danger and adversity.
It was during this crisis in his affairs that, while concealed in a clump of trees, he had seen me conducted there by the two hirelings of Bourgneuf, and but for him, at their hands I had assuredly perished by a miserable and unknown death.
We had both narrowly escaped captivity and danger; but I knew that three parties were yet out in pursuit of me, and that the ford was still guarded; so we were still in a horrible dilemma.
Refreshment and a guide were necessary; but where were we to find either? Loading the captured muskets we trod hopefully on, till we reached a cottage or small farmhouse, which to all appearance was deserted, as no smoke ascended from the chimneys, no dog barked or cock crew in the yard, the gate of which lay open or flat upon the ground.
A skirmish between the French Dragoons and the Prussian Black Hussars had evidently taken place close by this farm; for near it several horses, still accoutred were lying dead among the deep snow, and in some instances we saw spurred boots and ghastly white hands sticking up through it.
When we opened the door and entered the lower apartment the reason of the silence within it was at once accounted for, and we saw that which at another time, and to folks less case-hardened than Hob and I, would have been a very appalling spectacle.
The house had been pillaged and its usual occupants had fled; but on the table of the principal room lay a dead body muffled in a scarlet cloak, all save the feet (from which the boots had been stolen), and stiffly white and cold they protruded beyond the scarlet covering.
In a corner lay a pile of regimental coats, caps, boots, shirts, stockings, waist and shoulder-belts, all spotted, and in some instances soaked with now frozen blood; and there, too, were broken swords, bent bayonets, and wooden canteens piled up by those vile strippers of the dead, who would no doubt return ere long for their plunder, so this was no place for us to linger in.
A Prussian Hussar, in the black uniform laced with white of the King's favourite regiment, lay in another corner almost without a wound, yet quite dead, and in a pool of his own blood. A sword-point had grazed his left temple, severing the temporal artery, and he had bled to death, thus his blanched aspect was ghastly in the extreme.
"Horrible!" said I, shuddering.
"Maist deevilish!" added my companion, "but I've kenned o' waur."
Urged I knew not by what motive, for on service the emotion of merecuriositysoon becomes extinct, I turned down the mantle of the dead body which lay on the table, and then imagine my regret and horror on tracing in the glazed eyes, the relaxed jaw, the livid but handsome face, where the black moustache contrasted with its pallor, the Chevalier de Boisguiller, the gay and heedless Frenchman, who now lay stiff and cold in his rich Hussar uniform. He had been shot through the heart, and must have died instantly, as there was not much blood about him, but a fearful expression of agony yet distorted his features.
Hob at once recognised him, and said,
"He was a braw cheild, this Boygilly; but he has gane oot o' the world noo, and I daursay the damned world will never miss him."
The poor fellow's sabretache lay by him, together with his braided and tasselled Hussar pelisse and fur cap. I opened the former, and found it contained the two despatches from the Duc de Broglie to Maréchal de Contades, for which he had waited at Ysembourg on the night I left it—despatches now spotted by his own blood. They detailed some future operations that were to take place on the heights of Corbach, and enclosed Monjoy's diagrams of parallels and approaches before the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg, and all of these I knew would prove of inestimable value to our leader, Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick.
I now conceived the idea of passing myself off for my poor friend, whose character on this side of the Lahn was certainly a safer one than my own. I threw off my red coat, and put on his fur-trimmed pelisse and Hussar cap, together with his belt and sabretache, with its valuable papers.
Grim through this masquerading, Hob Elliot, who had been investigating several cupboards, and overhauling some haversacks, in which he found only a biscuit or two, laughed with stentorian lungs when he saw me attired in French uniform.
Then he presented me with a biscuit, saying,
"'Ods, sir, we maun e'en feed oursels in this wilderness o' a place, for the ravens are no' likely to do it."
To him I gave the scarlet cloak and a suitable forage cap, and after vainly searching the house for anything it might contain in the shape of more food or spirits, of which we stood much in need, we set out about mid-day with a story framed to suit any French party we might meet in our wanderings.
I knew poor Boisguiller so well that I could if necessary imitate his voice and manner; and as we were much about the same height and complexion, I had no fear of passing myself off successfully for the chevalier. Yet, if discovered, we now ran a terrible risk of being hanged or shot as spies, or prisoners escaping, or it might be for having slain the man whose uniform I wore and whose papers I carried.
We met no one to guide us, while proceeding in what we conceived, by the gradual descent of the road and rivulets, to be the direction of the Lahn, until just as the dusk of the short winter eve was closing in, we saw a party of six French soldiers of the Line, muffled up in their greatcoats, their muskets slung, their three-cornered hats pulled well over their faces, and their hands thrust in their pockets for warmth, coming leisurely towards us.
We had nothing for it now but to advance boldly and meet them, and the reader may conceive that my emotions were far from soothing on finding myself confronted by Arnaud de Pricorbin, and the same men whom I had so recently met at the ford.
When about twenty paces distant they halted, and as the evening was dusky cast about their muskets. Then Arnaud cried with a loud voice,
"Qui va là?"
Hob Elliot very unwisely replied in his native tongue, and bade him go to—it was not Heaven. On this Pricorbin slapped the butt of his musket and challenged again.
"La France," said I, in a very confident tone, and still continuing to advance; "I am the Chevalier de Boisguiller, going towards Freyenthal on special service."
"Boisguiller of the Hussars de la Reine?"
"Oui, mon camarade," said I, with a jaunty air.
"Bon Dieu! M. le Chevalier on foot?"
"My horse was shot in a skirmish yesterday."
"Tais-toi, nous serrons entendus, monsieur," said Arnaud, in a subdued voice, and presenting arms as I came close to him.
"Pourquoi?" said I, with affected impatience.
"Because the King of Prussia's Black Hussars are within musket shot of us."
"Where?"
"Among yonder trees," said all the soldiers together in a whisper.
"It matters not to me," said I; "we go undercartel."
I now perceived that one of the six soldiers had his head and face tied up with bloodstained handkerchiefs.
"And this big Gendarme?" inquired Arnaud, pointing to Hob Elliot.
"My guide from Ysembourg."
"Had he better not return with us? Monsieur is close to the ford."
Instead of replying to this uncomfortable suggestion, I asked "Have you found him you watched for?"
"The escaped prisoner?"
"Diable—yes."
"No, monsieur," he replied, with a malediction, in which the others, especially he of the slashed visage, heartily joined, while stamping their feet and blowing their fingers; "and so, after being half-frozen, we have left the ford in despair."
"Well—in yonder cottage on the slope of the hill you will find him lying dead, with his red coat beside him."
"Tres bon!—but I have some brandy here, M. le Chevalier," said Arnaud, presenting his canteen.
"A votre santé, mon camarade," said I, drinking and handing the vessel to Hob, who without the smallest compunction and with a leer in his eye drained it to the last drop. "Diable! 'tis a cold night—I shaved off my moustache to avoid icicles; now,camarade, the direct road to the ford?"
"Is this we are on, monsieur—a half-mile further will bring you to it, but beware of the Hussars."
The deception was complete, and away they went double quick to the dreary cottage on the hill.
Amid the darkness which had now set in, we reached the willow bushes and scattered rocks at the ford, the scene of my late affair with its watchers, and there a hoarse challenge in German rung through the frosty air upon our right. Then issuing from a thicket of pines, we saw a patrol of twenty of those dark and sombre fellows, the King of Prussia's Death's-head Hussars, riding slowly toward us.
They were all mounted (like our own corps) upon grey horses, their uniform was black, trimmed with silver or white braid, and skulls and cross-bones grimly adorned their caps, saddle-cloths and accoutrements, It was commonly said that the Black Hussars neither took nor gave quarter. Of this I know not the truth; but under the gallant and intrepid General Ziethen, they gained a glorious reputation during the Seven Years' War.
I speedily made myself known to the officer in command. He informed me that my corps, which he knew well by its reputation, and by the grey horses and grenadier caps of their riders, had suddenly left all the villages of the Lahn and marched to Osnaburg (thirty-seven miles from Minden) a town which Hob and I reached, after undergoing no small degree of suffering and privation, about the beginning of January; and happy were we when we saw the union-jack flying above the fortress on the Petersburg, and our sentinels in their familiar red coats at the gates.
Then indeed did we feel at home, and that night in Tom Kirkton's quarters opposite the Dominican monastery, over a smoking rasher of Westphalian bacon and a crown bowl of steaming brandy punch, I had the pleasure of relating to old Colonel Preston and other brother-officers all our adventures after my fashionable friend Shirley had blown up the bridge of the Lahn.
One of the first persons I inquired for was this gallant major, who, however, was elsewhere with the staff of Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick; but I was determined to settle my little score with him on the first suitable occasion. We had a jovial reunion; many times was the punchbowl replenished. Tom Kirkton gave us his favourite ditty, and then the old Colonel, in a voice somewhat cracked, struck up—
"Malbrook s'en va t'en guerre, (and)Mironton, Mironton, Mirontaine!"
chorussed all to the clank of glasses and drinking-horns.
My indignation was great on finding that not content with betraying me into the hands of the enemy, Shirley, to blacken my professional reputation, had forwarded to the Marquis of Granby, General of our cavalry, a report to the effect, that "by culpable negligence Cornet Gauntlet had delayed to recross the Lahn, and hadpermittedhimself to be taken prisoner, thusbetrayinginto the hands of the enemy ten men and ten horses of his Majesty's Scots Grey Dragoons."
The corps were so furious at this aspersion that they cast lots for who should call him out; it fell on a Captain named Cunningham, who sent at once a challenge, which the Major declined on the prudent plea that "he could deal with the principal only," but worthy old Colonel Preston, who had seen the whole affair from the tower of Freyenthal, cleared me of all the imputations of Shirley, whom I would have punished severely by horsewhip and pistol, had he not been mortally wounded in a skirmish on the 10th of January, when he expired in the hands of two soldiers who were carrying him to the rear in his sash.
On the day after I reached Osnaburg, Tom Kirkton, with a Scotch smirk in his face, handed me a letter addressed in a lady's small Italian hand.
It proved to be a kind one from my cousin Aurora—"the little usurper," as I named her; "the fair pretender," as she was styled by Tom.
Well, thought I, amid the horrors of war and the bitterness of such a wayward passion as that I cherished for the French girl, itissomething above all price to have a pure English heart to remember, to pray for, and perhaps to love me, as this dear Aurora does at home.
In a postscript she sent her "best duty and kind regards to Major Shirley of the Staff."
"Poor devil!" muttered Tom, who was shaving himself for parade, and using the back of his watch as a mirror.
Having nothing else in the shape of uniform, I had to wear poor Boisguiller's gay Hussar pelisse on parade and on duty for some days, until our quartermaster supplied me with a sergeant's coat (minus its chevrons, of course), a trooper's sword, pistols and accoutrements; and in this motley guise I made mydébutas Lieutenant of the Light Troop (and served in it during the remainder of the campaign), for so valuable were the despatches regarding the projected movements of the French on the heights of Corbach and before the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg, that for procuring them I had been appointed to a Lieutenancy in the 2nd Dragoon Guards by Prince Ferdinand, and then gazetted back into my own corps—the boys who weresecond to none, and whom I had no desire to leave.
We moved soon after to Schledhausen. There we remained until the month of May, when we marched through a country covered with forests to Fritzlar, a small town which belonged to the Elector of Mentz, where we were brigaded with the 11th Light Dragoons under General Elliot till the month of June, when the army again took the field.
The allied British and Germans under Prince Ferdinand, though less numerous than the troops under the Duc de Broglie, were in fine fighting order, yet they prudently acted chiefly on the defensive.
The Duc de Broglie having quarrelled with the Comte de St. Germain who commanded the army of the Rhine, generally failed to act in concert with him, and thus saved the Prince from the, perhaps fatal, hazard of meeting their united strength in another general action. Prior to this quarrel (which ultimately compelled the Count to retire from the service) the French arms had been very successful.
They had overrun the whole Landgraviate of Hesse, with their grand army, leaving troops to blockade the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg, the operations before which were successfully conducted on the plans of Gervais Monjoy, while St. Germain marched through Westphalia to form a junction with the Maréchal Duc, who, by the 10th of July, had encamped on the heights of Corbach.
On hearing that his two castles had fallen into the hands of the French, Prince Ferdinand, whom the papers I had found in the sabretache of Boisguiller had fully informed of the intended movement towards Corbach, commenced a retreat from Fritzlar towards the river Dymel; and sent his son, the Hereditary Prince, with a strong detachment towards Sachsenhausen where he meant to encamp. Some British troops, horse and foot, accompanied the young Prince on this expedition, and of these our regiment unluckily formed a part.
We continued to advance without opposition until the 30th of the month, when on coming in sight of the heights of Corbach and the distant town of Ysembourg, we found a body of French troops formed in order of battle and barring our march to Sachsenhausen.
Their strength seemed to be about ten battalions and fifteen squadrons, so far as we could judge at first.
"Now who or what the devil may these be?" we asked of each other, when we saw their arms shining in the sun, their colours waving in the wind, and the long line of white coats, three ranks deep, appear on the green mountain slope, where we had no idea of meeting any troops at all.
"Oh," said several, especially the staff officers who were spurring to and fro, in evident excitement; "'tis only the vanguard of the Comte de St. Germain, whom we must drive in."
The order was instantly given for the infantry to attack, the cavalry to support, and now began a brief but sharp, and to us very fatal engagement.
It was the noon of a lovely summer day.
Near us the Itter was rolling a blue flood between the green mountains, its banks fringed by light waving willows and dark wild laurels; beyond an opening or pass in the mountains where some French artillery were in position, we saw a fair and fertile plain, dotted by poplar trees, stretching far away in the sunlight, and the quaint old town of Corbach, with its ruddy walls and latticed windows that glittered like plates of gold.
Our infantry began the affair with great spirit, and none stood to their colours more bravely than our 51st Foot, Brudenel's old corps, which was led by a gallant soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel Noel Fury.
The young Prince soon found that he had made a reckless mistake, and was engaged with the united strength of the French army, and with no vanguard or detached force, like his own! It was too late to recede, so madly we strove by bayonet and sabre to hew a passage towards Sachsenhausen, but strove in vain, as De Broglie constantly poured forward fresh supports; and although the main body of the allies under old Prince Ferdinand was but a few miles in our rear, such was the nature of the ground that they could yield us no assistance whatever; so about two o'clock in the afternoon the trumpets sounded from right to left a retreat which it became our duty to cover.
As we galloped in sections round the flank of the 51st, and just as that regiment began to fall back from its line of dead and dying, I saw a dreadful episode, caused by the French Artillery.
Thrown from a mortar, a cartouche fell amid their ranks, and, by its explosion, in a single moment killed and wounded five officers and sixty rank and file! For the information of the non-military reader, I may state that this deadly missile is a case of wood about three inches thick at the bottom, bound about with marline, holding ten iron balls, each a pound in weight, and four hundred musket-balls. It had been fired from a howitzer on the rocks above the pass, and by one of this dreadful shower of balls the young Prince was wounded in the shoulder.
When the retreat began, several of the German regiments fell into confusion, and the French were not slow in taking advantage of it. The task of repelling them fell upon the Scots Greys, with the 1st or King's and 3rd Dragoon Guards, and with enthusiastic cheers we followed the young Prince in a succession of brilliant charges, which drove the enemy back, enabling our unfortunate comrades in the Infantry to make an almost undisturbed retreat. I say almost, for the French, who continued the pursuit till evening, brought up their Flying Artillery, and in the dusk we could plainly see the fiery arcs described by the shells, which the field mortars threw nearly at random to the distance of a thousand yards. So brightly burned the fuses, that we could avoid the falling bombs by scattering, dismounting, and throwing ourselves flat, as their exploding splinters always rise at an angle of several degrees from the earth.
On this service, which saved our Infantry from entire capture, few officers distinguished themselves more than Count Keilmansegge, Colonel Preston, and Major Hill of our 1st Dragoon Guards.
Our corps lost but one man, who, with his horse, was killed by a single cannon shot that passed between Sergeant Duff and me.
By another, the colonel of the 51st was slain. I have elsewhere mentioned two cases of presentiment, one of which was fatally realized at the time, the other afterwards. The leader of the 51st was inspired by a crushing emotion of this kind on that day at Corbach, and as the anecdote is little known, being related in the long since forgotten memoirs of a Scottish officer who served under him, I may quote it here.
"My old Lieutenant-Colonel, Noel Fury, was one of the slain. It is said by some that individuals may be visited by an undefined presentiment or mental warning of their approaching fate, though such ideas are treated by others as visionary and impossible. I shall not attempt to enter into a discussion which might lead me into the mazes of metaphysical inquiry, but shall content myself with a simple narrative of what I witnessed on the morning of this engagement.
"Colonel Fury was remarkable for the liveliness and gaiety of his disposition, and his spirits, on an occasion like the present, when about to enter into action, were uniformly observed to be unusually elevated. His habitual sprightliness and good humour made him a general favourite in the regiment; besides, he was a man of distinguished gallantry and an excellent officer. Among other good qualities, he paid especial attention to the filling of his canteen, and on the morning in question he sat down under a tree, inviting several of his brother officers to breakfast.
"For thefirst timein his life, on the eve of an engagement, he seemed pensive and dull, and on being rallied on the subject by some of the gentlemen present—
"'I don't know how it is,' he answered, 'but I think I shall be killed to-day.'
"The cannonade having just begun, he mounted his horse, and rode up to the regiment, where he had been but a very short time when his head was carried off by a cannon shot."
Ourtotalloss was five hundred men, and fifteen pieces of cannon.
We rejoined the main body of the allied army full of rage and disgust at our discomfiture, and clamouring for an opportunity to encounter the foe again; nor was it long before that opportunity came.
Among the papers found in the sabretache of Boisguiller, was one which informed Prince Ferdinand of a proposed movement of the French from Corbach towards Ziegenheim, and on this point he fixed his attention.
Not many days after our last affair, tidings came that a body of the French, commanded by Major General Glaubitz and Colonel Count Bourgneuf, had advanced in that direction.
Immediately on hearing this, our leader directed the young hereditary prince, who was eager and burning to wipe out the late disgrace, to drive them back, and on this service he departed, with six battalions of Hussars, the Scots Greys, 11th Light Dragoons, Luckner's Hussars, and two brigades of Chasseurs.
In high spirits and full of ardour we marched on the 16th of July, came suddenly upon the enemy at Emsdorff, attacked them with great fury, slew a great number of all ranks, took the Major-General, all the artillery and baggage, one hundred and twenty-seven officers and two thousand two hundred soldiers prisoners.
Count Bourgneuf, however, contrived to make his escape, after a rough hand-to-hand combat with Captain Cunningham of the Greys.
In this action, our 11th Light Dragoons, popularly known as Elliot's Horse, charged no less thanfivetimes, and broke through the enemy at every charge; but in these achievements they lost a great number of officers, men, and horses. Here for the first time we found ourselves opposed to a corps of Lancers, whose weapon was then unknown in our army. When Preston led us to the charge against them, their tall lances, with red pennons streaming, were erect; but when we were within three horses' length of them, a trumpet sounded, then they lowered them all breast-high and waved their streamers, so that many of our horses shied wildly; but we broke through them, nevertheless, and the spear-heads once passed, all was over with the Lancers.
On the 22nd of August, when we attacked the French rearguard at Zierenberg, as it was commanded by Bourgneuf, and consisted of the regiments of Bretagne and Clermont, I hoped for an opportunity of meeting my personal enemy, but was disappointed; for although we burst into the town, which is surrounded by a wall and has three gates, and in columns of troops charged into the heart of the disordered French, cutting them down right and left, I never saw the Count, though, amid the fury and confusion of such a conflict, I must have been more than once within pistol-shot of him.
Here we had five men and nine horses killed, Colonel Preston and twenty men wounded; but now came the affair which, was known in the army as the battle of Zierenberg, where I had once again an opportunity of meeting my unscrupulous Frenchman face to face.
We were encamped at Warburg, when, in September, we received orders to hold ourselves in readiness to move on particular service, and at an hour's notice—a troublesome communication, for we could scarcely unharness by day or by night, and had to keep our horses almost constantly saddled. At last came instructions to march, about nightfall, on a dull and gloomy evening, the 5th of September, when, with two regiments of foot (Maxwell's and the famous old 20th), the Inniskilling, and Bock's Hanoverian Dragoons, Bulow's Jagers, and one hundred and fifty Highlanders, we left the camp with all our tents standing to make a night attack upon the town of Zierenberg, which had been reinforced, and where Bourgneuf still commanded.
The forces there consisted of the Volontaires de Clermont and the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne—in all about three thousand men. Luckily, we were furnished with the password for the 5th September—Artois; it had been brought over by a deserter, who proved to be no other than the rascal Arnaud de Pricorbin, who had come into Warburg about noon, and thus betrayed his comrades, who passed their time almost careless of security, and having but slender guards and outposts.
The town, he informed us, was still a place of no strength; and, though surrounded by a dry ditch, that was shallow, and the wall within it was crumbling with age and decay.
Led by Colonel Preston, the Scots Greys were to head the attack.
As we marched, the dark and obscurity of the autumn evening deepened on the scenery. The duty was an exciting one, for the whole French army was encamped at a short distance from the point of attack, and we knew not the moment when we might find ourselves in a snare or ambush; for the story of the deserter, as to the password, the real strength of the force under Bourgneuf, and his dispositions for defence, might all be a lure, though the fellow remained in the hands of our quarter-guard as a hostage for the truth of his statements.
We crossed the river Dymel near the Hanse Town of Warburg, and saw the brown chesnut-groves that border its banks, the clear stars, and the crescent of the waning moon reflected in its current.
Ere long we saw the lights in Zierenberg and the fires of the French, whole companies of whom were bivouacked in the streets of the little town, where they made fuel of the furniture, the rafters, and floors of such houses as shot or shell had previously made too ruinous for occupation.
When within two miles of the place, the grenadiers of Maxwell, the 20th Regiment, and the little band of Highlanders, made a detour, taking three separate routes, while we, the cavalry, took a fourth, thus completely surrounding and cutting off those who were cantoned in Zierenberg.
According to Pricorbin's information, which proved to be correct, a regiment of French dragoons were bivouacked outside the town wall and in front of the principal gate; and it was with themwehad first to deal. We continued to advance in silence, all orders being passed in whispers, and thus not a sound broke the stillness of the night, but the monotonous tramp of our horses' hoofs, the occasional rattle of our accoutrements, the clatter of a steel scabbard or a chain bridle, till, unluckily, some of our horses began to neigh, and we could distinctly hear some of the French chargers responding, for the air was calm, still, and clear.
"Push on—push on!" was now said by all; "the alarm is given, and we have no time to lose!"
The moon, which occasionally gave out weird gleams of silver light between the masses of dark cloud that floated slowly on the upper currents of air, was now luckily enveloped, and all the scenery was intensely dark. Yet we could distinctly see the lights twinkling in the town, and the glare of the night fires, which cast flashes of lurid and wavering radiance upon the steep gables, the spire of a church, and the undefined outlines of masses of building. The French could see nothing of us; but the neighing of our nags was sufficient to give them all analerte, consequently, when we came within four hundred yards of the town gate, the whole regiment of horse were in their saddles to receive whatever might be approaching.
We were advancing in close column of troops as the way was broad and open. The Inniskillings were in our rear; the light troop of ours was in front of the whole, with Colonel Preston riding between Douglas and me.
On the roadway, as we approached, we could see the black figure of a single horseman posted.
"When he challenges, Gauntlet, reply in French," whispered the Colonel; "say something to deceive him."
Preston had scarcely spoken, when the voice of the vidette rung out clearly on the night—
"Qui vive?"
"Artois," I replied, while we all pressed forward at a trot.
"A quel regiment?" shouted the vidette, in great haste.
"Les Hussards de la Reine," said I, giving the name of Boisguiller's well-known corps, which was in the camp at Corbach.
"Très bien!replied the soldier, but the next moment he could hear Preston's words of command, given sternly and low—
"Prepare to charge—charge!"
The Frenchman's carbine flashed redly through the gloom, almost in our faces; the bullet whistled over our heads to the rear, where a fearful cry told that it had found a fatal billet among the Inniskillings; then wheeling round his horse, he galloped to the rear, where his comrades were formed in column of squadrons.
Ere the echoes of his shot had died away on the night wind, we heard the cheers of the 20th and the sound of the Highland bagpipe mingling with the hoarse hurrah of Bulow's light troop, as the town was assailed on three other points at once. Then the opening musketry flashed redly in various quarters, and the gleam of sudden fires shot upward in the murky air.