The Great Boer War
The Green Flag
The Hound of the
Baskervilles
Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes
Exploits of Brigadier
Gerard
Micah Clarke
The White Company
I hope that some
readers may possibly be interested in these little tales of the Napoleonic
soldiers to the extent of following them up to the springs from which they
flow. The age was rich in military material, some of it the most human and the
most picturesque that I have ever read. Setting aside historical works or the
biographies of the leaders there is a mass of evidence written by the actual
fighting men themselves, which describes their feelings and their experiences,
stated always from the point of view of the particular branch of the service to
which they belonged. The Cavalry were particularly happy in their writers of
memoirs. Thus De Rocca in his
I. HOW BRIGADIER GERARD
LOST HIS EAR 3
II. HOW THE BRIGADIER
CAPTURED SARAGOSSA 41
III. HOW THE BRIGADIER
SLEW THE FOX 79
IV. HOW THE BRIGADIER
SAVED THE ARMY 103
V. HOW THE BRIGADIER
TRIUMPHED IN ENGLAND 141
VI. HOW THE BRIGADIER
RODE TO MINSK 171
VII. HOW THE BRIGADIER
BORE HIMSELF AT WATERLOO 207
VIII. THE LAST
ADVENTURE OF THE BRIGADIER 273
“It appeared to me that
the plaster would crack if it were taken from the support of the wall.”
Frontispiece
“With dignity I
advanced toward the tribunal.” 18
“A cold chill passed up
my back and my hair rose.” 52
“With one impulse the
twelve swords flew from their
scabbards and were raised in salute.” 76
“This plan I laid
before Massena that very evening.” 104
“Does this mean that
Massena is about to retreat?” 132
“His bullet would have
blown out my brains had I been
erect.” 166
“Quick as a flash I
raised my pistol and fired.” 168
“We shall very soon
find someone who will translate
this despatch.” 184
“The words were his
death warrant.” 204
“ &osq;Have a care,
Sire,&csq; said Soult. &osq;The
English infantry is very solid.&csq; ” 212
“There is Marshal
Blucher. Deliver your message!” 242
“The guard is beaten!
The guard is beaten!” 244
“He rode in silence.”
250
“Burns explained to me
that we should see no more land until we came to our port.” 284
“He seized the
unfortunate mate by the throat.” 286
It was the old
Brigadier who was talking in the café.
I have seen a great
many cities, my friends. I would not dare to tell you how many I have entered
as a conqueror with eight hundred of my little fighting devils clanking and
jingling behind me. The cavalry were in front of the Grande Armée, and the
Hussars of Conflans were in front of the cavalry, and I was in front of the
Hussars. But of all the cities which we visited Venice is the most ill-built
and ridiculous. I cannot imagine how the people who laid it out thought that
the cavalry could manœuvre. It would puzzle Murat or Lassalle to bring a
squadron into that square of theirs. For this reason we left
Kellermann&csq;s heavy brigade and also my own Hussars at Padua on the
mainland. But Suchet with the infantry held the town, and he had chosen me as
his aide- de-camp for that winter, because he was pleased about the affair of
the Italian fencing-master at Milan. The fellow was a good swordsman, and it
was fortunate for the credit of French arms that it was I who was opposed to
him. Besides, he deserved a lesson, for if one does not like a prima
donna&csq;s singing one can always be silent, but it is intolerable that a
public affront should be put upon a pretty woman. So the sympathy was all with
me, and after the affair had blown over and the man&csq;s widow had been
pensioned Suchet chose me as his own galloper, and I followed him to Venice,
where I had the strange adventure which I am about to tell you.
You have not been to
Venice? No, for it is seldom that the French travel. We were great travellers
in those days. From Moscow to Cairo we had travelled everywhere, but we went in
larger parties than were convenient to those whom we visited, and we carried
our passports in our limbers. It will be a bad day for Europe when the French
start travelling again, for they are slow to leave their homes, but when they
have done so no one can say how far they will go if they have a guide like our little
man to point out the way. But the great days are gone and the great men are
dead, and here am I, the last of them, drinking wine of Suresnes and telling
old tales in a café.
But it is of Venice
that I would speak. The folk there live like water-rats upon a mud-bank, but
the houses are very fine, and the churches, especially that of St. Mark, are as
great as any I have seen. But above all they are proud of their statues and
their pictures, which are the most famous in Europe. There are many soldiers who
think that because one&csq;s trade is to make war one should never have a
thought above fighting and plunder. There was old Bouvet, for example--the one
who was killed by the Prussians on the day that I won the Emperor&csq;s
medal; if you took him away from the camp and the canteen, and spoke to him of
books or of art, he would sit and stare at you. But the highest soldier is a
man like myself who can understand the things of the mind and the soul. It is
true that I was very young when I joined the army, and that the quarter- master
was my only teacher, but if you go about the world with your eyes open you
cannot help learning a great deal.
Thus I was able to
admire the pictures in Venice, and to know the names of the great men, Michael
Titiens, and Angelus, and the others, who had painted them. No one can say that
Napoleon did not admire them also, for the very first thing which he did when
he captured the town was to send the best of them to Paris. We all took what we
could get, and I had two pictures for my share. One of them, called “Nymphs
Surprised,” I kept for my self, and the other, “Saint Barbara,” I sent as a
present for my mother.
It must be confessed,
however, that some of our men behaved very badly in this matter of the statues
and the pictures. The people at Venice were very much attached to them, and as
to the four bronze horses which stood over the gate of their great church, they
loved them as dearly as if they had been their children. I have always been a
judge of a horse, and I had a good look at these ones, but I could not see that
there was much to be said for them. They were too coarse-limbed for light
cavalry charges and they had not the weight for the gun-teams. However, they
were the only four horses, alive or dead, in the whole town, so it was not to
be expected that the people would know any better. They wept bitterly when they
were sent away, and ten French soldiers were found floating in the canals that
night. As a punishment for these murders a great many more of their pictures
were sent away, and the soldiers took to breaking the statues and firing their
muskets at the stained-glass windows. This made the people furious, and there
was very bad feeling in the town. Many officers and men disappeared during that
winter, and even their bodies were never found.
For myself I had plenty
to do, and I never found the time heavy on my hands. In every country it has
been my custom to try to learn the language. For this reason I always look
round for some lady who will be kind enough to teach it to me, and then we
practise it together. This is the most interesting way of picking it up, and
before I was thirty I could speak nearly every tongue in Europe; but it must be
confessed that what you learn is not of much use for the ordinary purposes of
life. My business, for example, has usually been with soldiers and peasants,
and what advantage is it to be able to say to them that I love only them, and
that I will come back when the wars are over?
Never have I had so
sweet a teacher as in Venice. Lucia was her first name, and her second--but a
gentleman forgets second names. I can say this with all discretion, that she
was of one of the senatorial families of Venice and that her grandfather had
been Doge of the town. She was of an exquisite beauty--and when I, Etienne
Gerard, use such a word as “exquisite,” my friends, it has a meaning. I have
judgment, I have memories, I have the means of comparison. Of all the women who
have loved me there are not twenty to whom I could apply such a term as that.
But I say again that Lucia was exquisite. Of the dark type I do not recall her
equal unless it were Dolores of Toledo. There was a little brunette whom I
loved at Santarem when I was soldiering under Massena in Portugal--her name has
escaped me. She was of a perfect beauty, but she had not the figure nor the
grace of Lucia. There was Agnes also. I could not put one before the other, but
I do none an injustice when I say that Lucia was the equal of the best.
It was over this matter
of pictures that I had first met her, for her father owned a palace on the
farther side of the Rialto Bridge upon the Grand Canal, and it was so packed
with wall-paintings that Suchet sent a party of sappers to cut some of them out
and send them to Paris. I had gone down with them, and after I had seen Lucia
in tears it appeared to me that the plaster would crack if it were taken from
the support of the wall. I said so, and the sappers were withdrawn. After that
I was the friend of the family, and many a flask of Chianti have I cracked with
the father and many a sweet lesson have I had from the daughter. Some of our
French officers married in Venice that winter, and I might have done the same,
for I loved her with all my heart; but Etienne Gerard has his sword, his horse,
his regiment, his mother, his Emperor, and his career. A debonair Hussar has
room in his life for love, but none for a wife. So I thought then, my friends,
but I did not see the lonely days when I should long to clasp those vanished
hands, and turn my head away when I saw old comrades with their tall children
standing round their chairs. This love which I had thought was a joke and a
plaything--it is only now that I understand that it is the moulder of
one&csq;s life, the most solemn and sacred of all things-- Thank you, my
friend, thank you! It is a good wine, and a second bottle cannot hurt.
And now I will tell you
how my love for Lucia was the cause of one of the most terrible of all the
wonderful adventures which have ever befallen me, and how it was that I came to
lose the top of my right ear. You have often asked me why it was missing.
To-night for the first time I will tell you.
Suchet&csq;s
head-quarters at that time was the old palace of the Doge Dandolo, which stands
on the lagoon not far from the place of San Marco. It was near the end of the
winter, and I had returned one night from the Theatre Goldini, when I found a
note from Lucia and a gondola waiting. She prayed me to come to her at once as
she was in trouble. To a Frenchman and a soldier there was but one answer to
such a note. In an instant I was in the boat and the gondolier was pushing out
into the dark lagoon. I remember that as I took my seat in the boat I was
struck by the man&csq;s great size. He was not tall, but he was one of the
broadest men that I have ever seen in my life. But the gondoliers of Venice are
a strong breed, and powerful men are common enough among them. The fellow took
his place behind me and began to row.
A good soldier in an
enemy&csq;s country should everywhere and at all times be on the alert. It
has been one of the rules of my life, and if I have lived to wear grey hairs it
is because I have observed it. And yet upon that night I was as careless as a
foolish young recruit who fears lest he should be thought to be afraid. My
pistols I had left behind in my hurry. My sword was at my belt, but it is not
always the most convenient of weapons. I lay back in my seat in the gondola,
lulled by the gentle swish of the water and the steady creaking of the oar. Our
way lay through a network of narrow canals with high houses towering on either
side and a thin slit of star-spangled sky above us. Here and there, on the
bridges which spanned the canal, there was the dim glimmer of an oil lamp, and
sometimes there came a gleam from some niche where a candle burned before the
image of a saint. But save for this it was all black, and one could only see
the water by the white fringe which curled round the long black nose of our
boat. It was a place and a time for dreaming. I thought of my own past life, of
all the great deeds in which I had been concerned, of the horses that I had
handled, and of the women that I had loved. Then I thought also of my dear
mother, and I fancied her joy when she heard the folk in the village talking
about the fame of her son. Of the Emperor also I thought, and of France, the
dear fatherland, the sunny France, mother of beautiful daughters and of gallant
sons. My heart glowed within me as I thought of how we had brought her colours
so many hundred leagues beyond her borders. To her greatness I would dedicate
my life. I placed my hand upon my heart as I swore it, and at that instant the
gondolier fell upon me from behind.
When I say that he fell
upon me I do not mean merely that he attacked me, but that he really did tumble
upon me with all his weight. The fellow stands behind you and above you as he
rows, so that you can neither see him nor can you in any way guard against such
an assault. One moment I had sat with my mind filled with sublime resolutions, the
next I was flattened out upon the bottom of the boat, the breath dashed out of
my body, and this monster pinning me down. I felt the fierce pants of his hot
breath upon the back of my neck. In an instant he had torn away my sword, had
slipped a sack over my head, and had tied a rope firmly round the outside of
it. There I was at the bottom of the gondola as helpless as a trussed fowl. I
could not shout, I could not move; I was a mere bundle. An instant later I
heard once more the swishing of the water and the creaking of the oar. This
fellow had done his work and had resumed his journey as quietly and
unconcernedly as if he were accustomed to clap a sack over a colonel of Hussars
every day of the week.
I cannot tell you the
humiliation and also the fury which filled my mind as I lay there like a
helpless sheep being carried to the butcher&csq;s. I, Etienne Gerard, the
champion of the six brigades of light cavalry and the first swordsman of the
Grand Army, to be overpowered by a single unarmed man in such a fashion! Yet I
lay quiet, for there is a time to resist and there is a time to save
one&csq;s strength. I had felt the fellow&csq;s grip upon my arms, and
I knew that I would be a child in his hands. I waited quietly, therefore, with
a heart which burned with rage, until my opportunity should come.
How long I lay there at
the bottom of the boat I can not tell; but it seemed to me to be a long time,
and always there were the hiss of the waters and the steady creaking of the
oar. Several times we turned corners, for I heard the long, sad cry which these
gondoliers give when they wish to warn their fellows that they are coming. At
last, after a considerable journey, I felt the side of the boat scrape up
against a landing-place. The fellow knocked three times with his oar upon wood,
and in answer to his summons I heard the rasping of bars and the turning of
keys. A great door creaked back upon its hinges.
“Have you got him?”
asked a voice, in Italian.
My monster gave a laugh
and kicked the sack in which I lay.
“Here he is,” said he.
“They are waiting.” He
added something which I could not understand.
“Take him, then,” said
my captor. He raised me in his arms, ascended some steps, and I was thrown down
upon a hard floor. A moment later the bars creaked and the key whined once
more. I was a prisoner inside a house.
From the voices and the
steps there seemed now to be several people round me. I understand Italian a
great deal better than I speak it, and I could make out very well what they
were saying.
“You have not killed
him, Matteo?”
“What matter if I have?”
“My faith, you will
have to answer for it to the tribunal.”
“They will kill him,
will they not?”
“Yes, but it is not for
you or me to take it out of their hands.”
“Tut! I have not killed
him. Dead men do not bite, and his cursed teeth met in my thumb as I pulled the
sack over his head.”
“He lies very quiet.”
“Tumble him out and you
will find that he is lively enough.”
The cord which bound me
was undone and the sack drawn from over my head. With my eyes closed I lay
motionless upon the floor.
“By the saints, Matteo,
I tell you that you have broken his neck.”
“Not I. He has only
fainted. The better for him if he never came out of it again.”
I felt a hand within my
tunic.
“Matteo is right,” said
a voice. “His heart beats like a hammer. Let him lie and he will soon find his
senses.”
I waited for a minute
or so and then I ventured to take a stealthy peep from between my lashes. At
first I could see nothing, for I had been so long in darkness and it was but a
dim light in which I found myself. Soon, however, I made out that a high and
vaulted ceiling covered with painted gods and goddesses was arching over my
head. This was no mean den of cut-throats into which I had been carried, but it
must be the hall of some Venetian palace. Then, without movement, very slowly
and stealthily I had a peep at the men who surrounded me. There was the
gondolier, a swart, hard-faced, murderous ruffian, and beside him were three
other men, one of them a little, twisted fellow with an air of authority and
several keys in his hand, the other two tall young servants in a smart livery.
As I listened to their talk I saw that the small man was the steward of the
house, and that the others were under his orders.
There were four of
them, then, but the little steward might be left out of the reckoning. Had I a
weapon I should have smiled at such odds as those. But, hand to hand, I was no
match for the one even without three others to aid him. Cunning, then, not
force, must be my aid. I wished to look round for some mode of escape, and in
doing so I gave an almost imperceptible movement of my head. Slight as it was
it did not escape my guardians.
“Come, wake up, wake
up!” cried the steward.
“Get on your feet,
little Frenchman,” growled the gondolier. “Get up, I say,” and for the second
time he spurned me with his foot.
Never in the world was
a command obeyed so promptly as that one. In an instant I had bounded to my
feet and rushed as hard as I could to the back of the hall. They were after me
as I have seen the English hounds follow a fox, but there was a long passage down
which I tore. It turned to the left and again to the left, and then I found
myself back in the hall once more. They were almost within touch of me and
there was no time for thought. I turned toward the staircase, but two men were
coming down it. I dodged back and tried the door through which I had been
brought, but it was fastened with great bars and I could not loosen them. The
gondolier was on me with his knife, but I met him with a kick on the body which
stretched him on his back. His dagger flew with a clatter across the marble
floor. I had no time to seize it, for there were half a dozen of them now
clutch- ing at me. As I rushed through them the little steward thrust his leg
before me and I fell with a crash, but I was up in an instant, and breaking from
their grasp I burst through the very middle of them and made for a door at the
other end of the hall. I reached it well in front of them, and I gave a shout
of triumph as the handle turned freely in my hand, for I could see that it led
to the outside and that all was clear for my escape. But I had forgotten this
strange city in which I was. Every house is an island. As I flung open the
door, ready to bound out into the street, the light of the hall shone upon the
deep, still, black water which lay flush with the topmost step. I shrank back,
and in an instant my pursuers were on me. But I am not taken so easily. Again I
kicked and fought my way through them, though one of them tore a handful of
hair from my head in his effort to hold me. The little steward struck me with a
key and I was battered and bruised, but once more I cleared a way in front of
me. Up the grand staircase I rushed, burst open the pair of huge folding doors
which faced me, and learned at last that my efforts were in vain.
The room into which I
had broken was brilliantly lighted. With its gold cornices, its massive
pillars, and its painted walls and ceilings it was evidently the grand hall of
some famous Venetian palace. There are many hundred such in this strange city,
any one of which has rooms which would grace the Louvre or Versailles. In the
centre of this great hall there was a raised dais, and upon it in a half circle
there sat twelve men all clad in black gowns, like those of a Franciscan monk,
and each with a mask over the upper part of his face. A group of armed
men--rough-looking rascals--were standing round the door, and amid them facing
the dais was a young fellow in the uniform of the light infantry. As he turned
his head I recognised him. It was Captain Auret, of the 7th, a young Basque
with whom I had drunk many a glass during the winter. He was deadly white, poor
wretch, but he held himself manfully amid the assassins who surrounded him.
Never shall I forget the sudden flash of hope which shone in his dark eyes when
he saw a comrade burst into the room, or the look of despair which followed as
he understood that I had come not to change his fate but to share it.
You can think how
amazed these people were when I hurled myself into their presence. My pursuers
had crowded in behind me and choked the doorway, so that all further flight was
out of the question. It is at such in- stants that my nature asserts itself.
With dignity I ad- vanced toward the tribunal. My jacket was torn, my hair was
dishevelled, my head was bleeding, but there was that in my eyes and in my
carriage which made them realise that no common man was before them. Not a hand
was raised to arrest me until I halted in front of a formidable old man, whose
long grey beard and masterful manner told me that both by years and by
character he was the man in authority.
“Sir,” said I, “you
will, perhaps, tell me why I have been forcibly arrested and brought to this
place. I am an honourable soldier, as is this other gentleman here, and I
demand that you will instantly set us both at liberty.”
There was an appalling
silence to my appeal. It was not pleasant to have twelve masked faces turned
upon you and to see twelve pairs of vindictive Italian eyes fixed with fierce
intentness upon your face. But I stood as a debonair soldier should, and I
could not but reflect how much credit I was bringing upon the Hussars of
Conflans by the dignity of my bearing. I do not think that anyone could have
carried himself better under such difficult circumstances. I looked with a fearless
face from one assassin to another, and I waited for some reply.
It was the grey-beard
who at last broke the silence.
“Who is this man?” he
asked.
“His name is Gerard,”
said the little steward at the door.
“Colonel Gerard,” said
I. “I will not deceive you. I am Etienne Gerard, the Colonel Gerard, five times
mentioned in despatches and recommended for the sword of honour. I am
aide-de-camp to General Suchet, and I demand my instant release, together with
that of my comrade in arms.”
The same terrible
silence fell upon the assembly, and the same twelve pairs of merciless eyes
were bent upon my face. Again it was the grey-beard who spoke.
“He is out of his
order. There are two names upon our list before him.”
“He escaped from our
hands and burst into the room.”
“Let him await his
turn. Take him down to the wooden cell.”
“If he resist us, your
Excellency?”
“Bury your knives in
his body. The tribunal will uphold you. Remove him until we have dealt with the
others.”
They advanced upon me,
and for an instant I thought of resistance. It would have been a heroic death,
but who was there to see it or to chronicle it? I might be only postponing my
fate, and yet I had been in so many bad places and come out unhurt that I had
learned always to hope and to trust my star. I allowed these rascals to seize
me, and I was led from the room, the gondolier walking at my side with a long
naked knife in his hand. I could see in his brutal eyes the satisfaction which
it would give him if he could find some excuse for plunging it into my body.
They are wonderful
places, these great Venetian houses, palaces, and fortresses, and prisons all
in one. I was led along a passage and down a bare stone stair until we came to
a short corridor from which three doors opened. Through one of these I was
thrust and the spring lock closed behind me. The only light came dimly through
a small grating which opened on the passage. Peering and feeling, I carefully
examined the chamber in which I had been placed. I understood from what I had
heard that I should soon have to leave it again in order to appear before this
tribunal, but still it is not my nature to throw away any possible chances.
The stone floor of the
cell was so damp and the walls for some feet high were so slimy and foul that
it was evident they were beneath the level of the water. A single slanting hole
high up near the ceiling was the only aperture for light or air. Through it I
saw one bright star shining down upon me, and the sight filled me with comfort
and with hope. I have never been a man of religion, though I have always had a
respect for those who were, but I remember that night that the star shining
down the shaft seemed to be an all-seeing eye which was upon me, and I felt as
a young and frightened recruit might feel in battle when he saw the calm gaze
of his colonel turned upon him.
Three of the sides of
my prison were formed of stone, but the fourth was of wood, and I could see
that it had only recently been erected. Evidently a partition had been thrown
up to divide a single large cell into two smaller ones. There was no hope for
me in the old walls, in the tiny window, or in the massive door. It was only in
this one direction of the wooden screen that there was any possibility of
exploring. My reason told me that if I should pierce it--which did not seem
very difficult--it would only be to find myself in another cell as strong as
that in which I then was. Yet I had always rather be doing something than doing
nothing, so I bent all my attention and all my energies upon the wooden wall.
Two planks were badly joined, and so loose that I was certain I could easily
detach them. I searched about for some tool, and I found one in the leg of a
small bed which stood in the corner. I forced the end of this into the chink of
the planks, and I was about to twist them outward when the sound of rapid
footsteps caused me to pause and to listen.
I wish I could forget
what I heard. Many a hundred men have I seen die in battle, and I have slain
more myself than I care to think of, but all that was fair fight and the duty
of a soldier. It was a very different matter to listen to a murder in this den
of assassins. They were pushing someone along the passage, someone who resisted
and who clung to my door as he passed. They must have taken him into the third
cell, the one which was farthest from me. “Help! Help!” cried a voice, and then
I heard a blow and a scream. “Help! Help!” cried the voice again, and then “Gerard!
Colonel Gerard!” It was my poor captain of infantry whom they were
slaughtering. “Murderers! Murderers!” I yelled, and I kicked at my door, but
again I heard him shout and then everything was silent. A minute later there
was a heavy splash, and I knew that no human eye would ever see Auret again. He
had gone as a hundred others had gone whose names were missing from the
roll-calls of their regiments during that winter in Venice.
The steps returned
along the passage, and I thought that they were coming for me. Instead of that
they opened the door of the cell next to mine and they took someone out of it.
I heard the steps die away up the stair. At once I renewed my work upon the
planks, and within a very few minutes I had loosened them in such a way that I
could remove and replace them at pleasure. Passing through the aperture I found
myself in the farther cell, which, as I expected, was the other half of the one
in which I had been confined. I was not any nearer to escape than I had been
before, for there was no other wooden wall which I could penetrate and the
spring lock of the door had been closed. There were no traces to show who was
my companion in misfortune. Closing the two loose planks behind me I returned
to my own cell and waited there with all the courage which I could command for
the summons which would probably be my death knell.
It was a long time in
coming, but at last I heard the sound of feet once more in the passage, and I
nerved myself to listen to some other odious deed and to hear the cries of the
poor victim. Nothing of the kind occurred, however, and the prisoner was placed
in the cell without violence. I had no time to peep through my hole of
communication, for next moment my own door was flung open and my rascally
gondolier, with the other assassins, came into the cell.
“Come, Frenchman,” said
he. He held his blood- stained knife in his great, hairy hand, and I read in
his fierce eyes that he only looked for some excuse in order to plunge it into
my heart. Resistance was useless. I followed without a word. I was led up the
stone stair and back into that gorgeous chamber in which I had left the secret
tribunal. I was ushered in, but to my surprise it was not on me that their
attention was fixed. One of their own number, a tall, dark young man, was
standing before them and was pleading with them in low, earnest tones. His
voice quivered with anxiety and his hands darted in and out or writhed together
in an agony of entreaty. “You cannot do it! You cannot do it!” he cried.
“I implore the tribunal
to reconsider this decision.”
“Stand aside, brother,”
said the old man who presided.
“The case is decided
and another is up for judgment.”
“For Heaven&csq;s
sake be merciful!” cried the young man.
“We have already been
merciful,” the other answered.
“Death would have been
a small penalty for such an offence. Be silent and let judgment take its
course.”
I saw the young man
throw himself in an agony of grief into his chair. I had no time, however, to
speculate as to what it was which was troubling him, for his eleven colleagues
had already fixed their stern eyes upon me. The moment of fate had arrived.
“You are Colonel
Gerard?” said the terrible old man.
“I am.”
“Aide-de-camp to the
robber who calls himself General Suchet, who in turn represents that arch-robber
Buonaparte?”
It was on my lips to
tell him that he was a liar, but there is a time to argue and a time to be
silent.
“I am an honourable
soldier,” said I. “I have obeyed my orders and done my duty.”
The blood flushed into
the old man&csq;s face and his eyes blazed through his mask.
“You are thieves and
murderers, every man of you,” he cried. “What are you doing here? You are
Frenchmen. Why are you not in France? Did we invite you to Venice? By what
right are you here? Where are our pictures? Where are the horses of St. Mark?
Who are you that you should pilfer those treasures which our fathers through so
many centuries have collected? We were a great city when France was a desert.
Your drunken, brawling, ignorant soldiers have undone the work of saints and
heroes. What have you to say to it?”
He was, indeed, a
formidable old man, for his white beard bristled with fury and he barked out
the little sentences like a savage hound. For my part I could have told him
that his pictures would be safe in Paris, that his horses were really not worth
making a fuss about, and that he could see heroes--I say nothing of
saints--without going back to his ancestors or even moving out of his chair.
All this I could have pointed out, but one might as well argue with a Mameluke
about religion. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing.
“The prisoner has no
defence,” said one of my masked judges.
“Has any one any
observation to make before judgment is passed?” The old man glared round him at
the others.
“There is one matter,
your Excellency,” said another.
“It can scarce be
referred to without reopening a brother&csq;s wounds, but I would remind
you that there is a very particular reason why an exemplary punishment should
be inflicted in the case of this officer.”
“I had not forgotten
it,” the old man answered.
“Brother, if the
tribunal has injured you in one direction, it will give you ample satisfaction
in another.”
The young man who had
been pleading when I entered the room staggered to his feet.
“I cannot endure it,”
he cried. “Your Excellency must forgive me. The tribunal can act without me. I
am ill. I am mad.” He flung his hands out with a furious gesture and rushed
from the room.
“Let him go! Let him
go!” said the president. “It is, indeed, more than can be asked of flesh and
blood that he should remain under this roof. But he is a true Venetian, and
when the first agony is over he will understand that it could not be otherwise.”
I had been forgotten
during this episode, and though I am not a man who is accustomed to being
overlooked I should have been all the happier had they continued to neglect me.
But now the old president glared at me again like a tiger who comes back to his
victim.
“You shall pay for it
all, and it is but justice that you should,” he said. “You, an upstart
adventurer and foreigner, have dared to raise your eyes in love to the grand
daughter of a Doge of Venice who was already betrothed to the heir of the
Loredans. He who enjoys such privileges must pay a price for them.”
“It cannot be higher
than they are worth,” said I.
“You will tell us that
when you have made a part payment,” said he. “Perhaps your spirit may not be so
proud by that time. Matteo, you will lead this prisoner to the wooden cell.
To-night is Monday. Let him have no food or water, and let him be led before
the tribunal again on Wednesday night. We shall then decide upon the death
which he is to die.”
It was not a pleasant
prospect, and yet it was a reprieve. One is thankful for small mercies when a
hairy savage with a blood-stained knife is standing at one&csq;s elbow. He
dragged me from the room and I was thrust down the stairs and back into my
cell. The door was locked and I was left to my reflections.
My first thought was to
establish connection with my neighbour in misfortune. I waited until the steps
had died away, and then I cautiously drew aside the two boards and peeped
through. The light was very dim, so dim that I could only just discern a figure
huddled in the corner, and I could hear the low whisper of a voice which prayed
as one prays who is in deadly fear. The boards must have made a creaking. There
was a sharp exclamation of surprise.
“Courage, friend,
courage!” I cried. “All is not lost. Keep a stout heart, for Etienne Gerard is
by your side.”
“Etienne!” It was a
woman&csq;s voice which spoke--a voice which was always music to my ears. I
sprang through the gap and I flung my arms round her.
“Lucia! Lucia!” I
cried.
It was “Etienne!” and “Lucia!”
for some minutes, for one does not make speeches at moments like that. It was
she who came to her senses first.
“Oh, Etienne, they will
kill you. How came you into their hands?”
“In answer to your
letter.”
“I wrote no letter.”
“The cunning demons!
But you?”
“I came also in answer to
your letter.”
“Lucia, I wrote no
letter.”
“They have trapped us
both with the same bait.”
“I care nothing about
myself, Lucia. Besides, there is no pressing danger with me. They have simply
returned me to my cell.”
“Oh, Etienne, Etienne,
they will kill you. Lorenzo is there.”
“The old greybeard?”
“No, no, a young dark
man. He loved me, and I thought I loved him until--until I learned what love
is, Etienne. He will never forgive you. He has a heart of stone.”
“Let them do what they
like. They cannot rob me of the past, Lucia. But you--what about you?”
“It will be nothing,
Etienne. Only a pang for an instant and then all over. They mean it as a badge
of infamy, dear, but I will carry it like a crown of honour since it was
through you that I gained it.”
Her words froze my
blood with horror. All my adventures were insignificant compared to this
terrible shadow which was creeping over my soul.
“Lucia! Lucia!” I
cried. “For pity&csq;s sake tell me what these butchers are about to do.
Tell me, Lucia! Tell me!”
“I will not tell you,
Etienne, for it would hurt you far more than it would me. Well, well, I will
tell you lest you should fear it was something worse. The president has ordered
that my ear be cut off, that I may be marked for ever as having loved a
Frenchman.”
Her ear! The dear
little ear which I had kissed so often. I put my hand to each little velvet
shell to make certain that this sacrilege had not yet been committed. Only over
my dead body should they reach them. I swore it to her between my clenched
teeth.
“You must not care,
Etienne. And yet I love that you should care all the same.”
“They shall not hurt
you--the fiends!”
“I have hopes, Etienne.
Lorenzo is there. He was silent while I was judged, but he may have pleaded for
me after I was gone.”
“He did. I heard him.”
“Then he may have
softened their hearts.”
I knew that it was not
so, but how could I bring myself to tell her? I might as well have done so, for
with the quick instinct of woman my silence was speech to her.
“They would not listen
to him! You need not fear to tell me, dear, for you will find that I am worthy
to be loved by such a soldier. Where is Lorenzo now?”
“He left the hall.”
“Then he may have left
the house as well.”
“I believe that he did.”
“He has abandoned me to
my fate. Etienne, Etienne, they are coming!”
Afar off I heard those
fateful steps and the jingle of distant keys. What were they coming for now,
since there were no other prisoners to drag to judgment? It could only be to
carry out the sentence upon my darling. I stood between her and the door, with
the strength of a lion in my limbs. I would tear the house down before they
should touch her.
“Go back! Go back!” she
cried. “They will murder you, Etienne. My life, at least, is safe. For the love
you bear me, Etienne, go back. It is nothing. I will make no sound. You will
not hear that it is done.”
She wrestled with me,
this delicate creature, and by main force she dragged me to the opening between
the cells. But a sudden thought had crossed my mind.
“We may yet be saved,”
I whispered. “Do what I tell you at once and without argument. Go into my cell.
Quick!”
I pushed her through
the gap and helped her to replace the planks. I had retained her cloak in my
hands, and with this wrapped round me I crept into the darkest corner of her
cell. There I lay when the door was opened and several men came in. I had
reckoned that they would bring no lantern, for they had none with them before.
To their eyes I was only a dark blur in the corner.
“Bring a light,” said
one of them.
“No, no; curse it!”
cried a rough voice, which I knew to be that of the ruffian, Matteo. “It is not
a job that I like, and the more I saw it the less I should like it. I am sorry,
signora, but the order of the tribunal has to be obeyed.”
My impulse was to
spring to my feet and to rush through them all and out by the open door. But
how would that help Lucia? Suppose that I got clear away, she would be in their
hands until I could come back with help, for single-handed I could not hope to
clear a way for her. All this flashed through my mind in an instant, and I saw
that the only course for me was to lie still, take what came, and wait my
chance. The fellow&csq;s coarse hand felt about among my curls--those curls
in which only a woman&csq;s fingers had ever wandered. The next instant he
gripped my ear and a pain shot through me as if I had been touched with a hot
iron. I bit my lip to stifle a cry, and I felt the blood run warm down my neck
and back.
“There, thank Heaven,
that&csq;s over,” said the fellow, giving me a friendly pat on the head. “You&csq;re
a brave girl, signora, I&csq;ll say that for you, and I only wish
you&csq;d have better taste than to love a Frenchman. You can blame him and
not me for what I have done.”
What could I do save to
lie still and grind my teeth at my own helplessness? At the same time my pain
and my rage were always soothed by the reflection that I had suffered for the
woman whom I loved. It is the custom of men to say to ladies that they would
willingly endure any pain for their sake, but it was my privilege to show that
I had said no more than I meant. I thought also how nobly I would seem to have
acted if ever the story came to be told, and how proud the regiment of Conflans
might well be of their colonel. These thoughts helped me to suffer in silence
while the blood still trickled over my neck and dripped upon the stone floor.
It was that sound which nearly led to my destruction.
“She&csq;s bleeding
fast,” said one of the valets. “You had best fetch a surgeon or you will find
her dead in the morning.”
“She lies very still
and she has never opened her mouth,” said another. “The shock has killed her.”
“Nonsense; a young
woman does not die so easily.” It was Matteo who spoke. “Besides, I did but
snip off enough to leave the tribunal&csq;s mark upon her. Rouse up,
signora, rouse up!”
He shook me by the
shoulder, and my heart stood still for fear he should feel the epaulet under
the mantle.
“How is it with you
now?” he asked.
I made no answer.
“Curse it, I wish I had
to do with a man instead of a woman, and the fairest woman in Venice,” said the
gondolier. “Here, Nicholas, lend me your handkerchief and bring a light.”
It was all over. The
worst had happened. Nothing could save me. I still crouched in the corner, but
I was tense in every muscle, like a wild cat about to spring. If I had to die I
was determined that my end should be worthy of my life.
One of them had gone
for a lamp and Matteo was stooping over me with a handkerchief. In another
instant my secret would be discovered. But he suddenly drew himself straight
and stood motionless. At the same instant there came a confused murmuring sound
through the little window far above my head. It was the rattle of oars and the
buzz of many voices. Then there was a crash upon the door upstairs, and a
terrible voice roared: “Open! Open in the name of the Emperor!”
The Emperor! It was
like the mention of some saint which, by its very sound, can frighten the
demons. Away they ran with cries of terror--Matteo, the valets, the steward,
all of the murderous gang. Another shout and then the crash of a hatchet and
the splintering of planks. There were the rattle of arms and the cries of
French soldiers in the hall. Next instant feet came flying down the stair and a
man burst frantically into my cell.
“Lucia!” he cried, “Lucia!”
He stood in the dim light, panting and unable to find his words. Then he broke
out again. “Have I not shown you how I love you, Lucia? What more could I do to
prove it? I have betrayed my country, I have broken my vow, I have ruined my
friends, and I have given my life in order to save you.”
It was young Lorenzo
Loredan, the lover whom I had superseded. My heart was heavy for him at the
time, but after all it is every man for himself in love, and if one fails in
the game it is some consolation to lose to one who can be a graceful and
considerate winner. I was about to point this out to him, but at the first word
I uttered he gave a shout of astonishment, and, rushing out, he seized the lamp
which hung in the corridor and flashed it in my face.
“It is you, you
villain!” he cried. “You French coxcomb. You shall pay me for the wrong which
you have done me.”
But the next instant he
saw the pallor of my face and the blood which was still pouring from my head.
“What is this?” he
asked. “How come you to have lost your ear?”
I shook off my
weakness, and pressing my handkerchief to my wound I rose from my couch, the
debonair colonel of Hussars.
“My injury, sir, is
nothing. With your permission we will not allude to a matter so trifling and so
personal.”
But Lucia had burst
through from her cell and was pouring out the whole story while she clasped
Lorenzo&csq;s arm.
“This noble
gentleman--he has taken my place, Lorenzo! He has borne it for me. He has
suffered that I might be saved.”
I could sympathise with
the struggle which I could see in the Italian&csq;s face. At last he held
out his hand to me.
“Colonel Gerard,” he
said, “you are worthy of a great love. I forgive you, for if you have wronged
me you have made a noble atonement. But I wonder to see you alive. I left the
tribunal before you were judged, but I understood that no mercy would be shown
to any Frenchman since the destruction of the ornaments of Venice.”
“He did not destroy
them,” cried Lucia. “He has helped to preserve those in our palace.”
“One of them, at any
rate,” said I, as I stooped and kissed her hand.
This was the way, my
friends, in which I lost my ear. Lorenzo was found stabbed to the heart in the
Piazza of St. Mark within two days of the night of my adventure. Of the
tribunal and its ruffians, Matteo and three others were shot, the rest banished
from the town. Lucia, my lovely Lucia, retired into a convent at Murano after
the French had left the city, and there she still may be, some gentle lady
abbess who has perhaps long forgotten the days when our hearts throbbed
together, and when the whole great world seemed so small a thing beside the
love which burned in our veins. Or perhaps it may not be so. Perhaps she has
not forgotten. There may still be times when the peace of the cloister is
broken by the memory of the old soldier who loved her in those distant days.
Youth is past and passion is gone, but the soul of the gentleman can never
change, and still Etienne Gerard would bow his grey head before her and would
very gladly lose his other ear if he might do her a service.
Have I ever told you,
my friends, the circumstances connected with my joining the Hussars of Conflans
at the time of the siege of Saragossa and the very remarkable exploit which I
performed in connection with the taking of that city? No? Then you have indeed
something still to learn. I will tell it to you exactly as it occurred. Save
for two or three men and a score or two of women, you are the first who have
ever heard the story.
You must know, then,
that it was in the Second Hussars--called the Hussars of Chamberan--that I had
served as a lieutenant and as a junior captain. At the time I speak of I was
only twenty-five years of age, as reckless and desperate a man as any in that
great army. It chanced that the war had come to a halt in Germany, while it was
still raging in Spain, so the Emperor, wishing to reinforce the Spanish army,
transferred me as senior captain to the Hussars of Conflans, which were at that
time in the Fifth Army Corps under Marshal Lannes.
It was a long journey
from Berlin to the Pyrenees. My new regiment formed part of the force which,
under Marshal Lannes, was then besieging the Spanish town of Saragossa. I
turned my horse&csq;s head in that direction, therefore, and behold me a
week or so later at the French headquarters, whence I was directed to the camp
of the Hussars of Conflans.
You have read, no
doubt, of this famous siege of Saragossa, and I will only say that no general
could have had a harder task than that with which Marshal Lannes was confronted.
The immense city was crowded with a horde of Spaniards--soldiers, peasants,
priests --all filled with the most furious hatred of the French, and the most
savage determination to perish before they would surrender. There were eighty
thousand men in the town and only thirty thousand to besiege them. Yet we had a
powerful artillery, and our engineers were of the best. There was never such a
siege, for it is usual that when the fortifications are taken the city falls,
but here it was not until the fortifications were taken that the real fighting
began. Every house was a fort and every street a battle-field, so that slowly,
day by day, we had to work our way inwards, blowing up the houses with their
garrisons until more than half the city had disappeared. Yet the other half was
as determined as ever and in a better position for defence, since it consisted
of enormous convents and monasteries with walls like the Bastille, which could
not be so easily brushed out of our way. This was the state of things at the time
that I joined the army.
I will confess to you
that cavalry are not of much use in a siege, although there was a time when I
would not have permitted anyone to have made such an observation. The Hussars
of Conflans were encamped to the south of the town, and it was their duty to throw
out patrols and to make sure that no Spanish force was advancing from that
quarter. The colonel of the regiment was not a good soldier, and the regiment
was at that time very far from being in the high condition which it afterwards
attained. Even in that one evening I saw several things which shocked me, for I
had a high standard, and it went to my heart to see an ill- arranged camp, an
ill-groomed horse, or a slovenly trooper. That night I supped with twenty-six
of my new brother-officers, and I fear that in my zeal I showed them only too
plainly that I found things very different to what I was accustomed in the army
of Germany. There was silence in the mess after my remarks, and I felt that I
had been indiscreet when I saw the glances that were cast at me. The colonel
especially was furious, and a great major named Olivier, who was the fire-eater
of the regiment, sat opposite to me curling his huge black moustaches, and
staring at me as if he would eat me. However, I did not resent his attitude,
for I felt that I had indeed been indiscreet, and that it would give a bad
impression if upon this my first evening I quarrelled with my superior officer.
So far I admit that I
was wrong, but now I come to the sequel. Supper over, the colonel and some
other officers left the room, for it was in a farm-house that the mess was
held. There remained a dozen or so, and a goat-skin of Spanish wine having been
brought in we all made merry. Presently this Major Olivier asked me some
questions concerning the army of Germany and as to the part which I had myself
played in the campaign. Flushed with the wine, I was drawn on from story to
story. It was not unnatural, my friends. You will sympathise with me. Up there
I had been the model for every officer of my years in the army. I was the first
swordsman, the most dashing rider, the hero of a hundred adventures. Here I
found myself not only unknown, but even disliked. Was it not natural that I
should wish to tell these brave comrades what sort of man it was that had come
among them? Was it not natural that I should wish to say, “Rejoice, my friends,
rejoice! It is no ordinary man who has joined you to-night, but it is I, the
Gerard, the hero of Ratisbon, the victor of Jena, the man who broke the square
at Austerlitz”? I could not say all this. But I could at least tell them some
incidents which would enable them to say it for themselves. I did so. They
listened unmoved. I told them more. At last, after my tale of how I had guided
the army across the Danube, one universal shout of laughter broke from them
all. I sprang to my feet, flushed with shame and anger. They had drawn me on.
They were making game of me. They were convinced that they had to do with a
braggart and a liar. Was this my reception in the Hussars of Conflans? I dashed
the tears of mortification from my eyes, and they laughed the more at the
sight.
“Do you know, Captain
Pelletan, whether Marshal Lannes is still with the army?” asked the major.
“I believe that he is,
sir,” said the other.
“Really, I should have
thought that his presence was hardly necessary now that Captain Gerard has
arrived.”
Again there was a roar
of laughter. I can see the ring of faces, the mocking eyes, the open mouths--
Olivier with his great black bristles, Pelletan thin and sneering, even the
young sub-lieutenants convulsed with merriment. Heavens, the indignity of it!
But my rage had dried my tears. I was myself again, cold, quiet,
self-contained, ice without and fire within.
“May I ask, sir,” said
I to the major, “at what hour the regiment is paraded?”
“I trust, Captain
Gerard, that you do not mean to alter our hours,” said he, and again there was
a burst of laughter, which died away as I looked slowly round the circle.
“What hour is the
assembly?” I asked, sharply, of Captain Pelletan.
Some mocking answer was
on his tongue, but my glance kept it there. “The assembly is at six,” he
answered.
“I thank you,” said I.
I then counted the company and found that I had to do with fourteen officers,
two of whom appeared to be boys fresh from St. Cyr. I could not condescend to
take any notice of their indiscretion. There remained the major, four captains,
and seven lieutenants.
“Gentlemen,” I
continued, looking from one to the other of them, “I should feel myself
unworthy of this famous regiment if I did not ask you for satisfaction for the
rudeness with which you have greeted me, and I should hold you to be unworthy
of it if on any pretext you refused to grant it.”
“You will have no
difficulty upon that score,” said the major. “I am prepared to waive my rank
and to give you every satisfaction in the name of the Hussars of Conflans.”
“I thank you,” I
answered. “I feel, however, that I have some claim upon these other gentlemen
who laughed at my expense.”
“Whom would you fight,
then?” asked Captain Pelletan.
“All of you,” I
answered.
They looked in surprise
from one to the other. Then they drew off to the other end of the room, and I
heard the buzz of their whispers. They were laughing. Evidently they still
thought that they had to do with some empty braggart. Then they returned.
“Your request is
unusual,” said Major Olivier, “but it will be granted. How do you propose to
conduct such a duel? The terms lie with you.”
“Sabres,” said I. “And
I will take you in order of seniority, beginning with you, Major Olivier, at
five o&csq;clock. I will thus be able to devote five minutes to each before
the assembly is blown. I must, however, beg you to have the courtesy to name
the place of meeting, since I am still ignorant of the locality.”
They were impressed by
my cold and practical manner. Already the smile had died away from their lips.
Olivier&csq;s face was no longer mocking, but it was dark and stern.
“There is a small open
space behind the horse lines,” said he. “We have held a few affairs of honour
there and it has done very well. We shall be there, Captain Gerard, at the hour
you name.”
I was in the act of
bowing to thank them for their acceptance when the door of the mess-room was
flung open and the colonel hurried into the room, with an agitated face.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I
have been asked to call for a volunteer from among you for a service which
involves the greatest possible danger. I will not disguise from you that the
matter is serious in the last degree, and that Marshal Lannes has chosen a
cavalry officer because he can be better spared than an officer of infantry or
of engineers. Married men are not eligible. Of the others, who will volunteer?”
I need not say that all
the unmarried officers stepped to the front. The colonel looked round in some
embarrassment. I could see his dilemma. It was the best man who should go, and
yet it was the best man whom he could least spare.
“Sir,” said I, “may I
be permitted to make a sug- gestion?”
He looked at me with a
hard eye. He had not forgotten my observations at supper. “Speak!” said he.
“I would point out,
sir,” said I, “that this mission is mine both by right and by convenience.”
“Why so, Captain
Gerard?”
“By right because I am
the senior captain. By convenience because I shall not be missed in the
regiments since the men have not yet learned to know me.”
The colonel&csq;s
features relaxed.
“There is certainly
truth in what you say, Captain Gerard,” said he. “I think that you are indeed
best fitted to go upon this mission. If you will come with me I will give you
your instructions.”
I wished my new
comrades good-night as I left the room, and I repeated that I should hold
myself at their disposal at five o&csq;clock next morning. They bowed in
silence, and I thought that I could see from the expression of their faces that
they had already begun to take a more just view of my character.
I had expected that the
colonel would at once inform me what it was that I had been chosen to do, but
instead of that he walked on in silence, I following behind him. We passed
through the camp and made our way across the trenches and over the ruined heaps
of stones which marked the old wall of the town. Within, there was a labyrinth
of passages formed among the débris of the houses which had been destroyed by
the mines of the engineers. Acres and acres were covered with splintered walls
and piles of brick which had once been a populous suburb. Lanes had been driven
through it and lanterns placed at the corners with inscriptions to direct the
wayfarer. The colonel hurried onward until at last, after a long walk, we found
our way barred by a high grey wall which stretched right across our path. Here
behind a barricade lay our advance guard. The colonel led me into a roofless
house, and there I found two general officers, a map stretched over a drum in
front of them, they kneeling beside it and examining it carefully by the light
of a lantern. The one with the clean-shaven face and the twisted neck was
Marshal Lannes, the other was General Razout, the head of the engineers.
“Captain Gerard has
volunteered to go,” said the colonel.
Marshal Lannes rose
from his knees and shook me by the hand.
“You are a brave man,
sir,” said he. “I have a present to make to you,” he added, handing me a very
tiny glass tube. “It has been specially prepared by Dr. Fardet. At the supreme
moment you have but to put it to your lips and you will be dead in an instant.”
This was a cheerful
beginning. I will confess to you, my friends, that a cold chill passed up my
back and my hair rose upon my head.
“Excuse me, sir,” said
I, as I saluted, “I am aware that I have volunteered for a service of great
danger, but the exact details have not yet been given to me.”
“Colonel Perrin,” said
Lannes, severely, “it is unfair to allow this brave officer to volunteer before
he has learned what the perils are to which he will be exposed.”
But already I was
myself once more.
“Sir,” said I, “permit
me to remark that the greater the danger the greater the glory, and that I
could only repent of volunteering if I found that there were no risks to be
run.”
It was a noble speech,
and my appearance gave force to my words. For the moment I was a heroic figure.
As I saw Lannes&csq;s eyes fixed in admiration upon my face it thrilled me
to think how splendid was the début which I was making in the army of Spain. If
I died that night my name would not be forgotten. My new comrades and my old,
divided in all else, would still have a point of union in their love and
admiration of Etienne Gerard.
“General Razout,
explain the situation!” said Lannes, briefly.
The engineer officer
rose, his compasses in his hand. He led me to the door and pointed to the high
grey wall which towered up amongst the débris of the shattered houses.
“That is the
enemy&csq;s present line of defence,” said he. “It is the wall of the great
Convent of the Ma- donna. If we can carry it the city must fall, but they have
run countermines all round it, and the walls are so enormously thick that it
would be an immense labour to breach it with artillery. We happen to know,
however, that the enemy have a considerable store of powder in one of the lower
chambers. If that could be exploded the way would be clear for us.”
“How can it be reached?”
I asked.
“I will explain. We
have a French agent within the town named Hubert. This brave man has been in
constant communication with us, and he had promised to explode the magazine. It
was to be done in the early morning, and for two days running we have had a
storming party of a thousand Grenadiers waiting for the breach to be formed.
But there has been no explosion, and for these two days we have had no
communication from Hubert. The question is, what has become of him?”
“You wish me to go and
see?”
“Precisely. Is he ill,
or wounded, or dead? Shall we still wait for him, or shall we attempt the
attack elsewhere? We cannot determine this until we have heard from him. This
is a map of the town, Captain Gerard. You perceive that within this ring of
convents and monasteries are a number of streets which branch off from a
central square. If you come so far as this square you will find the cathedral
at one corner. In that corner is the street of Toledo. Hubert lives in a small
house between a cobbler&csq;s and a wine-shop, on the right-hand side as
you go from the cathedral. Do you follow me?”
“Clearly.”
“You are to reach that
house, to see him, and to find out if his plan is still feasible or if we must
abandon it.” He produced what appeared to be a roll of dirty brown flannel. “This
is the dress of a Franciscan friar,” said he. “You will find it the most useful
disguise.”
I shrank away from it.
“It turns me into a
spy,” I cried. “Surely I can go in my uniform?”
“Impossible! How could
you hope to pass through the streets of the city? Remember, also, that the
Spaniards take no prisoners, and that your fate will be the same in whatever
dress you are taken.”
It was true, and I had
been long enough in Spain to know that that fate was likely to be something
more serious than mere death. All the way from the frontier I had heard grim
tales of torture and mutilation. I enveloped myself in the Franciscan gown.
“Now I am ready.”
“Are you armed?”
“My sabre.”
“They will hear it
clank. Take this knife, and leave your sword. Tell Hubert that at four
o&csq;clock, before dawn, the storming party will again be ready. There is
a sergeant outside who will show you how to get into the city. Good-night, and
good luck!”
Before I had left the
room, the two generals had their cocked hats touching each other over the map.
At the door an under-officer of engineers was waiting for me. I tied the girdle
of my gown, and taking off my busby, I drew the cowl over my head. My spurs I
removed. Then in silence I followed my guide.
It was necessary to
move with caution, for the walls above were lined by the Spanish sentries, who
fired down continually at our advance posts. Slinking along under the very
shadow of the great convent, we picked our way slowly and carefully among the
piles of ruins until we came to a large chestnut tree. Here the sergeant
stopped.
“It is an easy tree to
climb,” said he. “A scaling ladder would not be simpler. Go up it, and you will
find that the top branch will enable you to step upon the roof of that house.
After that it is your guardian angel who must be your guide, for I can help you
no more.”
Girding up the heavy
brown gown, I ascended the tree as directed. A half moon was shining brightly,
and the line of roof stood out dark and hard against the purple, starry sky.
The tree was in the shadow of the house. Slowly I crept from branch to branch
until I was near the top. I had but to climb along a stout limb in order to
reach the wall. But suddenly my ears caught the patter of feet, and I cowered
against the trunk and tried to blend myself with its shadow. A man was coming
toward me on the roof. I saw his dark figure creeping along, his body
crouching, his head advanced, the barrel of his gun protruding. His whole
bearing was full of caution and suspicion. Once or twice he paused, and then
came on again until he had reached the edge of the parapet within a few yards
of me. Then he knelt down, levelled his musket, and fired.
I was so astonished at
this sudden crash at my very elbow that I nearly fell out of the tree. For an
instant I could not be sure that he had not hit me. But when I heard a deep
groan from below, and the Spaniard leaned over the parapet and laughed aloud, I
understood what had occurred. It was my poor, faithful sergeant, who had waited
to see the last of me. The Spaniard had seen him standing under the tree and
had shot him. You will think that it was good shooting in the dark, but these
people used trabucos, or blunderbusses, which were filled up with all sorts of
stones and scraps of metal, so that they would hit you as certainly as I have
hit a pheasant on a branch. The Spaniard stood peering down through the
darkness, while an occasional groan from below showed that the sergeant was
still living. The sentry looked round and everything was still and safe.
Perhaps he thought that he would like to finish of this accursed Frenchman, or
perhaps he had a desire to see what was in his pockets; but whatever his
motive, he laid down his gun, leaned forward, and swung himself into the tree.
The same instant I buried my knife in his body, and he fell with a loud
crashing through the branches and came with a thud to the ground. I heard a
short struggle below and an oath or two in French. The wounded sergeant had not
waited long for his vengeance.
For some minutes I did
not dare to move, for it seemed certain that someone would be attracted by the
noise. However, all was silent save for the chimes striking midnight in the
city. I crept along the branch and lifted myself on to the roof. The
Spaniard&csq;s gun was lying there, but it was of no service to me, since
he had the powder-horn at his belt. At the same time, if it were found, it
would warn the enemy that something had happened, so I thought it best to drop
it over the wall. Then I looked round for the means of getting of the roof and
down into the city.
It was very evident
that the simplest way by which I could get down was that by which the sentinel
had got up, and what this was soon became evident. A voice along the roof
called “Manuelo! Manuelo!” several times, and, crouching in the shadow, I saw
in the moonlight a bearded head, which protruded from a trap- door.
Receiving no answer to
his summons, the man climbed through, followed by three other fellows, all
armed to the teeth. You will see here how important it is not to neglect small
precautions, for had I left the man&csq;s gun where I found it, a search
must have followed and I should certainly have been discovered. As it was, the patrol
saw no sign of their sentry, and thought, no doubt, that he had moved along the
line of the roofs. They hurried on, therefore, in that direction, and I, the
instant that their backs were turned, rushed to the open trap-door and
descended the flight of steps which led from it. The house appeared to be an
empty one, for I passed through the heart of it and out, by an open door, into
the street beyond.
It was a narrow and
deserted lane, but it opened into a broader road, which was dotted with fires,
round which a great number of soldiers and peasants were sleeping. The smell
within the city was so horrible that one wondered how people could live in it,
for during the months that the siege had lasted there had been no attempt to
cleanse the streets or to bury the dead. Many people were moving up and down
from fire to fire, and among them I observed several monks. Seeing that they
came and went unquestioned, I took heart and hurried on my way in the direction
of the great square. Once a man rose from beside one of the fires and stopped
me by seizing my sleeve. He pointed to a woman who lay motionless on the road,
and I took him to mean that she was dying, and that he desired me to administer
the last offices of the Church. I sought refuge, however, in the very little
Latin that was left to me. “Ora pro nobis,” said I, from the depths of my cowl.
“Te Deum laudamus. Ora pro nobis.” I raised my hand as I spoke and pointed
forward. The fellow released my sleeve and shrank back in silence, while I,
with a solemn gesture, hurried upon my way.
As I had imagined, this
broad boulevard led out into the central square, which was full of troops and
blazing with fires. I walked swiftly onward, disregarding one or two people who
addressed remarks to me. I passed the cathedral and followed the street which
had been described to me. Being upon the side of the city which was farthest
from our attack, there were no troops encamped in it, and it lay in darkness,
save for an occasional glimmer in a window. It was not difficult to find the
house to which I had been directed, between the wine- shop and the
cobbler&csq;s. There was no light within and the door was shut. Cautiously
I pressed the latch, and I felt that it had yielded. Who was within I could not
tell, and yet I must take the risk. I pushed the door open and entered.
It was pitch-dark
within--the more so as I had closed the door behind me. I felt round and came
upon the edge of a table. Then I stood still and wondered what I should do
next, and how I could gain some news of this Hubert, in whose house I found
myself. Any mistake would cost me not only my life but the failure of my
mission. Perhaps he did not live alone. Perhaps he was only a lodger in a
Spanish family, and my visit might bring ruin to him as well as to myself.
Seldom in my life have I been more perplexed. And then, suddenly, something
turned my blood cold in my veins. It was a voice, a whispering voice, in my
very ear. “Mon Dieu!” cried the voice, in a tone of agony. “Oh, mon Dieu! mon
Dieu!” Then there was a dry sob in the darkness, and all was still once more.
It thrilled me with
horror, that terrible voice, but it thrilled me also with hope, for it was the
voice of a Frenchman.
“Who is there?” I
asked.
There was a groaning,
but no reply.
“Is that you, Monsieur
Hubert?”
“Yes, yes,” sighed the
voice, so low that I could hardly hear it. “Water, water, for Heaven&csq;s
sake, water!”
I advanced in the
direction of the sound, but only to come in contact with the wall. Again I
heard a groan, but this time there could be no doubt that it was above my head.
I put up my hands, but they felt only empty air.
“Where are you?” I
cried.
“Here! Here!” whispered
the strange, tremulous voice. I stretched my hand along the wall and I came
upon a man&csq;s naked foot. It was as high as my face, and yet, so far as
I could feel, it had nothing to support it. I staggered back in amazement. Then
I took a tinder- box from my pocket and struck a light. At the first flash a
man seemed to be floating in the air in front of me, and I dropped the box in
my amazement. Again with tremulous fingers I struck the flint against the
steel, and this time I lit not only the tinder but the wax taper. I held it up,
and if my amazement was lessened my horror was increased by that which it
revealed.
The man had been nailed
to the wall as a weasel is nailed to the door of a barn. Huge spikes had been
driven through his hands and his feet. The poor wretch was in his last agony,
his head sunk upon his shoulder and his blackened tongue protruding from his
lips. He was dying as much from thirst as from his wounds, and these inhuman
wretches had placed a beaker of wine upon the table in front of him to add a
fresh pang to his tortures. I raised it to his lips. He had still strength enough
to swallow, and the light came back a little to his dim eyes.
“Are you a Frenchman?”
he whispered.
“Yes. They have sent me
to learn what had befallen you.”
“They discovered me.
They have killed me for it. But before I die let me tell you what I know. A
little more of that wine, please! Quick! Quick! I am very near the end. My
strength is going. Listen to me! The powder is stored in the Mother
Superior&csq;s room. The wall is pierced, and the end of the train is in
Sister Angela&csq;s cell, next the chapel. All was ready two days ago. But
they discovered a letter and they tortured me.”
“Good heavens! have you
been hanging here for two days?”
“It seems like two
years. Comrade, I have served France, have I not? Then do one little service
for me. Stab me to the heart, dear friend! I implore you, I entreat you, to put
an end to my sufferings.”
The man was indeed in a
hopeless plight, and the kindest action would have been that for which he
begged. And yet I could not in cold blood drive my knife into his body,
although I knew how I should have prayed for such a mercy had I been in his
place. But a sudden thought crossed my mind. In my pocket I held that which
would give an instant and a painless death. It was my own safeguard against
torture, and yet this poor soul was in very pressing need of it, and he had
deserved well of France. I took out my phial and emptied it into the cup of
wine. I was in the act of handing it to him when I heard a sudden clash of arms
outside the door. In an instant I put out my light and slipped behind the
window-curtains. Next moment the door was flung open and two Spaniards strode
into the room, fierce, swarthy men in the dress of citizens, but with muskets
slung over their shoulders. I looked through the chink in the curtains in an
agony of fear lest they had come upon my traces, but it was evident that their
visit was simply in order to feast their eyes upon my unfortunate compatriot.
One of them held the lantern which he carried up in front of the dying man, and
both of them burst into a shout of mocking laughter. Then the eyes of the man
with the lantern fell upon the flagon of wine upon the table. He picked it up,
held it, with a devilish grin, to the lips of Hubert, and then, as the poor
wretch involuntarily inclined his head forward to reach it, he snatched it back
and took a long gulp himself. At the same instant he uttered a loud cry,
clutched wildly at his own throat, and fell stone-dead upon the floor. His
comrade stared at him in horror and amazement. Then, overcome by his own
superstitious fears, he gave a yell of terror and rushed madly from the room. I
heard his feet clattering wildly on the cobble-stones until the sound died away
in the distance.
The lantern had been
left burning upon the table, and by its light I saw, as I came out from behind
my curtain, that the unfortunate Hubert&csq;s head had fallen forward upon
his chest and that he also was dead. That motion to reach the wine with his
lips had been his last. A clock ticked loudly in the house, but otherwise all
was absolutely still. On the wall hung the twisted form of the Frenchman, on
the floor lay the motionless body of the Spaniard, all dimly lit by the horn
lantern. For the first time in my life a frantic spasm of terror came over me.
I had seen ten thousand men in every conceivable degree of mutilation stretched
upon the ground, but the sight had never affected me like those two silent
figures who were my companions in that shadowy room. I rushed into the street
as the Spaniard had done, eager only to leave that house of gloom behind me,
and I had run as far as the cathedral before my wits came back to me. There I
stopped, panting, in the shadow, and, my hand pressed to my side, I tried to
collect my scattered senses and to plan out what I should do. As I stood there,
breathless, the great brass bells roared twice above my head. It was two
o&csq;clock. Four was the hour when the storming-party would be in its
place. I had still two hours in which to act.
The cathedral was
brilliantly lit within, and a number of people were passing in and out; so I
entered, thinking that I was less likely to be accosted there, and that I might
have quiet to form my plans. It was certainly a singular sight, for the place
had been turned into an hospital, a refuge, and a store-house. One aisle was
crammed with provisions, another was littered with sick and wounded, while in
the centre a great number of helpless people had taken up their abode, and had
even lit their cooking fires upon the mosaic floors. There were many at prayer,
so I knelt in the shadow of a pillar, and I prayed with all my heart that I
might have the good luck to get out of this scrape alive, and that I might do
such a deed that night as would make my name as famous in Spain as it had
already become in Germany. I waited until the clock struck three, and then I
left the cathedral and made my way toward the Convent of the Madonna, where the
assault was to be delivered. You will understand, you who know me so well, that
I was not the man to return tamely to the French camp with the report that our
agent was dead and that other means must be found of entering the city. Either
I should find some means to finish his uncompleted task or there would be a
vacancy for a senior captain in the Hussars of Conflans.
I passed unquestioned
down the broad boulevard, which I have already described, until I came to the
great stone convent which formed the outwork of the defence. It was built in a
square with a garden in the centre. In this garden some hundreds of men were
assembled, all armed and ready, for it was known, of course, within the town
that this was the point against which the French attack was likely to be made.
Up to this time our fighting all over Europe had always been done between one
army and another. It was only here in Spain that we learned how terrible a
thing it is to fight against a people. On the one hand there is no glory, for
what glory could be gained by defeating this rabble of elderly shopkeepers,
ignorant peasants, fanatical priests, excited women, and all the other
creatures who made up the garrison? On the other hand there were extreme
discomfort and danger, for these people would give you no rest, would observe
no rules of war, and were desperately earnest in their desire by hook or by
crook to do you an injury. I began to realise how odious was our task as I
looked upon the motley but ferocious groups who were gathered round the
watch-fires in the garden of the Convent of the Madonna. It was not for us
soldiers to think about politics, but from the beginning there always seemed to
be a curse upon this war in Spain.
However, at the moment
I had no time to brood over such matters as these. There was, as I have said,
no difficulty in getting as far as the convent garden, but to pass inside the convent
unquestioned was not so easy. The first thing which I did was to walk round the
garden, and I was soon able to pick out one large stained-glass window which
must belong to the chapel. I had understood from Hubert that the Mother
Superior&csq;s room, in which the powder was stored, was near to this, and
that the train had been laid through a hole in the wall from some neighbouring
cell. I must, at all costs, get into the convent. There was a guard at the
door, and how could I get in without explanations? But a sudden inspiration
showed me how the thing might be done. In the garden was a well, and beside the
well were a number of empty buckets. I filled two of these, and approached the
door. The errand of a man who carries a bucket of water in each hand does not
need to be explained. The guard opened to let me through. I found myself in a
long, stone-flagged corridor, lit with lanterns, with the cells of the nuns
leading out from one side of it. Now at last I was on the high road to success.
I walked on without hesitation, for I knew by my observations in the garden
which way to go for the chapel.
A number of Spanish
soldiers were lounging and smoking in the corridor, several of whom addressed
me as I passed. I fancy it was for my blessing that they asked, and my “Ora pro
nobis” seemed to entirely satisfy them. Soon I had got as far as the chapel,
and it was easy enough to see that the cell next door was used as a magazine,
for the floor was all black with powder in front of it. The door was shut, and
two fierce-looking fellows stood on guard outside it, one of them with a key
stuck in his belt. Had we been alone, it would not have been long before it
would have been in my hand, but with his comrade there it was impossible for me
to hope to take it by force. The cell next door to the magazine on the far side
from the chapel must be the one which belonged to Sister Angela. It was half
open. I took my courage in both hands and, leaving my buckets in the corridor,
I walked unchallenged into the room.
I was prepared to find
half a dozen fierce Spanish desperadoes within, but what actually met my eyes
was even more embarrassing. The room had apparently been set aside for the use
of some of the nuns, who for some reason had refused to quit their home. Three of
them were within, one an elderly, stern-faced dame, who was evidently the
Mother Superior, the others, young ladies of charming appearance. They were
seated together at the far side of the room, but they all rose at my entrance,
and I saw with some amazement, by their manner and expressions, that my coming
was both welcome and expected. In a moment my presence of mind had returned,
and I saw exactly how the matter lay. Naturally, since an attack was about to
be made upon the convent, these sisters had been expecting to be directed to
some place of safety. Probably they were under vow not to quit the walls, and
they had been told to remain in this cell until they received further orders.
In any case I adapted my conduct to this supposition, since it was clear that I
must get them out of the room, and this would give me a ready excuse to do so.
I first cast a glance at the door and observed that the key was within. I then
made a gesture to the nuns to follow me. The Mother Superior asked me some
question, but I shook my head impatiently and beckoned to her again. She
hesitated, but I stamped my foot and called them forth in so imperious a manner
that they came at once. They would be safer in the chapel, and thither I led
them, placing them at the end which was farthest from the magazine. As the
three nuns took their places before the altar my heart bounded with joy and
pride within me, for I felt that the last obstacle had been lifted from my
path.
And yet how often have
I not found that that is the very moment of danger? I took a last glance at the
Mother Superior, and to my dismay I saw that her piercing dark eyes were fixed,
with an expression in which surprise was deepening into suspicion, upon my
right hand. There were two points which might well have attracted her
attention. One was that it was red with the blood of the sentinel whom I had
stabbed in the tree. That alone might count for little, as the knife was as
familiar as the breviary to the monks of Saragossa. But on my forefinger I wore
a heavy gold ring --the gift of a certain German baroness whose name I may not
mention. It shone brightly in the light of the altar lamp. Now, a ring upon a
friar&csq;s hand is an impossibility, since they are vowed to absolute
poverty. I turned quickly and made for the door of the chapel, but the mischief
was done. As I glanced back I saw that the Mother Superior was already hurrying
after me. I ran through the chapel door and along the corridor, but she called
out some shrill warning to the two guards in front. Fortunately I had the
presence of mind to call out also, and to point down the passage as if we were
both pursuing the same object. Next instant I had dashed past them, sprang into
the cell, slammed the heavy door, and fastened it upon the inside. With a bolt above
and below and a huge lock in the centre it was a piece of timber that would
take some forcing.
Even now if they had
had the wit to put a barrel of powder against the door I should have been
ruined. It was their only chance, for I had come to the final stage of my
adventure. Here at last, after such a string of dangers as few men have ever
lived to talk of, I was at one end of the powder train, with the Saragossa
magazine at the other. They were howling like wolves out in the passage, and
muskets were crashing against the door. I paid no heed to their clamour, but I
looked eagerly around for that train of which Hubert had spoken. Of course, it
must be at the side of the room next to the magazine. I crawled along it on my
hands and knees, looking into every crevice, but no sign could I see. Two
bullets flew through the door and flattened themselves against the wall. The
thudding and smashing grew ever louder. I saw a grey pile in a corner, flew to
it with a cry of joy, and found that it was only dust. Then I got back to the
side of the door where no bullets could ever reach me--they were streaming
freely into the room--and I tried to forget this fiendish howling in my ear and
to think out where this train could be. It must have been carefully laid by Hubert
lest these nuns should see it. I tried to imagine how I should myself have
arranged it had I been in his place. My eye was attracted by a statue of St.
Joseph which stood in the corner. There was a wreath of leaves along the edge
of the pedestal, with a lamp burning amidst them. I rushed across to it and
tore the leaves aside. Yes, yes, there was a thin black line, which disappeared
through a small hole in the wall. I tilted over the lamp and threw myself on
the ground. Next instant came a roar like thunder, the walls wavered and
tottered around me, the ceiling clattered down from above, and over the yell of
the terrified Spaniards was heard the terrific shout of the storming column of
Grenadiers. As in a dream--a happy dream--I heard it, and then I heard no more.
When I came to my
senses two French soldiers were propping me up, and my head was singing like a
kettle. I staggered to my feet and looked around me. The plaster had fallen,
the furniture was scattered, and there were rents in the bricks, but no signs
of a breach. In fact, the walls of the convent had been so solid that the
explosion of the magazine had been insufficient to throw them down. On the
other hand, it had caused such a panic among the defenders that our stormers
had been able to carry the windows and throw open the doors almost without
assistance. As I ran out into the corridor I found it full of troops, and I met
Marshal Lannes himself, who was entering with his staff. He stopped and
listened eagerly to my story.
“Splendid, Captain Gerard,
splendid!” he cried.
“These facts will
certainly be reported to the Emperor.”
“I would suggest to
your Excellency,” said I, “that I have only finished the work that was planned
and carried out by Monsieur Hubert, who gave his life for the cause.”
“His services will not
be forgotten,” said the Marshal. “Meanwhile, Captain Gerard, it is half-past
four, and you must be starving after such a night of exertion. My staff and I
will breakfast inside the city. I assure you that you will be an honoured guest.”
“I will follow your
Excellency,” said I. “There is a small engagement which detains me.”
He opened his eyes.
“At this hour?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“My fellow-officers, whom I never saw until last night, will not be content
unless they catch another glimpse of me the first thing this morning.”
“Au revoir, then,” said
Marshal Lannes, as he passed upon his way.
I hurried through the
shattered door of the convent. When I reached the roofless house in which we
had held the consultation the night before, I threw of my gown and I put on the
busby and sabre which I had left there. Then, a Hussar once more, I hurried
onward to the grove which was our rendezvous. My brain was still reeling from
the concussion of the powder, and I was exhausted by the many emotions which
had shaken me during that terrible night. It is like a dream, all that walk in
the first dim grey light of dawn, with the smouldering camp-fires around me and
the buzz of the waking army. Bugles and drums in every direction were mustering
the infantry, for the explosion and the shouting had told their own tale. I
strode onward until, as I entered the little clump of cork oaks behind the
horse lines, I saw my twelve comrades waiting in a group, their sabres at their
sides. They looked at me curiously as I approached. Perhaps with my powder-
blackened face and my blood-stained hands I seemed a different Gerard to the
young captain whom they had made game of the night before.
“Good morning,
gentlemen,” said I. “I regret exceedingly if I have kept you waiting, but I
have not been master of my own time.”
They said nothing, but
they still scanned me with curious eyes. I can see them now, standing in a line
before me, tall men and short men, stout men and thin men: Olivier, with his
warlike moustache; the thin, eager face of Pelletan; young Oudin, flushed by
his first duel; Mortier, with the sword-cut across his wrinkled brow. I laid
aside my busby and drew my sword.
“I have one favour to
ask you, gentlemen,” said I.
“Marshal Lannes has
invited me to breakfast and I cannot keep him waiting.”
“What do you suggest?”
asked Major Olivier.
“That you release me
from my promise to give you five minutes each, and that you will permit me to
attack you all together.” I stood upon my guard as I spoke.
But their answer was
truly beautiful and truly French. With one impulse the twelve swords flew from
their scabbards and were raised in salute. There they stood, the twelve of
them, motionless, their heels together, each with his sword upright before his
face.
I staggered back from
them. I looked from one to the other. For an instant I could not believe my own
eyes. They were paying me homage, these, the men who had jeered me! Then I
understood it all. I saw the effect that I had made upon them and their desire
to make reparation. When a man is weak he can steel himself against danger, but
not against emotion. “Comrades,” I cried, “comrades--!” but I could say no
more. Something seemed to take me by the throat and choke me. And then in an
instant Olivier&csq;s arms were round me, Pelletan had seized me by the
right hand, Mortier by the left, some were patting me on the shoulder, some
were clapping me on the back, on every side smiling faces were looking into
mine; and so it was that I knew that I had won my footing in the Hussars of
Conflans.
[*] This story, already published in The Green Flag, is included here so
that all of the Brigadier Gerard stories may appear together. In all the great hosts of France there
was only one officer toward whom the English of Wellington&csq;s Army
retained a deep, steady, and unchangeable hatred. There were plunderers among
the French, and men of violence, gamblers, duellists, and roués. All these
could be forgiven, for others of their kidney were to be found among the ranks
of the English. But one officer of Massena&csq;s force had committed a
crime which was unspeakable, unheard of, abominable; only to be alluded to with
curses late in the evening, when a second bottle had loosened the tongues of
men. The news of it was carried back to England, and country gentlemen who knew
little of the details of the war grew crimson with passion when they heard of
it, and yeomen of the shires raised freckled fists to Heaven and swore. And yet
who should be the doer of this dreadful deed but our friend the Brigadier,
Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans, gay-riding, plume-tossing,
debonair, the darling of the ladies and of the six brigades of light cavalry.
But the strange part of
it is that this gallant gentleman did this hateful thing, and made himself the
most unpopular man in the Peninsula, without ever knowing that he had done a
crime for which there is hardly a name amid all the resources of our language.
He died of old age, and never once in that imperturbable self- confidence which
adorned or disfigured his character knew that so many thousand Englishmen would
gladly have hanged him with their own hands. On the contrary, he numbered this
adventure among those other exploits which he has given to the world, and many
a time he chuckled and hugged himself as he narrated it to the eager circle who
gathered round him in that humble café where, between his dinner and his
dominoes, he would tell, amid tears and laughter, of that inconceivable
Napoleonic past when France, like an angel of wrath, rose up, splendid and
terrible, before a cowering continent. Let us listen to him as he tells the
story in his own way and from his own point of view.
You must know, my
friends, said he, that it was toward the end of the year eighteen hundred and
ten that I and Massena and the others pushed Wellington backward until we had
hoped to drive him and his army into the Tagus. But when we were still
twenty-five miles from Lisbon we found that we were betrayed, for what had this
Englishman done but build an enormous line of works and forts at a place called
Torres Vedras, so that even we were unable to get through them! They lay across
the whole Peninsula, and our army was so far from home that we did not dare to
risk a reverse, and we had already learned at Busaco that it was no
child&csq;s play to fight against these people. What could we do, then, but
sit down in front of these lines and blockade them to the best of our power?
There we remained for six months, amid such anxieties that Massena said
afterward that he had not one hair which was not white upon his body. For my
own part, I did not worry much about our situation, but I looked after our
horses, who were in much need of rest and green fodder. For the rest, we drank
the wine of the country and passed the time as best we might. There was a lady
at Santarem--but my lips are sealed. It is the part of a gallant man to say
nothing, though he may indicate that he could say a great deal.
One day Massena sent
for me, and I found him in his tent with a great plan pinned upon the table. He
looked at me in silence with that single piercing eye of his, and I felt by his
expression that the matter was serious. He was nervous and ill at ease, but my
bearing seemed to reassure him. It is good to be in contact with brave men.
“Colonel Etienne
Gerard,” said he, “I have always heard that you are a very gallant and
enterprising officer.”
It was not for me to
confirm such a report, and yet it would be folly to deny it, so I clinked my
spurs together and saluted.
“You are also an
excellent rider.”
I admitted it.
“And the best swordsman
in the six brigades of light cavalry.”
Massena was famous for
the accuracy of his information.
“Now,” said he, “if you
will look at this plan you will have no difficulty in understanding what it is
that I wish you to do. These are the lines of Torres Vedras. You will perceive
that they cover a vast space, and you will realise that the English can only
hold a position here and there. Once through the lines you have twenty-five
miles of open country which lie between them and Lisbon. It is very important
to me to learn how Wellington&csq;s troops are distributed throughout that
space, and it is my wish that you should go and ascertain.”
His words turned me
cold.
“Sir,” said I, “it is
impossible that a colonel of light cavalry should condescend to act as a spy.”
He laughed and clapped
me on the shoulder.
“You would not be a
Hussar if you were not a hot- head,” said he. “If you will listen you will
understand that I have not asked you to act as a spy. What do you think of that
horse?”
He had conducted me to
the opening of his tent, and there was a chasseur who led up and down a most
admirable creature. He was a dapple grey, not very tall, a little over fifteen
hands perhaps, but with the short head and splendid arch of the neck which
comes with the Arab blood. His shoulders and haunches were so muscular, and yet
his legs so fine, that it thrilled me with joy just to gaze upon him. A fine
horse or a beautiful woman--I cannot look at them unmoved, even now when
seventy winters have chilled my blood. You can think how it was in the year
&csq;10.
“This,” said Massena, “is
Voltigeur, the swiftest horse in our army. What I desire is that you should
start tonight, ride round the lines upon the flank, make your way across the
enemy&csq;s rear, and return upon the other flank, bringing me news of his
disposition. You will wear a uniform, and will, therefore, if captured, be safe
from the death of a spy. It is probable that you will get through the lines
unchallenged, for the posts are very scattered. Once through, in daylight you
can outride anything which you meet, and if you keep off the roads you may escape
entirely unnoticed. If you have not reported yourself by to-morrow night, I
will understand that you are taken, and I will offer them Colonel Petrie in
exchange.”
Ah, how my heart
swelled with pride and joy as I sprang into the saddle and galloped this grand
horse up and down to show the Marshal the mastery which I had of him! He was
magnificent--we were both magnificent, for Massena clapped his hands and cried
out in his delight. It was not I, but he, who said that a gallant beast
deserves a gallant rider. Then, when for the third time, with my panache flying
and my dolman streaming behind me, I thundered past him, I saw upon his hard
old face that he had no longer any doubt that he had chosen the man for his
purpose. I drew my sabre, raised the hilt to my lips in salute, and galloped on
to my own quarters. Already the news had spread that I had been chosen for a
mission, and my little rascals came swarming out of their tents to cheer me.
Ah! it brings the tears to my old eyes when I think how proud they were of
their Colonel. And I was proud of them also. They deserved a dashing leader.
The night promised to
be a stormy one, which was very much to my liking. It was my desire to keep my
departure most secret, for it was evident that if the English heard that I had
been detached from the army they would naturally conclude that something
important was about to happen. My horse was taken, therefore, beyond the picket
line, as if for watering, and I followed and mounted him there. I had a map, a
compass, and a paper of instructions from the Marshal, and with these in the
bosom of my tunic and my sabre at my side I set out upon my adventure.
A thin rain was falling
and there was no moon, so you may imagine that it was not very cheerful. But my
heart was light at the thought of the honour which had been done me and the
glory which awaited me. This exploit should be one more in that brilliant
series which was to change my sabre into a bâton. Ah, how we dreamed, we
foolish fellows, young, and drunk with success! Could I have foreseen that
night as I rode, the chosen man of sixty thousand, that I should spend my life
planting cabbages on a hundred francs a month! Oh, my youth, my hopes, my
comrades! But the wheel turns and never stops. Forgive me, my friends, for an
old man has his weakness.
My route, then, lay
across the face of the high ground of Torres Vedras, then over a streamlet,
past a farmhouse which had been burned down and was now only a landmark, then
through a forest of young cork oaks, and so to the monastery of San Antonio,
which marked the left of the English position. Here I turned south and rode
quietly over the downs, for it was at this point that Massena thought that it
would be most easy for me to find my way unobserved through the position. I
went very slowly, for it was so dark that I could not see my hand in front of
me. In such cases I leave my bridle loose and let my horse pick its own way.
Voltigeur went confidently forward, and I was very content to sit upon his back
and to peer about me, avoiding every light. For three hours we advanced in this
cautious way, until it seemed to me that I must have left all danger behind me.
I then pushed on more briskly, for I wished to be in the rear of the whole army
by daybreak. There are many vineyards in these parts which in winter become
open plains, and a horseman finds few difficulties in his way.
But Massena had
underrated the cunning of these English, for it appears that there was not one
line of defence but three, and it was the third, which was the most formidable,
through which I was at that instant passing. As I rode, elated at my own
success, a lantern flashed suddenly before me, and I saw the glint of polished
gun-barrels and the gleam of a red coat.
“Who goes there?” cried
a voice--such a voice! I swerved to the right and rode like a madman, but a
dozen squirts of fire came out of the darkness, and the bullets whizzed all
round my ears. That was no new sound to me, my friends, though I will not talk
like a foolish conscript and say that I have ever liked it. But at least it had
never kept me from thinking clearly, and so I knew that there was nothing for
it but to gallop hard and try my luck elsewhere. I rode round the English
picket, and then, as I heard nothing more of them, I concluded rightly that I
had at last come through their defences. For five miles I rode south, striking
a tinder from time to time to look at my pocket compass. And then in an
instant-- I feel the pang once more as my memory brings back the moment--my
horse, without a sob or staggers fell stone-dead beneath me!
I had never known it,
but one of the bullets from that infernal picket had passed through his body.
The gallant creature had never winced nor weakened, but had gone while life was
in him. One instant I was secure on the swiftest, most graceful horse in
Massena&csq;s army. The next he lay upon his side, worth only the price of
his hide, and I stood there that most helpless, most ungainly of creatures, a
dismounted Hussar. What could I do with my boots, my spurs, my trailing sabre?
I was far inside the enemy&csq;s lines. How could I hope to get back again?
I am not ashamed to say that I, Etienne Gerard, sat upon my dead horse and sank
my face in my hands in my despair. Already the first streaks were whitening the
east. In half an hour it would be light. That I should have won my way past
every obstacle and then at this last instant be left at the mercy of my
enemies, my mission ruined, and myself a prisoner--was it not enough to break a
soldier&csq;s heart?
But courage, my
friends! We have these moments of weakness, the bravest of us; but I have a
spirit like a slip of steel, for the more you bend it the higher it springs.
One spasm of despair, and then a brain of ice and a heart of fire. All was not
yet lost. I who had come through so many hazards would come through this one
also. I rose from my horse and considered what had best be done.
And first of all it was
certain that I could not get back. Long before I could pass the lines it would
be broad daylight. I must hide myself for the day, and then devote the next
night to my escape. I took the saddle, holsters, and bridle from poor
Voltigeur, and I concealed them among some bushes, so that no one finding him
could know that he was a French horse. Then, leaving him lying there, I
wandered on in search of some place where I might be safe for the day. In every
direction I could see camp fires upon the sides of the hills, and already
figures had begun to move around them. I must hide quickly, or I was lost.
But where was I to
hide? It was a vineyard in which I found myself, the poles of the vines still
standing, but the plants gone. There was no cover there. Besides, I should want
some food and water before another night had come. I hurried wildly onward through
the waning darkness, trusting that chance would be my friend. And I was not
disappointed. Chance is a woman, my friends, and she has her eye always upon a
gallant Hussar.
Well, then, as I
stumbled through the vineyard, something loomed in front of me, and I came upon
a great square house with another long, low building upon one side of it. Three
roads met there, and it was easy to see that this was the posada, or wine-shop.
There was no light in the windows, and everything was dark and silent, but, of
course, I knew that such comfortable quarters were certainly occupied, and
probably by someone of importance. I have learned, however, that the nearer the
danger may really be the safer place, and so I was by no means inclined to
trust myself away from this shelter. The low building was evidently the stable,
and into this I crept, for the door was unlatched. The place was full of
bullocks and sheep, gathered there, no doubt, to be out of the clutches of
marauders. A ladder led to a loft, and up this I climbed and concealed myself
very snugly among some bales of hay upon the top. This loft had a small open
window, and I was able to look down upon the front of the inn and also upon the
road. There I crouched and waited to see what would happen.
It was soon evident
that I had not been mistaken when I had thought that this might be the quarters
of some person of importance. Shortly after daybreak an English light dragoon
arrived with a despatch, and from then onward the place was in a turmoil,
officers continually riding up and away. Always the same name was upon their
lips: “Sir Stapleton--Sir Staple- ton.” It was hard for me to lie there with a
dry moustache and watch the great flagons which were brought out by the
landlord to these English officers. But it amused me to look at their
fresh-coloured, clean-shaven, careless faces, and to wonder what they would
think if they knew that so celebrated a person was lying so near to them. And
then, as I lay and watched, I saw a sight which filled me with surprise.
It is incredible the
insolence of these English! What do you suppose Milord Wellington had done when
he found that Massena had blockaded him and that he could not move his army? I
might give you many guesses. You might say that he had raged, that he had despaired,
that he had brought his troops together and spoken to them about glory and the
fatherland before leading them to one last battle. No, Milord did none of these
things. But he sent a fleet ship to England to bring him a number of fox-dogs;
and he with his officers settled himself down to chase the fox. It is true what
I tell you. Behind the lines of Torres Vedras these mad Englishmen made the fox
chase three days in the week. We had heard of it in the camp, and now I was
myself to see that it was true.
For, along the road
which I have described, there came these very dogs, thirty or forty of them,
white and brown, each with its tail at the same angle, like the bayonets of the
Old Guard. My faith, but it was a pretty sight! And behind and amidst them there
rode three men with peaked caps and red coats, whom I understood to be the
hunters. After them came many horsemen with uniforms of various kinds,
stringing along the roads in twos and threes, talking together and laughing.
They did not seem to be going above a trot, and it appeared to me that it must
indeed be a slow fox which they hoped to catch. However, it was their affair,
not mine, and soon they had all passed my window and were out of sight. I
waited and I watched, ready for any chance which might offer.
Presently an officer,
in a blue uniform not unlike that of our flying artillery, came cantering down
the road--an elderly, stout man he was, with grey side-whiskers. He stopped and
began to talk with an orderly officer of dragoons, who waited outside the inn,
and it was then that I learned the advantage of the English which had been
taught me. I could hear and understand all that was said.
“Where is the meet?”
said the officer, and I thought that he was hungering for his bifstek. But the
other answered him that it was near Altara, so I saw that it was a place of
which he spoke.
“You are late, Sir
George,” said the orderly.
“Yes, I had a
court-martial. Has Sir Stapleton Cotton gone?”
At this moment a window
opened, and a handsome young man in a very splendid uniform looked out of it.
“Halloa, Murray!” said
he. “These cursed papers keep me, but I will be at your heels.”
“Very good, Cotton. I
am late already, so I will ride on.”
“You might order my
groom to bring round my horse,” said the young General at the window to the
orderly below, while the other went on down the road.
The orderly rode away
to some outlying stable, and then in a few minutes there came a smart English
groom with a cockade in his hat, leading by the bridle a horse-- and, oh, my
friends, you have never known the perfection to which a horse can attain until
you have seen a first- class English hunter. He was superb: tall, broad,
strong, and yet as graceful and agile as a deer. Coal black he was in colour,
and his neck, and his shoulder, and his quarters, and his fetlocks--how can I
describe him all to you? The sun shone upon him as on polished ebony, and he
raised his hoofs in a little playful dance so lightly and prettily, while he
tossed his mane and whinnied with impatience. Never have I seen such a mixture
of strength and beauty and grace. I had often wondered how the English Hussars
had managed to ride over the chasseurs of the Guards in the affair at Astorga,
but I wondered no longer when I saw the English horses.
There was a ring for
fastening bridles at the door of the inn, and the groom tied the horse there
while he entered the house. In an instant I had seen the chance which Fate had
brought to me. Were I in that saddle I should be better off than when I started.
Even Voltigeur could not compare with this magnificent creature. To think is to
act with me. In one instant I was down the ladder and at the door of the
stable. The next I was out and the bridle was in my hand. I bounded into the
saddle. Somebody, the master or the man, shouted wildly behind me. What cared I
for his shouts! I touched the horse with my spurs and he bounded forward with
such a spring that only a rider like myself could have sat him. I gave him his
head and let him go--it did not matter to me where, so long as we left this inn
far behind us. He thundered away across the vineyards, and in a very few
minutes I had placed miles between myself and my pursuers. They could no longer
tell in that wild country in which direction I had gone. I knew that I was
safe, and so, riding to the top of a small hill, I drew my pencil and note-book
from my pocket and proceeded to make plans of those camps which I could see and
to draw the outline of the country.
He was a dear creature
upon whom I sat, but it was not easy to draw upon his back, for every now and
then his two ears would cock, and he would start and quiver with impatience. At
first I could not understand this trick of his, but soon I observed that he
only did it when a peculiar noise--“yoy, yoy, yoy”--came from somewhere among
the oak woods beneath us. And then suddenly this strange cry changed into a
most terrible screaming, with the frantic blowing of a horn. Instantly he went
mad--this horse. His eyes blazed. His mane bristled. He bounded from the earth
and bounded again, twisting and turning in a frenzy. My pencil flew one way and
my note-book another. And then, as I looked down into the valley, an
extraordinary sight met my eyes. The hunt was streaming down it. The fox I
could not see, but the dogs were in full cry, their noses down, their tails up,
so close together that they might have been one great yellow and white moving
carpet. And behind them rode the horsemen--my faith, what a sight! Consider
every type which a great army could show. Some in hunting dress, but the most
in uniforms: blue dragoons, red dragoons, red-trousered hussars, green
riflemen, artillerymen, gold-slashed lancers, and most of all red, red, red,
for the infantry officers ride as hard as the cavalry. Such a crowd, some well
mounted, some ill, but all flying along as best they might, the subaltern as
good as the general, jostling and pushing, spurring and driving, with every
thought thrown to the winds save that they should have the blood of this absurd
fox! Truly, they are an extraordinary people, the English!
But I had little time
to watch the hunt or to marvel at these islanders, for of all these mad
creatures the very horse upon which I sat was the maddest. You understand that
he was himself a hunter, and that the crying of these dogs was to him what the
call of a cavalry trumpet in the street yonder would be to me. It thrilled him.
It drove him wild. Again and again he bounded into the air, and then, seizing
the bit between his teeth, he plunged down the slope and galloped after the
dogs. I swore, and tugged, and pulled, but I was powerless. This English
General rode his horse with a snaffle only, and the beast had a mouth of iron.
It was useless to pull him back. One might as well try to keep a grenadier from
a wine-bottle. I gave it up in despair, and, settling down in the saddle, I
prepared for the worst which could befall.
What a creature he was!
Never have I felt such a horse between my knees. His great haunches gathered
under him with every stride, and he shot forward ever faster and faster,
stretched like a greyhound, while the wind beat in my face and whistled past my
ears. I was wearing our undress jacket, a uniform simple and dark in
itself--though some figures give distinction to any uniform--and I had taken the
precaution to remove the long panache from my busby. The result was that,
amidst the mixture of costumes in the hunt, there was no reason why mine should
attract attention, or why these men, whose thoughts were all with the chase,
should give any heed to me. The idea that a French officer might be riding with
them was too absurd to enter their minds. I laughed as I rode, for, indeed,
amid all the danger, there was something of comic in the situation.
I have said that the
hunters were very unequally mounted, and so at the end of a few miles, instead
of being one body of men, like a charging regiment, they were scattered over a
considerable space, the better riders well up to the dogs and the others
trailing away behind. Now, I was as good a rider as any, and my horse was the
best of them all, and so you can imagine that it was not long before he carried
me to the front. And when I saw the dogs streaming over the open, and the
red-coated huntsman behind them, and only seven or eight horsemen between us, then
it was that the strangest thing of all happened, for I, too, went mad--I,
Etienne Gerard! In a moment it came upon me, this spirit of sport, this desire
to excel, this hatred of the fox. Accursed animal, should he then defy us? Vile
robber, his hour was come! Ah, it is a great feeling, this feeling of sport, my
friends, this desire to trample the fox under the hoofs of your horse. I have
made the fox chase with the English. I have also, as I may tell you some day,
fought the box-fight with the Bustler, of Bristol. And I say to you that this
sport is a wonderful thing--full of interest as well as madness.
The farther we went the
faster galloped my horse, and soon there were but three men as near the dogs as
I was. All thought of fear of discovery had vanished. My brain throbbed, my
blood ran hot--only one thing upon earth seemed worth living for, and that was
to overtake this infernal fox. I passed one of the horsemen--a Hussar like
myself. There were only two in front of me now: the one in a black coat, the
other the blue artilleryman whom I had seen at the inn. His grey whiskers
streamed in the wind, but he rode magnificently. For a mile or more we kept in
this order, and then, as we galloped up a steep slope, my lighter weight
brought me to the front. I passed them both, and when I reached the crown I was
riding level with the little, hard-faced English huntsman. In front of us were
the dogs, and then, a hundred paces beyond them, was a brown wisp of a thing,
the fox itself, stretched to the uttermost. The sight of him fired my blood. “Aha,
we have you then, assassin!” I cried, and shouted my encouragement to the
huntsman. I waved my hand to show him that there was one upon whom he could
rely.
And now there were only
the dogs between me and my prey. These dogs, whose duty it is to point out the
game, were now rather a hindrance than a help to us, for it was hard to know
how to pass them. The huntsman felt the difficulty as much as I, for he rode
behind them, and could make no progress toward the fox. He was a swift rider,
but wanting in enterprise. For my part, I felt that it would be unworthy of the
Hussars of Conflans if I could not overcome such a difficulty as this. Was
Etienne Gerard to be stopped by a herd of fox-dogs? It was absurd. I gave a shout
and spurred my horse.
“Hold hard, sir! Hold
hard!” cried the huntsman.
He was uneasy for me,
this good old man, but I reassured him by a wave and a smile. The dogs opened
in front of me. One or two may have been hurt, but what would you have? The egg
must be broken for the omelette. I could hear the huntsman shouting his
congratulations behind me. One more effort, and the dogs were all behind me.
Only the fox was in front.
Ah, the joy and pride
of that moment! To know that I had beaten the English at their own sport. Here
were three hundred, all thirsting for the life of this animal, and yet it was I
who was about to take it. I thought of my comrades of the light cavalry
brigade, of my mother, of the Emperor, of France. I had brought honour to each and
all. Every instant brought me nearer to the fox. The moment for action had
arrived, so I unsheathed my sabre. I waved it in the air, and the brave English
all shouted behind me.
Only then did I
understand how difficult is this fox chase, for one may cut again and again at
the creature and never strike him once. He is small, and turns quickly from a
blow. At every cut I heard those shouts of encouragement from behind me, and
they spurred me to yet another effort. And then at last the supreme moment of my
triumph arrived. In the very act of turning I caught him fair with such another
back-handed cut as that with which I killed the aide-de-camp of the Emperor of
Russia. He flew into two pieces, his head one way and his tail another. I
looked back and waved the blood- stained sabre in the air. For the moment I was
exalted --superb!
Ah! how I should have
loved to have waited to have received the congratulations of these generous
enemies. There were fifty of them in sight, and not one who was not waving his
hand and shouting. They are not really such a phlegmatic race, the English. A
gallant deed in war or in sport will always warm their hearts. As to the old
huntsman, he was the nearest to me, and I could see with my own eyes how
overcome he was by what he had seen. He was like a man paralysed, his mouth
open, his hand, with outspread fingers, raised in the air. For a moment my
inclination was to return and to embrace him.
But already the call of
duty was sounding in my ears, and these English, in spite of all the fraternity
which exists among sportsmen, would certainly have made me prisoner. There was
no hope for my mission now, and I had done all that I could do. I could see the
lines of Massena&csq;s camp no very great distance off, for, by a lucky chance,
the chase had taken us in that direction. I turned from the dead fox, saluted
with my sabre, and galloped away.
But they would not
leave me so easily, these gallant huntsmen. I was the fox now, and the chase
swept bravely over the plain. It was only at the moment when I started for the
camp that they could have known that I was a Frenchman, and now the whole swarm
of them were at my heels. We were within gunshot of our pickets before they
would halt, and then they stood in knots and would not go away, but shouted and
waved their hands at me. No, I will not think that it was in enmity. Rather
would I fancy that a glow of admiration filled their breasts, and that their
one desire was to embrace the stranger who had carried himself so gallantly and
well.
I have told you, my
friends, how we held the English shut up for six months, from October, 1810, to
March, 1811, within their lines of Torres Vedras. It was during this time that
I hunted the fox in their company, and showed them that amidst all their
sportsmen there was not one who could outride a Hussar of Conflans. When I
galloped back into the French lines with the blood of the creature still moist
upon my blade the outposts who had seen what I had done raised a frenzied cry
in my honour, whilst these English hunters still yelled behind me, so that I
had the applause of both armies. It made the tears rise to my eyes to feel that
I had won the admiration of so many brave men. These English are generous foes.
That very evening there came a packet under a white flag addressed “To the
Hussar officer who cut down the fox.” Within, I found the fox itself in two
pieces, as I had left it. There was a note also, short but hearty, as the
English fashion is, to say that as I had slaughtered the fox it only remained
for me to eat it. They could not know that it was not our French custom to eat
foxes, and it showed their desire that he who had won the honours of the chase
should also partake of the game. It is not for a Frenchman to be outdone in
politeness, and so I returned it to these brave hunters, and begged them to
accept it as a side-dish for their next déjeuner de la chasse. It is thus that
chivalrous opponents make war.
I had brought back with
me from my ride a clear plan of the English lines, and this I laid before
Massena that very evening.
I had hoped that it
would lead him to attack, but all the marshals were at each other&csq;s
throats, snapping and growling like so many hungry hounds. Ney hated Massena,
and Massena hated Junot, and Soult hated them all. For this reason, nothing was
done. In the meantime food grew more and more scarce, and our beautiful cavalry
was ruined for want of fodder. With the end of the winter we had swept the
whole country bare, and nothing remained for us to eat, although we sent our
forage parties far and wide. It was clear even to the bravest of us that the
time had come to retreat. I was myself forced to admit it.
But retreat was not so
easy. Not only were the troops weak and exhausted from want of supplies, but
the enemy had been much encouraged by our long inaction. Of Wellington we had
no great fear. We had found him to be brave and cautious, but with little
enterprise. Besides, in that barren country his pursuit could not be rapid. But
on our flanks and in our rear there had gathered great numbers of Portuguese
militia, of armed peasants, and of guerillas. These people had kept a safe
distance all the winter, but now that our horses were foundered they were as
thick as flies all round our outposts, and no man&csq;s life was worth a
sou when once he fell into their hands. I could name a dozen officers of my own
acquaintance who were cut off during that time, and the luckiest was he who
received a ball from behind a rock through his head or his heart. There were
some whose deaths were so terrible that no report of them was ever allowed to
reach their relatives. So frequent were these tragedies, and so much did they
impress the imagination of the men, that it became very difficult to induce
them to leave the camp. There was one especial scoundrel, a guerilla chief
named Manuelo, “The Smiler,” whose exploits filled our men with horror. He was
a large, fat man of jovial aspect, and he lurked with a fierce gang among the
mountains which lay upon our left flank. A volume might be writ ten of this
fellow&csq;s cruelties and brutalities, but he was certainly a man of
power, for he organised his brigands in a manner which made it almost
impossible for us to get through his country. This he did by imposing a severe
discipline upon them and enforcing it by cruel penalties, a policy by which he
made them formidable, but which had some unexpected results, as I will show you
in my story. Had he not flogged his own lieutenant--but you will hear of that
when the time comes.
There were many
difficulties in connection with a retreat, but it was very evident that there
was no other possible course, and so Massena began to quickly pass his baggage
and his sick from Torres Novas, which was his headquarters, to Coimbra, the
first strong post on his line of communications. He could not do this
unperceived, however, and at once the guerillas came swarming closer and closer
upon our flanks. One of our divisions, that of Clausel, with a brigade of
Montbrun&csq;s cavalry, was far to the south of the Tagus, and it became
very necessary to let them know that we were about to retreat, for Otherwise
they would be left unsupported in the very heart of the enemy&csq;s
country. I remember wondering how Massena would accomplish this, for simple
couriers could not get through, and small parties would be certainly destroyed.
In some way an order to fall back must be conveyed to these men, or France
would be the weaker by fourteen thousand men. Little did I think that it was I,
Colonel Gerard, who was to have the honour of a deed which might have formed
the crowning glory of any other man&csq;s life, and which stands high among
those exploits which have made my own so famous.
At that time I was
serving on Massena&csq;s staff, and he had two other aides-de-camp, who
were also very brave and intelligent officers. The name of one was Cortex and
of the other Duplessis. They were senior to me in age, but junior in every
other respect. Cortex was a small, dark man, very quick and eager. He was a
fine soldier, but he was ruined by his conceit. To take him at his own
valuation, he was the first man in the army. Duplessis was a Gascon, like
myself, and he was a very fine fellow, as all Gascon gentlemen are. We took it
in turn, day about, to do duty, and it was Cortex who was in attendance upon
the morning of which I speak. I saw him at breakfast, but afterward neither he
nor his horse was to be seen. All day Massena was in his usual gloom, and he
spent much of his time staring with his telescope at the English lines and at
the shipping in the Tagus. He said nothing of the mission upon which he had
sent our comrade, and it was not for us to ask him any questions.
That night, about
twelve o&csq;clock, I was standing outside the Marshal&csq;s
headquarters when he came out and stood motionless for half an hour, his arms
folded upon his breast, staring through the darkness toward the east. So rigid
and intent was he that you might have believed the muffled figure and the
cocked hat to have been the statue of the man. What he was looking for I could
not imagine; but at last he gave a bitter curse, and, turning on his heel, he
went back into the house, banging the door behind him.
Next day the second
aide-de-camp, Duplessis, had an interview with Massena in the morning, after
which neither he nor his horse was seen again. That night, as I sat in the
ante-room, the Marshal passed me, and I observed him through the window
standing and staring to the east exactly as he had done before. For fully half
an hour he remained there, a black shadow in the gloom. Then he strode in, the
door banged, and I heard his spurs and his scabbard jingling and clanking
through the passage. At the best he was a savage old man, but when he was
crossed I had almost as soon face the Emperor himself. I heard him that night
cursing and stamping above my head, but he did not send for me, and I knew him
too well to go unsought.
Next morning it was my
turn, for I was the only aide- de-camp left. I was his favourite aide-de-camp.
His heart went out always to a smart soldier. I declare that I think there were
tears in his black eyes when he sent for me that morning.
“Gerard,” said he. “Come
here!”
With a friendly gesture
he took me by the sleeve and he led me to the open window which faced the east.
Beneath us was the infantry camp, and beyond that the lines of the cavalry with
the long rows of picketed horses. We could see the French outposts, and then a
stretch of open country, intersected by vineyards. A range of hills lay beyond,
with one well-marked peak towering above them. Round the base of these hills
was a broad belt of forest. A single road ran white and clear, dipping and
rising until it passed through a gap in the hills.
“This,” said Massena,
pointing to the mountain, “is the Sierra de Merodal. Do you perceive anything
upon the top?”
I answered that I did
not.
“Now?” he asked, and he
handed me his field-glass.
With its aid I
perceived a small mound or cairn upon the crest.
“What you see,” said
the Marshal, “is a pile of logs which was placed there as a beacon. We laid it
when the country was in our hands, and now, although we no longer hold it, the
beacon remains undisturbed. Gerard, that beacon must be lit to-night. France
needs it, the Emperor needs it, the army needs it. Two of your comrades have
gone to light it, but neither has made his way to the summit. To-day it is your
turn, and I pray that you may have better luck.”
It is not for a soldier
to ask the reason for his orders, and so I was about to hurry from the room,
but the Marshal laid his hand upon my shoulder and held me.
“You shall know all,
and so learn how high is the cause for which you risk your life,” said he. “Fifty
miles to the south of us, on the other side of the Tagus, is the army of
General Clausel. His camp is situated near a peak named the Sierra d&csq;Ossa.
On the summit of this peak is a beacon, and by this beacon he has a picket. It
is agreed between us that when at midnight he shall see our signal-fire he
shall light his own as an answer, and shall then at once fall back upon the
main army. If he does not start at once I must go without him. For two days I
have endeavoured to send him his message. It must reach him to-day, or his army
will be left behind and destroyed.”
Ah, my friends, how my
heart swelled when I heard how high was the task which Fortune had assigned to
me! If my life were spared, here was one more splendid new leaf for my laurel
crown. If, on the other hand, I died, then it would be a death worthy of such a
career. I said nothing, but I cannot doubt that all the noble thoughts that were
in me shone in my face, for Massena took my hand and wrung it.
“There is the hill and
there the beacon,” said he.
“There is only this
guerilla and his men between you and it. I cannot detach a large party for the
enterprise and a small one would be seen and destroyed. Therefore to you alone
I commit it. Carry it out in your own way, but at twelve o&csq;clock this
night let me see the fire upon the hill.”
“If it is not there,”
said I, “then I pray you, Marshal Massena, to see that my effects are sold and
the money sent to my mother.” So I raised my hand to my busby and turned upon
my heel, my heart glowing at the thought of the great exploit which lay before
me.
I sat in my own chamber
for some little time considering how I had best take the matter in hand. The
fact that neither Cortex nor Duplessis, who were very zealous and active
officers, had succeeded in reaching the summit of the Sierra de Merodal, showed
that the country was very closely watched by the guerillas. I reckoned out the
distance upon a map. There were ten miles of open country to be crossed before
reaching the hills. Then came a belt of forest on the lower slopes of the
mountain, which may have been three or four miles wide. And then there was the
actual peak itself, of no very great height, but without any cover to conceal
me. Those were the three stages of my journey.
It seemed to me that
once I had reached the shelter of the wood all would be easy, for I could lie
concealed within its shadows and climb upward under the cover of night. From
eight till twelve would give me four hours of darkness in which to make the
ascent. It was only the first stage, then, which I had seriously to consider.
Over that flat country
there lay the inviting white road, and I remembered that my comrades had both
taken their horses. That was clearly their ruin, for nothing could be easier
than for the brigands to keep watch upon the road, and to lay an ambush for all
who passed along it. It would not be difficult for me to ride across country,
and I was well horsed at that time, for I had not only Violette and Rataplan,
who were two of the finest mounts in the army, but I had the splendid black
English hunter which I had taken from Sir Cotton. However, after much thought,
I determined to go upon foot, since I should then be in a better state to take
advantage of any chance which might offer. As to my dress, I covered my Hussar
uniform with a long cloak, and I put a grey forage cap upon my head. You may
ask me why I did not dress as a peasant, but I answer that a man of honour has
no desire to die the death of a spy. It is one thing to be murdered, and it is
another to be justly executed by the laws of war. I would not run the risk of
such an end.
In the late afternoon I
stole out of the camp and passed through the line of our pickets. Beneath my
cloak I had a field-glass and a pocket pistol, as well as my sword. In my
pocket were tinder, flint, and steel.
For two or three miles
I kept under cover of the vineyards, and made such good progress that my heart
was high within me, and I thought to myself that it only needed a man of some
brains to take the matter in hand to bring it easily to success. Of course,
Cortex and Duplessis galloping down the high-road would be easily seen, but the
intelligent Gerard lurking among the vines was quite another person. I dare say
I had got as far as five miles before I met any check. At that point there is a
small wine-house, round which I perceived some carts and a number of people,
the first that I had seen. Now that I was well outside the lines I knew that
every person was my enemy, so I crouched lower while I stole along to a point
from which I could get a better view of what was going on. I then perceived
that these people were peasants, who were loading two waggons with empty wine-
casks. I failed to see how they could either help or hinder me, so I continued
upon my way.
But soon I understood
that my task was not so simple as had appeared. As the ground rose the
vineyards ceased, and I came upon a stretch of open country studded with low
hills. Crouching in a ditch I examined them with a glass, and I very soon
perceived that there was a watcher upon every one of them, and that these
people had a line of pickets and outposts thrown forward exactly like our own.
I had heard of the discipline which was practised by this scoundrel whom they
called “The Smiler,” and this, no doubt, was an example of it. Between the
hills there was a cordon of sentries, and though I worked some distance round
to the flank I still found myself faced by the enemy. It was a puzzle what to
do. There was so little cover that a rat could hardly cross without being seen.
Of course, it would be easy enough to slip through at night, as I had done with
the English at Torres Vedras, but I was still far from the mountain and I could
not in that case reach it in time to light the midnight beacon. I lay in my
ditch and I made a thousand plans, each more dangerous than the last. And then
suddenly I had that flash of light which comes to the brave man who refuses to
despair.
You remember I have
mentioned that two waggons were loading up with empty casks at the inn. The
heads of the oxen were turned to the east, and it was evident that those
waggons were going in the direction which I desired. Could I only conceal
myself upon one of them, what better and easier way could I find of passing
through the lines of the guerillas? So simple and so good was the plan that I
could not restrain a cry of delight as it crossed my mind, and I hurried away
instantly in the direction of the inn. There, from behind some bushes, I had a
good look at what was going on upon the road.
There were three
peasants with red montero caps loading the barrels, and they had completed one
waggon and the lower tier of the other. A number of empty barrels still lay
outside the wine-house waiting to be put on. Fortune was my friend--I have
always said that she is a woman and cannot resist a dashing young Hussar. As I
watched, the three fellows went into the inn, for the day was hot and they were
thirsty after their labour. Quick as a flash I darted out from my hiding-place,
climbed on to the waggon, and crept into one of the empty casks. It had a
bottom but no top, and it lay upon its side with the open end inward. There I
crouched like a dog in its kennel, my knees drawn up to my chin, for the
barrels were not very large and I am a well-grown man. As I lay there, out came
the three peasants again, and presently I heard a crash upon the top of me
which told that I had another barrel above me. They piled them upon the cart
until I could not imagine how I was ever to get out again. However, it is time
to think of crossing the Vistula when you are over the Rhine, and I had no
doubt that if chance and my own wits had carried me so far they would carry me
farther.
Soon, when the waggon
was full, they set forth upon their way, and I within my barrel chuckled at
every step, for it was carrying me whither I wished to go. We travelled slowly,
and the peasants walked beside the waggons. This I knew, because I heard their
voices close to me. They seemed to me to be very merry fellows, for they
laughed heartily as they went. What the joke was I could not understand. Though
I speak their language fairly well I could not hear anything comic in the
scraps of their conversation which met my ear.
I reckoned that at the
rate of walking of a team of oxen we covered about two miles an hour.
Therefore, when I was sure that two and a half hours had passed-- such hours,
my friends, cramped, suffocated, and nearly poisoned with the fumes of the
lees--when they had passed, I was sure that the dangerous open country was
behind us, and that we were upon the edge of the forest and the mountain. So
now I had to turn my mind upon how I was to get out of my barrel. I had thought
of several ways, and was balancing one against the other when the question was
decided for me in a very simple but unexpected manner.
The waggon stopped
suddenly with a jerk, and I heard a number of gruff voices in excited talk. “Where,
where?” cried one. “On our cart,” said another. “Who is he?” said a third. “A
French officer; I saw his cap and his boots.” They all roared with laughter. “I
was looking out of the window of the posada and I saw him spring into the cask
like a toreador with a Seville bull at his heels.” “Which cask, then?” “It was
this one,” said the fellow, and sure enough his fist struck the wood beside my
head.
What a situation, my
friends, for a man of my standing! I blush now, after forty years, when I think
of it. To be trussed like a fowl and to listen helplessly to the rude laughter
of these boors--to know, too, that my mission had come to an ignominious and
even ridiculous end --I would have blessed the man who would have sent a bullet
through the cask and freed me from my misery.
I heard the crashing of
the barrels as they hurled them off the waggon, and then a couple of bearded
faces and the muzzles of two guns looked in at me. They seized me by the
sleeves of my coat, and they dragged me out into the daylight. A strange figure
I must have looked as I stood blinking and gaping in the blinding sunlight. My
body was bent like a cripple&csq;s, for I could not straighten my stiff
joints, and half my coat was as red as an English soldier&csq;s from the
lees in which I had lain. They laughed and laughed, these dogs, and as I tried
to express by my bearing and gestures the contempt in which I held them their
laughter grew all the louder. But even in these hard circumstances I bore
myself like the man I am, and as I cast my eye slowly round I did not find that
any of the laughers were very ready to face it.
That one glance round
was enough to tell me exactly how I was situated. I had been betrayed by these
peasants into the hands of an outpost of guerillas. There were eight of them,
savage-looking, hairy creatures, with cotton handkerchiefs under their
sombreros, and many- buttoned jackets with coloured sashes round the waist.
Each had a gun and one or two pistols stuck in his girdle. The leader, a great,
bearded ruffian, held his gun against my ear while the others searched my
pockets, taking from me my overcoat, my pistol, my glass, my sword, and, worst
of all, my flint and steel and tinder. Come what might, I was ruined, for I had
no longer the means of lighting the beacon even if I should reach it.
Eight of them, my
friends, with three peasants, and I unarmed! Was Etienne Gerard in despair? Did
he lose his wits? Ah, you know me too well; but they did not know me yet, these
dogs of brigands. Never have I made so supreme and astounding an effort as at
this very instant when all seemed lost. Yet you might guess many times before
you would hit upon the device by which I escaped them. Listen and I will tell
you.
They had dragged me
from the waggon when they searched me, and I stood, still twisted and warped,
in the midst of them. But the stiffness was wearing off, and already my mind
was very actively looking out for some method of breaking away. It was a narrow
pass in which the brigands had their outpost. It was bounded on the one hand by
a steep mountain side. On the other the ground fell away in a very long slope,
which ended in a bushy valley many hundreds of feet below. These fellows, you
understand, were hardy mountaineers, who could travel either up hill or down
very much quicker than I. They wore abarcas, or shoes of skin, tied on like
sandals, which gave them a foothold everywhere. A less resolute man would have
despaired. But in an instant I saw and used the strange chance which Fortune
had placed in my way. On the very edge of the slope was one of the
wine-barrels. I moved slowly toward it, and then with a tiger spring I dived
into it feet foremost, and with a roll of my body I tipped it over the side of
the hill.
Shall I ever forget
that dreadful journey--how I bounded and crashed and whizzed down that terrible
slope? I had dug in my knees and elbows, bunching my body into a compact bundle
so as to steady it; but my head projected from the end, and it was a marvel
that I did not dash out my brains. There were long, smooth slopes, and then
came steeper scarps where the barrel ceased to roll, and sprang into the air
like a goat, coming down with a rattle and crash which jarred every bone in my
body. How the wind whistled in my ears, and my head turned and turned until I
was sick and giddy and nearly senseless! Then, with a swish and a great rasping
and crackling of branches, I reached the bushes which I had seen so far below
me. Through them I broke my way, down a slope beyond, and deep into another
patch of underwood, where, striking a sapling, my barrel flew to pieces. From
amid a heap of staves and hoops I crawled out, my body aching in every inch of
it, but my heart singing loudly with joy and my spirit high within me, for I
knew how great was the feat which I had accomplished, and I already seemed to
see the beacon blazing on the hill.
A horrible nausea had
seized me from the tossing which I had undergone, and I felt as I did upon the
ocean when first I experienced those movements of which the English have taken
so perfidious an advantage. I had to sit for a few moments with my head upon my
hands beside the ruins of my barrel. But there was no time for rest. Already I
heard shouts above me which told that my pursuers were descending the hill. I
dashed into the thickest part of the underwood, and I ran and ran until I was
utterly exhausted. Then I lay panting and listened with all my ears, but no
sound came to them. I had shaken off my enemies.
When I had recovered my
breath I travelled swiftly on, and waded knee-deep through several brooks, for
it came into my head that they might follow me with dogs. On gaining a clear
place and looking round me, I found to my delight that in spite of my
adventures I had not been much out of my way. Above me towered the peak of
Merodal, with its bare and bold summit shooting out of the groves of dwarf oaks
which shrouded its flanks. These groves were the continuation of the cover
under which I found myself, and it seemed to me that I had nothing to fear now
until I reached the other side of the forest. At the same time I knew that
every man&csq;s hand was against me, that I was unarmed, and that there were
many people about me. I saw no one, but several times I heard shrill whistles,
and once the sound of a gun in the distance.
It was hard work
pushing one&csq;s way through the bushes, and so I was glad when I came to
the larger trees and found a path which led between them. Of course, I was too
wise to walk upon it, but I kept near it and followed its course. I had gone
some distance, and had, as I imagined, nearly reached the limit of the wood,
when a strange, moaning sound fell upon my ears. At first I thought it was the
cry of some animal, but then there came words, of which I only caught the
French exclamation, “Mon Dieu!” With great caution I advanced in the direction
from which the sound proceeded, and this is what I saw.
On a couch of dried
leaves there was stretched a man dressed in the same grey uniform which I wore
myself. He was evidently horribly wounded, for he held a cloth to his breast
which was crimson with his blood. A pool had formed all round his couch, and he
lay in a haze of flies, whose buzzing and droning would certainly have called
my attention if his groans had not come to my ear. I lay for a moment, fearing
some trap, and then, my pity and loyalty rising above all other feelings, I ran
forward and knelt by his side. He turned a haggard face upon me, and it was
Duplessis, the man who had gone before me. It needed but one glance at his
sunken cheeks and glazing eyes to tell me that he was dying.
“Gerard!” said he; “Gerard!”
I could but look my
sympathy, but he, though the life was ebbing swiftly out of him, still kept his
duty before him, like the gallant gentleman he was.
“The beacon, Gerard!
You will light it?”
“Have you flint and
steel?”
“It is here!”
“Then I will light it
to-night.”
“I die happy to hear
you say so. They shot me, Gerard. But you will tell the Marshal that I did my
best.”
“And Cortex?”
“He was less fortunate.
He fell into their hands and died horribly. If you see that you cannot get
away, Gerard, put a bullet into your own heart. Don&csq;t die as Cortex did.”
I could see that his
breath was failing, and I bent low to catch his words.
“Can you tell me
anything which can help me in my task?” I asked.
“Yes, yes; de Pombal.
He will help you. Trust de Pombal.” With the words his head fell back and he
was dead.
“Trust de Pombal. It is
good advice.” To my amazement a man was standing at the very side of me. So
absorbed had I been in my comrade&csq;s words and intent on his advice that
he had crept up without my observing him. Now I sprang to my feet and faced
him. He was a tall, dark fellow, black-haired, black-eyed, black-bearded, with
a long, sad face. In his hand he had a wine-bottle and over his shoulder was
slung one of the trabucos or blunderbusses which these fellows bear. He made no
effort to unsling it, and I understood that this was the man to whom my dead
friend had commended me.
“Alas, he is gone!”
said he, bending over Duplessis.
“He fled into the wood
after he was shot, but I was fortunate enough to find where he had fallen and
to make his last hours more easy. This couch was my making, and I had brought
this wine to slake his thirst.”
“Sir,” said I, “in the
name of France I thank you. I am but a colonel of light cavalry, but I am
Etienne Gerard, and the name stands for something in the French army. May I
ask----”
“Yes, sir, I am
Aloysius de Pombal, younger brother of the famous nobleman of that name. At
present I am the first lieutenant in the band of the guerilla chief who is
usually known as Manuelo, &osq;The Smiler.&csq; ”
My word, I clapped my
hand to the place where my pistol should have been, but the man only smiled at
the gesture.
“I am his first
lieutenant, but I am also his deadly en emy,” said he. He slipped off his
jacket and pulled up his shirt as he spoke. “Look at this!” he cried, and he
turned upon me a back which was all scored and lacerated with red and purple
weals. “This is what &osq;The Smiler&csq; has done to me, a man with
the noblest blood of Portugal in my veins. What I will do to &osq;The
Smiler&csq; you have still to see.”
There was such fury in
his eyes and in the grin of his white teeth that I could no longer doubt his
truth, with that clotted and oozing back to corroborate his words.
“I have ten men sworn
to stand by me,” said he. “In a few days I hope to join your army, when I have
done my work here. In the meanwhile--” A strange change came over his face, and
he suddenly slung his musket to the front: “Hold up your hands, you French
hound!” he yelled. “Up with them, or I blow your head of!”
You start, my friends!
You stare! Think, then, how I stared and started at this sudden ending of our
talk. There was the black muzzle and there the dark, angry eyes behind it. What
could I do? I was helpless. I raised my hands in the air. At the same moment
voices sounded from all parts of the wood, there were crying and calling and
rushing of many feet. A swarm of dreadful figures broke through the green
bushes, a dozen hands seized me, and I, poor, luckless, frenzied I, was a
prisoner once more. Thank God, there was no pistol which I could have plucked
from my belt and snapped at my own head. Had I been armed at that moment I
should not be sitting here in this café and telling you these old-world tales.
With grimy, hairy hands
clutching me on every side I was led along the pathway through the wood, the
villain de Pombal giving directions to my Captors. Four of the brigands carried
up the dead body of Duplessis. The shadows of evening were already falling when
we cleared the forest and came out upon the mountain-side. Up this I was driven
until we reached the headquarters of the guerillas, which lay in a cleft close
to the summit of the mountain. There was the beacon which had cost me so much,
a square stack of wood, immediately above our heads. Below were two or three
huts which had belonged, no doubt, to goatherds, and which were now used to
shelter these rascals. Into one of these I was cast, bound and helpless, and
the dead body of my poor comrade was laid beside me.
I was lying there with
the one thought still consuming me, how to wait a few hours and to get at that
pile of fagots above my head, when the door of my prison opened and a man
entered. Had my hands been free I should have flown at his throat, for it was
none other than de Pombal. A couple of brigands were at his heels, but he
ordered them back and closed the door behind him.
“You villain!” said I.
“Hush!” he cried. “Speak
low, for I do not know who may be listening, and my life is at stake. I have
some words to say to you, Colonel Gerard; I wish well to you, as I did to your
dead companion. As I spoke to you beside his body I saw that we were
surrounded, and that your capture was unavoidable. I should have shared your
fate had I hesitated. I instantly captured you myself, so as to preserve the
confidence of the band. Your own sense will tell you that there was nothing
else for me to do. I do not know now whether I can save you, but at least I
will try.”
This was a new light
upon the situation. I told him that I could not tell how far he spoke the
truth, but that I would judge him by his actions.
“I ask nothing better,”
said he. “A word of advice to you! The chief will see you now. Speak him fair,
or he will have you sawn between two planks. Contradict nothing he says. Give
him such information as he wants. It is your only chance. If you can gain time
something may come in our favour. Now, I have no more time. Come at once, or
suspicion may be awakened.” He helped me to rise, and then, opening the door,
he dragged me out very roughly, and with the aid of the fellows outside he
brutally pushed and thrust me to the place where the guerilla chief was seated,
with his rude followers gathered round him.
A remarkable man was
Manuelo, “The Smiler.” He was fat and florid and comfortable, with a big,
clean- shaven face and a bald head, the very model of a kindly father of a
family. As I looked at his honest smile I could scarcely believe that this was,
indeed, the infamous ruffian whose name was a horror through the English Army
as well as our own. It is well known that Trent, who was a British officer,
afterward had the fellow hanged for his brutalities. He sat upon a boulder and
he beamed upon me like one who meets an old acquaintance. I observed, however,
that one of his men leaned upon a long saw, and the sight was enough to cure me
of all delusions.
“Good evening, Colonel
Gerard,” said he. “We have been highly honoured by General Massena&csq;s
staff: Major Cortex one day, Colonel Duplessis the next, and now Colonel
Gerard. Possibly the Marshal himself may be induced to honour us with a visit.
You have seen Duplessis, I understand. Cortex you will find nailed to a tree
down yonder. It only remains to be decided how we can best dispose of yourself.”
It was not a cheering
speech; but all the time his fat face was wreathed in smiles, and he lisped out
his words in the most mincing and amiable fashion. Now, however, he suddenly
leaned forward, and I read a very real intensity in his eyes.
“Colonel Gerard,” said
he, “I cannot promise you your life, for it is not our custom, but I can give
you an easy death or I can give you a terrible one. Which shall it be?”
“What do you wish me to
do in exchange?”
“If you would die easy
I ask you to give me truthful answers to the questions which I ask.”
A sudden thought
flashed through my mind.
“You wish to kill me,”
said I; “it cannot matter to you how I die. If I answer your questions, will
you let me choose the manner of my own death?”
“Yes, I will,” said he,
“so long as it is before midnight to-night.”
“Swear it!” I cried.
“The word of a
Portuguese gentleman is sufficient,” said he.
“Not a word will I say
until you have sworn it.”
He flushed with anger
and his eyes swept round toward the saw. But he understood from my tone that I
meant what I said, and that I was not a man to be bullied into submission. He
pulled a cross from under his zammara or jacket of black sheepskin.
“I swear it,” said he.
Oh, my joy as I heard
the words! What an end-- what an end for the first swordsman of France! I could
have laughed with delight at the thought.
“Now, your questions!”
said I.
“You swear in turn to
answer them truly?”
“I do, upon the honour
of a gentleman and a soldier.” It was, as you perceive, a terrible thing that I
promised, but what was it compared to what I might gain by compliance?
“This is a very fair
and a very interesting bargain,” said he, taking a note-book from his pocket.
“Would you kindly turn
your gaze toward the French camp?”
Following the direction
of his gesture, I turned and looked down upon the camp in the plain beneath us.
In spite of the fifteen miles, one could in that clear atmosphere see every
detail with the utmost distinctness. There were the long squares of our tents
and our huts, with the cavalry lines and the dark patches which marked the ten
batteries of artillery. How sad to think of my magnificent regiment waiting
down yonder, and to know that they would never see their colonel again! With
one squadron of them I could have swept all these cut-throats of the face of
the earth. My eager eyes filled with tears as I looked at the corner of the
camp where I knew that there were eight hundred men, any one of whom would have
died for his colonel. But my sadness vanished when I saw beyond the tents the
plumes of smoke which marked the headquarters at Torres Novas. There was
Massena, and, please God, at the cost of my life his mission would that night
be done. A spasm of pride and exultation filled my breast. I should have liked
to have had a voice of thunder that I might call to them, “Behold it is I,
Etienne Gerard, who will die in order to save the army of Clausel!” It was,
indeed, sad to think that so noble a deed should be done, and that no one
should be there to tell the tale.
“Now,” said the brigand
chief, “you see the camp and you see also the road which leads to Coimbra. It
is crowded with your fourgons and your ambulances. Does this mean that Massena
is about to retreat?”
One could see the dark
moving lines of waggons with an occasional flash of steel from the escort.
There could, apart from my promise, be no indiscretion in admitting that which
was already obvious.
“He will retreat,” said
I.
“By Coimbra?”
“I believe so.”
“But the army of
Clausel?”
I shrugged my
shoulders.
“Every path to the
south is blocked. No message can reach them. If Massena falls back the army of
Clausel is doomed.”
“It must take its
chance,” said I.
“How many men has he?”
“I should say about
fourteen thousand.”
“How much cavalry?”
“One brigade of
Montbrun&csq;s Division.”
“What regiments?”
“The 4th Chasseurs, the
9th Hussars, and a regiment of Cuirassiers.”
“Quite right,” said he,
looking at his note-book. “I can tell you speak the truth, and Heaven help you
if you don&csq;t.” Then, division by division, he went over the whole army,
asking the composition of each brigade. Need I tell you that I would have had
my tongue torn out before I would have told him such things had I not a greater
end in view? I would let him know all if I could but save the army of Clausel.
At last he closed his
note-book and replaced it in his pocket. “I am obliged to you for this
information, which shall reach Lord Wellington to-morrow,” said he.
“You have done your
share of the bargain; it is for me now to perform mine. How would you wish to
die? As a soldier you would, no doubt, prefer to be shot, but some think that a
jump over the Merodal precipice is really an easier death. A good few have
taken it, but we were, unfortunately, never able to get an opinion from them
afterward. There is the saw, too, which does not appear to be popular. We could
hang you, no doubt, but it would involve the inconvenience of going down to the
wood. However, a promise is a promise, and you seem to be an excellent fellow,
so we will spare no pains to meet your wishes.”
“You said,” I answered,
“that I must die before midnight. I will choose, therefore, just one minute
before that hour.”
“Very good,” said he. “Such
clinging to life is rather childish, but your wishes shall be met.”
“As to the method,” I
added, “I love a death which all the world can see. Put me on yonder pile of
fagots and burn me alive, as saints and martyrs have been burned before me.
That is no common end, but one which an Emperor might envy.”
The idea seemed to
amuse him very much. “Why not?” said he. “If Massena has sent you to spy upon
us, he may guess what the fire upon the mountain means.”
“Exactly,” said I. “You
have hit upon my very reason. He will guess, and all will know, that I have
died a soldier&csq;s death.”
“I see no objection
whatever,” said the brigand, with his abominable smile. “I will send some
goat&csq;s flesh and wine into your hut. The sun is sinking and it is
nearly eight o&csq;clock. In four hours be ready for your end.”
It was a beautiful
world to be leaving. I looked at the golden haze below, where the last rays of
the sinking sun shone upon the blue waters of the winding Tagus and gleamed
upon the white sails of the English transports. Very beautiful it was, and very
sad to leave; but there are things more beautiful than that. The death that is
died for the sake of others, honour, and duty, and loyalty, and love--these are
the beauties far brighter than any which the eye can see. My breast was filled
with admiration for my own most noble conduct, and with wonder whether any soul
would ever come to know how I had placed myself in the heart of the beacon
which saved the army of Clausel. I hoped so and I prayed so, for what a
consolation it would be to my mother, what an example to the army, what a pride
to my Hussars! When de Pombal came at last into my hut with the food and the
wine, the first request I made him was that he would write an account of my
death and send it to the French camp. He answered not a word, but I ate my
supper with a better appetite from the thought that my glorious fate would not
be altogether unknown.
I had been there about
two hours when the door opened again, and the chief stood looking in. I was in
darkness, but a brigand with a torch stood beside him, and I saw his eyes and
his teeth gleaming as he peered at me.
“Ready?” he asked.
“It is not yet time.”
“You stand out for the
last minute?”
“A promise is a
promise.”
“Very good. Be it so.
We have a little justice to do among ourselves, for one of my fellows has been
misbehaving. We have a strict rule of our own which is no respecter of persons,
as de Pombal here could tell you. Do you truss him and lay him on the faggots,
de Pombal, and I will return to see him die.”
De Pombal and the man
with the torch entered, while I heard the steps of the chief passing away. De
Pombal closed the door.
“Colonel Gerard,” said
he, “you must trust this man, for he is one of my party. It is neck or nothing.
We may save you yet. But I take a great risk, and I want a definite promise. If
we save you, will you guarantee that we have a friendly reception in the French
camp and that all the past will be forgotten?”
“I do guarantee it.”
“And I trust your
honour. Now, quick, quick, there is not an instant to lose! If this monster
returns we shall die horribly, all three.”
I stared in amazement
at what he did. Catching up a long rope he wound it round the body of my dead
comrade, and he tied a cloth round his mouth so as to almost cover his face.
“Do you lie there!” he
cried, and he laid me in the place of the dead body. “I have four of my men
waiting, and they will place this upon the beacon.” He opened the door and gave
an order. Several of the brigands entered and bore out Duplessis. For myself I
remained upon the floor, with my mind in a turmoil of hope and wonder.
Five minutes later de
Pombal and his men were back.
“You are laid upon the
beacon,” said he; “I defy anyone in the world to say it is not you, and you are
so gagged and bound that no one can expect you to speak or move. Now, it only
remains to carry forth the body of Duplessis and to toss it over the Merodal
precipice.”
Two of them seized me
by the head and two by the heels, and carried me, stiff and inert, from the
hut. As I came into the open air I could have cried out in my amazement. The
moon had risen above the beacon, and there, clear outlined against its silver
light, was the figure of the man stretched upon the top. The brigands were
either in their camp or standing round the beacon, for none of them stopped or
questioned our little party. De Pombal led them in the direction of the
precipice. At the brow we were out of sight, and there I was allowed to use my
feet once more. De Pombal pointed to a narrow, winding track.
“This is the way down,”
said he, and then, suddenly,
“Dios mio, what is
that?”
A terrible cry had
risen out of the woods beneath us. I saw that de Pombal was shivering like a
frightened horse.
“It is that devil,” he
whispered. “He is treating another as he treated me. But on, on, for Heaven
help us if he lays his hands upon us.”
One by one we crawled
down the narrow goat track. At the bottom of the cliff we were back in the
woods once more. Suddenly a yellow glare shone above us, and the black shadows
of the tree-trunks started out in front. They had fired the beacon behind us.
Even from where we stood we could see that impassive body amid the flames, and
the black figures of the guerillas as they danced, howling like cannibals,
round the pile. Ha! how I shook my fist at them, the dogs, and how I vowed that
one day my Hussars and I would make the reckoning level!
De Pombal knew how the
outposts were placed and all the paths which led through the forest. But to
avoid these villains we had to plunge among the hills and walk for many a weary
mile. And yet how gladly would I have walked those extra leagues if only for
one sight which they brought to my eyes! It may have been two o&csq;clock
in the morning when we halted upon the bare shoulder of a hill over which our
path curled. Looking back we saw the red glow of the embers of the beacon as if
volcanic fires were bursting from the tall peak of Merodal. And then, as I
gazed, I saw something else-- something which caused me to shriek with joy and
to fall upon the ground, rolling in my delight. For, far away upon the southern
horizon, there winked and twinkled one great yellow light, throbbing and
flaming, the light of no house, the light of no star, but the answering beacon
of Mount d&csq;Ossa, which told that the army of Clausel knew what Etienne
Gerard had been sent to tell them.
I have told you, my
friends, how I triumphed over the English at the fox-hunt when I pursued the
animal so fiercely that even the herd of trained dogs was unable to keep up,
and alone with my own hand I put him to the sword. Perhaps I have said too much
of the matter, but there is a thrill in the triumphs of sport which even warfare
cannot give, for in warfare you share your successes with your regiment and
your army, but in sport it is you yourself unaided who have won the laurels. It
is an advantage which the English have over us that in all classes they take
great interest in every form of sport. It may be that they are richer than we,
or it may be that they are more idle: but I was surprised when I was a prisoner
in that country to observe how widespread was this feeling, and how much it
filled the minds and the lives of the people. A horse that will run, a cock
that will fight, a dog that will kill rats, a man that will box--they would
turn away from the Emperor in all his glory in order to look upon any of these.
I could tell you many
stories of English sport, for I saw much of it during the time that I was the
guest of Lord Rufton, after the order for my exchange had come to England.
There were months before I could be sent back to France, and during this time I
stayed with this good Lord Rufton at his beautiful house of High Combe, which
is at the northern end of Dartmoor. He had ridden with the police when they had
pursued me from Princetown, and he had felt toward me when I was overtaken as I
would myself have felt had I, in my own country, seen a brave and debonair soldier
without a friend to help him. In a word, he took me to his house, clad me, fed
me, and treated me as if he had been my brother. I will say this of the
English, that they were always generous enemies, and very good people with whom
to fight. In the Peninsula the Spanish outposts would present their muskets at
ours, but the British their brandy-flasks. And of all these generous men there
was none who was the equal of this admirable milord, who held out so warm a
hand to an enemy in distress.
Ah! what thoughts of
sport it brings back to me, the very name of High Combe! I can see it now, the
long, low brick house, warm and ruddy, with white plaster pillars before the
door. He was a great sportsman, this Lord Rufton, and all who were about him
were of the same sort. But you will be pleased to hear that there were few
things in which I could not hold my own, and in some I excelled. Behind the
house was a wood in which pheasants were reared, and it was Lord
Rufton&csq;s joy to kill these birds, which was done by sending in men to
drive them out while he and his friends stood outside and shot them as they
passed. For my part, I was more crafty, for I studied the habits of the bird,
and stealing out in the evening I was able to kill a number of them as they roosted
in the trees. Hardly a single shot was wasted, but the keeper was attracted by
the sound of the firing, and he implored me in his rough English fashion to
spare those that were left. That night I was able to place twelve birds as a
surprise upon Lord Rufton&csq;s supper- table, and he laughed until he
cried, so overjoyed was he to see them. “Gad, Gerard, you&csq;ll be the
death of me yet!” he cried. Often he said the same thing, for at every turn I
amazed him by the way in which I entered into the sports of the English.
There is a game called
cricket which they play in the summer, and this also I learned. Rudd, the head
gardener, was a famous player of cricket, and so was Lord Rufton himself.
Before the house was a lawn, and here it was that Rudd taught me the game. It
is a brave pastime, a game for soldiers, for each tries to strike the other
with the ball, and it is but a small stick with which you may ward it off.
Three sticks behind show the spot beyond which you may not retreat. I can tell
you that it is no game for children, and I will confess that, in spite of my
nine campaigns, I felt myself turn pale when first the ball flashed past me. So
swift was it that I had not time to raise my stick to ward it off, but by good
fortune it missed me and knocked down the wooden pins which marked the
boundary. It was for Rudd then to defend himself and for me to attack. When I
was a boy in Gascony I learned to throw both far and straight, so that I made
sure that I could hit this gallant Englishman. With a shout I rushed forward
and hurled the ball at him. It flew as swift as a bullet toward his ribs, but
without a word he swung his staff and the ball rose a surprising distance in
the air. Lord Rufton clapped his hands and cheered. Again the ball was brought
to me, and again it was for me to throw. This time it flew past his head, and
it seemed to me that it was his turn to look pale. But he was a brave man, this
gardener, and again he faced me. Ah, my friends, the hour of my triumph had
come! It was a red waistcoat that he wore, and at this I hurled the ball. You
would have said that I was a gunner, not a hussar, for never was so straight an
aim. With a despairing cry--the cry of the brave man who is beaten --he fell
upon the wooden pegs behind him, and they all rolled upon the ground together.
He was cruel, this English milord, and he laughed so that he could not come to
the aid of his servant. It was for me, the victor, to rush forward to embrace
this intrepid player, and to raise him to his feet with words of praise, and
encouragement, and hope. He was in pain and could not stand erect, yet the
honest fellow confessed that there was no accident in my victory. “He did it
a-purpose! He did it a-purpose!” Again and again he said it. Yes, it is a great
game this cricket, and I would gladly have ventured upon it again but Lord
Rufton and Rudd said that it was late in the season, and so they would play no
more.
How foolish of me, the
old, broken man, to dwell upon these successes, and yet I will confess that my
age has been very much soothed and comforted by the memory of the women who
have loved me and the men whom I have overcome. It is pleasant to think that
five years afterward, when Lord Rufton came to Paris after the peace, he was
able to assure me that my name was still a famous one in the north of
Devonshire for the fine exploits that I had performed. Especially, he said,
they still talked over my boxing match with the Honourable Baldock. It came
about in this way. Of an evening many sportsmen would assemble at the house of
Lord Rufton, where they would drink much wine, make wild bets, and talk of
their horses and their foxes. How well I remember those strange creatures. Sir
Barrington, Jack Lupton, of Barnstable, Colonel Addison, Johnny Miller, Lord
Sadler, and my enemy, the Honourable Baldock. They were of the same stamp all
of them, drinkers, madcaps, fighters, gamblers, full of strange caprices and
extraordinary whims. Yet they were kindly fellows in their rough fashion, save
only this Baldock, a fat man, who prided himself on his skill at the box-fight.
It was he who, by his laughter against the French because they were ignorant of
sport, caused me to challenge him in the very sport at which he excelled. You
will say that it was foolish, my friends, but the decanter had passed many
times, and the blood of youth ran hot in my veins. I would fight him, this
boaster; I would show him that if we had not skill at least we had courage.
Lord Rufton would not allow it. I insisted. The others cheered me on and slapped
me on the back. “No, dash it, Baldock, he&csq;s our guest,” said Rufton. “It&csq;s
his own doing,” the other answered “Look here, Rufton, they can&csq;t hurt
each other if they wear the mawleys,” cried Lord Sadler. And so it was agreed.
What the mawleys were I
did not know, but presently they brought out four great puddings of leather,
not unlike a fencing glove, but larger. With these our hands were covered after
we had stripped ourselves of our coats and our waistcoats. Then the table, with
the glasses and decanters, was pushed into the corner of the room, and behold
us; face to face! Lord Sadler sat in the arm-chair with a watch in his open
hand. “Time!” said he.
I will confess to you,
my friends, that I felt at that moment a tremor such as none of my many duels
have ever given me. With sword or pistol I am at home, but here I only
understood that I must struggle with this fat Englishman and do what I could,
in spite of these great puddings upon my hands, to overcome him. And at the
very outset I was disarmed of the best weapon that was left to me. “Mind,
Gerard, no kicking!” said Lord Rufton in my ear. I had only a pair of thin
dancing slippers, and yet the man was fat, and a few well-directed kicks might
have left me the victor. But there is an etiquette just as there is in fencing,
and I refrained. I looked at this Englishman and I wondered how I should attack
him. His ears were large and prominent. Could I seize them I might drag him to
the ground. I rushed in, but I was betrayed by this flabby glove, and twice I
lost my hold. He struck me, but I cared little for his blows, and again I
seized him by the ear. He fell, and I rolled upon him and thumped his head upon
the ground. How they cheered and laughed, these gallant Englishmen, and how
they clapped me on the back!
“Even money on the
Frenchman,” cried Lord Sadler.
“He fights foul,” cried
my enemy, rubbing his crimson ears. “He savaged me on the ground.”
“You must take your
chance of that,” said Lord Rufton, coldly.
“Time!” cried Lord
Sadler, and once again we advanced to the assault.
He was flushed, and his
small eyes were as vicious as those of a bull-dog. There was hatred on his
face. For my part I carried myself lightly and gaily. A French gentleman fights
but he does not hate. I drew myself up before him, and I bowed as I have done
in the duello. There can be grace and courtesy as well as defiance in a bow; I
put all three into this one, with a touch of ridicule in the shrug which
accompanied it. It was at this moment that he struck me. The room spun round
me. I fell upon my back. But in an instant I was on my feet again and had
rushed to a close combat. His ear, his hair, his nose, I seized them each in
turn. Once again the mad joy of the battle was in my veins. The old cry of
triumph rose to my lips. “Vive l&csq;Empereur!” I yelled as I drove my head
into his stomach. He threw his arm round my neck, and holding me with one hand
he struck me with the other. I buried my teeth in his arm, and he shouted with
pain. “Call him off, Rufton!” he screamed.
“Call him off, man!
He&csq;s worrying me!” They dragged me away from him. Can I ever forget
it?--the laughter, the cheering, the congratulations! Even my enemy bore me no
ill-will, for he shook me by the hand. For my part I embraced him on each
cheek. Five years afterward I learned from Lord Rufton that my noble bearing
upon that evening was still fresh in the memory of my English friends.
It is not, however, of
my own exploits in sport that I wish to speak to you to-night, but it is of the
Lady Jane Dacre and the strange adventure of which she was the cause. Lady Jane
Dacre was Lord Rufton&csq;s sister and the lady of his household. I fear
that until I came it was lonely for her, since she was a beautiful and refined
woman with nothing in common with those who were about her. Indeed, this might
be said of many women in the England of those days, for the men were rude and
rough and coarse, with boorish habits and few accomplishments, while the women
were the most lovely and tender that I have ever known. We became great
friends, the Lady Jane and I, for it was not possible for me to drink three
bottles of port after dinner like those Devonshire gentlemen, and so I would
seek refuge in her drawing-room, where evening after evening she would play the
harpsichord and I would sing the songs of my own land. In those peaceful
moments I would find a refuge from the misery which filled me, when I reflected
that my regiment was left in the front of the enemy without the chief whom they
had learned to love and to follow. Indeed, I could have torn my hair when I
read in the English papers of the fine fighting which was going on in Portugal
and on the frontiers of Spain, all of which I had missed through my misfortune
in falling into the hands of Milord Wellington.
From what I have told
you of the Lady Jane you will have guessed what occurred, my friends. Etienne
Gerard is thrown into the company of a young and beautiful woman. What must it
mean for him? What must it mean for her? It was not for me, the guest, the
captive, to make love to the sister of my host. But I was reserved. I was
discreet. I tried to curb my own emotions and to discourage hers. For my own
part I fear that I betrayed myself, for the eye becomes more eloquent when the
tongue is silent. Every quiver of my fingers as I turned over her music-sheets
told her my secret. But she--she was admirable. It is in these matters that
women have a genius for deception. If I had not penetrated her secret I should
often have thought that she forgot even that I was in the house. For hours she
would sit lost in a sweet melancholy, while I admired her pale face and her
curls in the lamp-light, and thrilled within me to think that I had moved her
so deeply. Then at last I would speak, and she would start in her chair and
stare at me with the most admirable pretence of being surprised to find me in
the room. Ah! how I longed to hurl myself suddenly at her feet, to kiss her white
hand, to assure her that I had surprised her secret and that I would not abuse
her confidence. But no, I was not her equal, and I was under her roof as a
castaway enemy. My lips were sealed. I endeavoured to imitate her own wonderful
affectation of indifference, but, as you may think? I was eagerly alert for any
opportunity of serving her.
One morning Lady Jane
had driven in her phaeton to Okehampton, and I strolled along the road which
led to that place in the hope that I might meet her on her return. It was the
early winter, and banks of fading fern sloped down to the winding road. It is a
bleak place this Dartmoor, wild and rocky--a country of wind and mist. I felt
as I walked that it is no wonder Englishmen should suffer from the spleen. My
own heart was heavy within me, and I sat upon a rock by the wayside looking out
on the dreary view with my thoughts full of trouble and foreboding. Suddenly,
however, as I glanced down the road, I saw a sight which drove everything else
from my mind, and caused me to leap to my feet with a cry of astonishment and
anger.
Down the curve of the
road a phaeton was coming, the pony tearing along at full gallop. Within was
the very lady whom I had come to meet. She lashed at the pony like one who
endeavours to escape from some pressing danger, glancing ever backward over her
shoulder. The bend of the road concealed from me what it was that had alarmed
her, and I ran forward not knowing what to expect. The next instant I saw the
pursuer, and my amazement was increased at the sight. It was a gentleman in the
red coat of an English fox-hunter, mounted on a great grey horse. He was
galloping as if in a race, and the long stride of the splendid creature beneath
him soon brought him up to the lady&csq;s flying carriage. I saw him stoop
and seize the reins of the pony, so as to bring it to a halt. The next instant
he was deep in talk with the lady, he bending forward in his saddle and
speaking eagerly, she shrinking away from him as if she feared and loathed him.
You may think, my dear
friends, that this was not a sight at which I could calmly gaze. How my heart
thrilled within me to think that a chance should have been given to me to serve
the Lady Jane! I ran--oh, good Lord, how I ran! At last, breathless,
speechless, I reached the phaeton. The man glanced up at me with his blue
English eyes, but so deep was he in his talk that he paid no heed to me, nor
did the lady say a word. She still leaned back, her beautiful pale face gazing
up at him. He was a good-looking fellow--tall, and strong, and brown; a pang of
jealousy seized me as I looked at him. He was talking low and fast, as the
English do when they are in earnest.
“I tell you, Jinny,
it&csq;s you and only you that I love,” said he. “Don&csq;t bear
malice, Jinny. Let by-gones be by-gones. Come now, say it&csq;s all over.”
“No, never, George,
never!” she cried.
A dusky red suffused
his handsome face. The man was furious.
“Why can&csq;t you
forgive me, Jinny?”
“I can&csq;t forget
the past.”
“By George, you must! I&csq;ve
asked enough. It&csq;s time to order now. I&csq;ll have my rights,
d&csq;ye hear?” His hand closed upon her wrist.
At last my breath had
returned to me.
“Madame,” I said, as I
raised my hat, “do I intrude, or is there any possible way in which I can be of
service to you?”
But neither of them
minded me any more than if I had been a fly who buzzed between them. Their eyes
were locked together.
“I&csq;ll have my
rights, I tell you. I&csq;ve waited long enough.”
“There&csq;s no use
bullying, George.”
“Do you give in?”
“No, never!”
“Is that your final
answer?”
“Yes, it is.”
He gave a bitter curse
and threw down her hand.
“All right, my lady,
we&csq;ll see about this.”
“Excuse me, sir!” said
I, with dignity.
“Oh, go to blazes!” he
cried, turning on me with his furious face. The next instant he had spurred his
horse and was galloping down the road once more.
Lady Jane gazed after
him until he was out of sight, and I was surprised to see that her face wore a
smile and not a frown. Then she turned to me and held out her hand.
“You are very kind,
Colonel Gerard. You meant well, I am sure.”
“Madame,” said I, “if
you can oblige me with the gentleman&csq;s name and address I will arrange
that he shall never trouble you again.”
“No scandal, I beg of
you,” she cried.
“Madame, I could not so
far forget myself. Rest assured that no lady&csq;s name would ever be
mentioned by me in the course of such an incident. In bidding me to go to
blazes this gentleman has relieved me from the embarrassment of having to
invent a cause of quarrel.”
“Colonel Gerard,” said
the lady, earnestly, “you must give me your word as a soldier and a gentleman
that this matter goes no farther, and also that you will say nothing to my
brother about what you have seen. Promise me!”
“If I must.”
“I hold you to your
word. Now drive with me to High Combe, and I will explain as we go.”
The first words of her
explanation went into me like a sabre-point.
“That gentleman,” said
she, “is my husband.”
“Your husband!”
“You must have known
that I was married.” She seemed surprised at my agitation.
“I did not know.”
“This is Lord George
Dacre. We have been married two years. There is no need to tell you how he
wronged me. I left him and sought a refuge under my brother&csq;s roof. Up
till to-day he has left me there unmolested. What I must above all things avoid
is the chance of a duel betwixt my husband and my brother. It is horrible to
think of. For this reason Lord Rufton must know nothing of this chance meeting
of to-day.”
“If my pistol could
free you from this annoyance ----”
“No, no, it is not to
be thought of. Remember your promise, Colonel Gerard. And not a word at High
Combe of what you have seen!”
Her husband! I had
pictured in my mind that she was a young widow. This brown-faced brute with his
“go to blazes” was the husband of this tender dove of a woman. Oh, if she would
but allow me to free her from so odious an encumbrance! There is no divorce so
quick and certain as that which I could give her. But a promise is a promise,
and I kept it to the letter. My mouth was sealed.
In a week I was to be
sent back from Plymouth to St. Malo, and it seemed to me that I might never
hear the sequel of the story. And yet it was destined that it should have a
sequel and that I should play a very pleasing and honourable part in it.
It was only three days
after the event which I have described when Lord Rufton burst hurriedly into my
room. His face was pale and his manner that of a man in extreme agitation.
“Gerard,” he cried, “have
you seen Lady Jane Dacre?”
I had seen her after
breakfast and it was now mid-day.
“By Heaven,
there&csq;s villainy here!” cried my poor friend, rushing about like a
madman. “The bailiff has been up to say that a chaise and pair were seen
driving full split down the Tavistock Road. The blacksmith heard a woman scream
as it passed his forge. Jane has disappeared. By the Lord, I believe that she
has been kidnapped by this villain Dacre.” He rang the bell furiously. “Two
horses, this instant!” he cried. “Colonel Gerard, your pistols! Jane comes back
with me this night from Gravel Hanger or there will be a new master in High
Combe Hall.”
Behold us then within
half an hour, like two knight- errants of old, riding forth to the rescue of
this lady in distress. It was near Tavistock that Lord Dacre lived, and at
every house and toll-gate along the road we heard the news of the flying
post-chaise in front of us, so there could be no doubt whither they were bound.
As we rode Lord Rufton told me of the man whom we were pursuing. His name, it
seems, was a household word throughout all England for every sort of mischief.
Wine, women, dice, cards, racing--in all forms of debauchery he had earned for
himself a terrible name. He was of an old and noble family, and it had been
hoped that he had sowed his wild oats when he married the beautiful Lady Jane
Rufton. For some months he had indeed behaved well, and then he had wounded her
feelings in their most tender part by some unworthy liaison. She had fled from
his house and taken refuge with her brother, from whose care she had now been
dragged once more, against her will. I ask you if two men could have had a
fairer errand than that upon which Lord Rufton and myself were riding.
“That&csq;s Gravel
Hanger,” he cried at last, pointing with his crop, and there on the green side
of a hill was an old brick and timber building as beautiful as only an English
country-house can be. “There&csq;s an inn by the park-gate, and there we
shall leave our horses,” he added.
For my own part it
seemed to me that with so just a cause we should have done best to ride boldly
up to his door and summon him to surrender the lady. But there I was wrong. For
the one thing which every Englishman fears is the law. He makes it himself, and
when he has once made it it becomes a terrible tyrant before whom the bravest
quails. He will smile at breaking his neck, but he will turn pale at breaking
the law. It seems, then, from what Lord Rufton told me as we walked through the
park, that we were on the wrong side of the law in this matter. Lord Dacre was
in the right in carrying off his wife, since she did indeed belong to him, and
our own position now was nothing better than that of burglars and trespassers.
It was not for burglars to openly approach the front door. We could take the
lady by force or by craft, but we could not take her by right, for the law was
against us. This was what my friend explained to me as we crept up toward the
shelter of a shrubbery which was close to the windows of the house. Thence we
could examine this fortress, see whether we could effect a lodgment in it, and,
above all, try to establish some communication with the beautiful prisoner
inside.
There we were, then, in
the shrubbery, Lord Rufton and I, each with a pistol in the pockets of our
riding coats, and with the most resolute determination in our hearts that we
should not return without the lady. Eagerly we scanned every window of the
wide-spread house. Not a sign could we see of the prisoner or of anyone else;
but on the gravel drive outside the door were the deep- sunk marks of the
wheels of the chaise. There was no doubt that they had arrived. Crouching among
the laurel bushes we held a whispered council of wary but a singular
interruption brought it to an end.
Out of the door of the
house there stepped a tall, flaxen- haired man, such a figure as one would
choose for the flank of a Grenadier company. As he turned his brown face and
his blue eyes toward us I recognised Lord Dacre. With long strides he came down
the gravel path straight for the spot where we lay.
“Come out, Ned!” he
shouted; “you&csq;ll have the game- keeper putting a charge of shot into
you. Come out, man, and don&csq;t skulk behind the bushes.”
It was not a very
heroic situation for us. My poor friend rose with a crimson face. I sprang to
my feet also and bowed with such dignity as I could muster.
“Halloa! it&csq;s
the Frenchman, is it?” said he, without returning my bow. “I&csq;ve got a
crow to pluck with him already. As to you, Ned, I knew you would be hot on our
scent, and so I was looking out for you. I saw you cross the park and go to
ground in the shrubbery. Come in, man, and let us have all the cards on the
table.”
He seemed master of the
situation, this handsome giant of a man, standing at his ease on his own ground
while we slunk out of our hiding-place. Lord Rufton had said not a word, but I
saw by his darkened brow and his sombre eyes that the storm was gathering. Lord
Dacre led the way into the house, and we followed close at his heels. He
ushered us himself into an oak-panelled sitting-room, closing the door behind
us. Then he looked me up and down with insolent eyes.
“Look here, Ned,” said
he, “time was when an English family could settle their own affairs in their
own way. What has this foreign fellow got to do with your sister and my wife?”
“Sir,” said I, “permit
me to point out to you that this is not a case merely of a sister or a wife,
but that I am the friend of the lady in question, and that I have the privilege
which every gentleman possesses of protecting a woman against brutality. It is
only by a gesture that I can show you what I think of you.” I had my riding
glove in my hand, and I flicked him across the face with it. He drew back with
a bitter smile and his eyes were as hard as flint.
“So you&csq;ve
brought your bully with you, Ned?” said he. “You might at least have done your
fighting yourself, if it must come to a fight.”
“So I will,” cried Lord
Rufton. “Here and now.”
“When I&csq;ve
killed this swaggering Frenchman,” said Lord Dacre. He stepped to a side table
and opened a brass-bound case. “By Gad,” said he, “either that man or I go out
of this room feet foremost. I meant well by you, Ned; I did, by George, but
I&csq;ll shoot this led- captain of yours as sure as my name&csq;s
George Dacre. Take your choice of pistols, sir, and shoot across this table.
The barkers are loaded. Aim straight and kill me if you can, for by the Lord if
you don&csq;t, you&csq;re done.”
In vain Lord Rufton
tried to take the quarrel upon himself. Two things were clear in my mind--one
that the Lady Jane had feared above all things that her husband and brother
should fight, the other that if I could but kill this big milord, then the whole
question would be settled forever in the best way. Lord Rufton did not want
him. Lady Jane did not want him. Therefore, I, Etienne Gerard, their friend,
would pay the debt of gratitude which I owed them by freeing them of this
encumbrance. But, indeed, there was no choice in the matter, for Lord Dacre was
as eager to put a bullet into me as I could be to do the same service to him.
In vain Lord Rufton argued and scolded. The affair must continue.
“Well, if you must
fight my guest instead of myself, let it be to-morrow morning with two
witnesses,” he cried, at last; “this is sheer murder across the table.”
“But it suits my
humour, Ned,” said Lord Dacre.
“And mine, sir,” said
I.
“Then I&csq;ll have
nothing to do with it,” cried Lord Rufton. “I tell you, George, if you shoot
Colonel Gerard under these circumstances you&csq;ll find yourself in the
dock instead of on the bench. I won&csq;t act as second, and that&csq;s
flat.”
“Sir,” said I, “I am
perfectly prepared to proceed without a second.”
“That won&csq;t do.
It&csq;s against the law,” cried Lord Dacre. “Come, Ned, don&csq;t be a
fool. You see we mean to fight. Hang it, man, all I want you to do is to drop a
handkerchief.”
“I&csq;ll take no
part in it.”
“Then I must find
someone who will,” said Lord Dacre. He threw a cloth over the pistols which lay
upon the table, and he rang the bell. A footman entered. “Ask Colonel Berkeley
if he will step this way. You will find him in the billiard-room.”
A moment later there
entered a tall thin Englishman with a great moustache, which was a rare thing
amid that clean-shaven race. I have heard since that they were worn only by the
Guards and the Hussars. This Colonel Berkeley was a guardsman. He seemed a
strange, tired, languid, drawling creature with a long black cigar thrusting
out, like a pole from a bush, amidst that immense moustache. He looked from one
to the other of us with true English phlegm, and he betrayed not the slightest
surprise when he was told our intention.
“Quite so,” said he; “quite
so.”
“I refuse to act,
Colonel Berkeley,” cried Lord Rufton. “Remember, this duel cannot proceed
without you, and I hold you personally responsible for anything that happens.”
This Colonel Berkeley
appeared to be an authority upon the question, for he removed the cigar from
his mouth and he laid down the law in his strange, drawling voice.
“The circumstances are
unusual but not irregular, Lord Rufton,” said he. “This gentleman has given a
blow and this other gentleman has received it. That is a clear issue. Time and
conditions depend upon the person who demands satisfaction. Very good. He
claims it here and now, across the table. He is acting within his rights. I am
prepared to accept the responsibility.”
There was nothing more
to be said. Lord Rufton sat moodily in the corner with his brows drawn down and
his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his riding-breeches. Colonel Berkeley
examined the two pistols and laid them both in the centre of the table. Lord
Dacre was at one end and I at the other, with eight feet of shining mahogany
between us. On the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, stood the tall
colonel, his handkerchief in his left hand, his cigar between two fingers of
his right.
“When I drop the
handkerchief,” said he, “you will pick up your pistols and you will fire at
your own convenience. Are you ready?”
“Yes,” we cried.
His hand opened and the
handkerchief fell. I bent swiftly forward and seized a pistol, but the table,
as I have said, was eight feet across, and it was easier for this long-armed
milord to reach the pistols than it was for me. I had not yet drawn myself
straight before he fired, and to this it was that I owe my life. His bullet
would have blown out my brains had I been erect. As it was it whistled through
my curls. At the same instant, just as I threw up my own pistol to fire, the
door flew open and a pair of arms were thrown round me. It was the beautiful,
flushed, frantic face of Lady Jane which looked up into mine.
“You
sha&csq;n&csq;t fire! Colonel Gerard, for my sake don&csq;t fire,”
she cried. “It is a mistake, I tell you, a mistake, a mistake! He is the best
and dearest of husbands. Never again shall I leave his side.” Her hands slid
down my arm and closed upon my pistol.
“Jane, Jane,” cried
Lord Rufton; “come with me. You should not be here. Come away.”
“It is all confoundedly
irregular,” said Colonel Berkeley.
“Colonel Gerard, you
won&csq;t fire, will you? My heart would break if he were hurt.”
“Hang it all, Jinny,
give the fellow fair play,” cried Lord Dacre. “He stood my fire like a man, and
I won&csq;t see him interfered with. Whatever happens I can&csq;t get
worse than I deserve.”
But already there had
passed between me and the lady a quick glance of the eyes which told her
everything. Her hands slipped from my arm. “I leave my husband&csq;s life
and my own happiness to Colonel Gerard,” said she.
How well she knew me,
this admirable woman! I stood for an instant irresolute, with the pistol cocked
in my hand. My antagonist faced me bravely, with no blenching of his sunburnt
face and no flinching of his bold, blue eyes.
“Come, come, sir, take
your shot!” cried the colonel from the mat.
“Let us have it, then,”
said Lord Dacre.
I would, at least, show
them how completely his life was at the mercy of my skill. So much I owed to my
own self-respect. I glanced round for a mark. The colonel was looking toward my
antagonist, expecting to see him drop. His face was sideways to me, his long
cigar projecting from his lips with an inch of ash at the end of it. Quick as a
flash I raised my pistol and fired.
“Permit me to trim your
ash, sir,” said I, and I bowed with a grace which is unknown among these
islanders.
I am convinced that the
fault lay with the pistol and not with my aim. I could hardly believe my own
eyes when I saw that I had snapped off the cigar within half an inch of his
lips. He stood staring at me with the ragged stub of the cigar-end sticking out
from his singed mustache. I can see him now with his foolish, angry eyes and his
long, thin, puzzled face. Then he began to talk. I have always said that the
English are not really a phlegmatic or a taciturn nation if you stir them out
of their groove. No one could have talked in a more animated way than this
colonel. Lady Jane put her hands over her ears.
“Come, come, Colonel
Berkeley,” said Lord Dacre, sternly, “you forget yourself. There is a lady in
the room.”
The colonel gave a
stiff bow.
“If Lady Dacre will
kindly leave the room,” said he,
“I will be able to tell
this infernal little Frenchman what I think of him and his monkey tricks.”
I was splendid at that
moment, for I ignored the words that he had said and remembered only the
extreme provocation.
“Sir,” said I, “I
freely offer you my apologies for this unhappy incident. I felt that if I did
not discharge my Illustration missing from UVA Library text, with the title, “Quick
as a flash I raised my pistol and fired.” pistol Lord Dacre&csq;s honour
might feel hurt, and yet it was quite impossible for me, after hearing what
this lady has said, to aim it at her husband. I looked round for a mark,
therefore, and I had the extreme misfortune to blow your cigar out of your
mouth when my intention had merely been to snuff the ash. I was betrayed by my
pistol. This is my explanation, sir, and if after listening to my apologies you
still feel that I owe you satisfaction, I need not say that it is a request
which I am unable to refuse.”
It was certainly a
charming attitude which I had assumed, and it won the hearts of all of them.
Lord Dacre stepped forward and wrung me by the hand. “By George, sir,” said he,
“I never thought to feel toward a Frenchman as I do to you. You&csq;re a
man and a gentleman, and I can&csq;t say more.” Lord Rufton said nothing,
but his hand-grip told me all that he thought. Even Colonel Berkeley paid me a
compliment, and declared that he would think no more about the unfortunate
cigar. And she--ah, if you could have seen the look she gave me, the flushed
cheek, the moist eye, the tremulous lip! When I think of my beautiful Lady Jane
it is at that moment that I recall her. They would have had me stay to dinner,
but you will understand, my friends, that this was no time for either Lord
Rufton or myself to remain at Gravel Hanger. This reconciled couple desired
only to be alone. In the chaise he had persuaded her of his sincere repentance,
and once again they were a loving husband and wife. If they were to remain so
it was best perhaps that I should go. Why should I unsettle this domestic
peace? Even against my own will my mere presence and appearance might have
their effect upon the lady. No, no, I must tear myself away--even her
persuasions were unable to make me stop. Years afterward I heard that the
household of the Dacres was among the happiest in the whole country, and that
no cloud had ever come again to darken their lives. Yet I dare say if he could
have seen into his wife&csq;s mind--but there, I say no more! A
lady&csq;s secret is her own, and I fear that she and it are buried long
years ago in some Devonshire churchyard. Perhaps all that gay circle are gone
and the Lady Jane only lives now in the memory of an old half-pay French
brigadier. He at least can never forget.
I would have a stronger
wine to-night, my friends, a wine of Burgundy rather than of Bordeaux. It is
that my heart, my old soldier heart, is heavy within me. It is a strange thing,
this age which creeps upon one. One does not know, one does not understand; the
spirit is ever the same, and one does not remember how the poor body crumbles.
But there comes a moment when it is brought home, when quick as the sparkle of
a whirling sabre it is clear to us, and we see the men we were and the men we
are. Yes, yes, it was so to-day, and I would have a wine of Burgundy to-night.
White Burgundy--Montrachet --Sir, I am your debtor!
It was this morning in
the Champ de Mars. Your pardon, friends, while an old man tells his trouble.
You saw the review. Was it not splendid? I was in the enclosure for veteran
officers who have been decorated. This ribbon on my breast was my passport. The
cross itself I keep at home in a leathern pouch. They did us honour, for we
were placed at the saluting point, with the Emperor and the carriages of the
Court upon our right.
It is years since I
have been to a review, for I cannot approve of many things which I have seen. I
do not approve of the red breeches of the infantry. It was in white breeches
that the infantry used to fight. Red is for the cavalry. A little more, and
they would ask our busbies and our spurs! Had I been seen at a review they
might well have said that I, Etienne Gerard, had condoned it. So I have stayed
at home. But this war of the Crimea is different. The men go to battle. It is
not for me to be absent when brave men gather.
My faith, they march
well, those little infantrymen! They are not large, but they are very solid and
they carry themselves well. I took off my hat to them as they passed. Then
there came the guns. They were good guns, well horsed and well manned. I took
off my hat to them. Then came the Engineers, and to them also I took off my
hat. There are no braver men than the Engineers. Then came the cavalry,
Lancers, Cuirassiers, Chasseurs, and Spahis. To all of them in turn I was able
to take off my hat, save only to the Spa his. The Emperor had no Spahis. But
when all of the others had passed, what think you came at the close? A brigade
of Hussars, and at the charge! Oh, my friends, the pride and the glory and the
beauty, the flash and the sparkle, the roar of the hoofs and the jingle of
chains, the tossing manes, the noble heads, the rolling cloud, and the dancing
waves of steel! My heart drummed to them as they passed. And the last of all,
was it not my own old regiment? My eyes fell upon the grey and silver dolmans,
with the leopard-skin shabraques, and at that instant the years fell away from
me and I saw my own beautiful men and horses, even as they had swept behind
their young colonel, in the pride of our youth and our strength, just forty years
ago. Up flew my cane. “Chargez! En avant! Vive l&csq;Empereur!” It was the
past calling to the present. But oh, what a thin, piping voice! Was this the
voice that had once thundered from wing to wing of a strong brigade? And the
arm that could scarce wave a cane, were these the muscles of fire and steel
which had no match in all Napoleon&csq;s mighty host? They smiled at me.
They cheered me. The Emperor laughed and bowed. But to me the present was a dim
dream, and what was real were my eight hundred dead Hussars and the Etienne of
long ago. Enough--a brave man can face age and fate as he faced Cossacks and
Uhlans. But there are times when Montrachet is better than the wine of
Bordeaux.
It is to Russia that
they go, and so I will tell you a story of Russia. Ah, what an evil dream of
the night it seems! Blood and ice. Ice and blood. Fierce faces with snow upon
the whiskers. Blue hands held out for succour. And across the great white plain
the one long black line of moving figures, trudging, trudging, a hundred miles,
another hundred, and still always the same white plain. Sometimes there were
fir-woods to limit it, sometimes it stretched away to the cold blue sky, but
the black line stumbled on and on. Those weary, ragged, starving men, the
spirit frozen out of them, looked neither to right nor left, but with sunken
faces and rounded backs trailed onward and ever onward, making for France as
wounded beasts make for their lair. There was no speaking, and you could scarce
hear the shuffle of feet in the snow. Once only I heard them laugh. It was
outside Wilna, when an aide-de-camp rode up to the head of that dreadful column
and asked if that were the Grand Army. All who were within hearing looked
round, and when they saw those broken men, those ruined regiments, those
fur-capped skeletons who were once the Guard, they laughed, and the laugh
crackled down the column like a feu de joie. I have heard many a groan and cry
and scream in my life, but nothing so terrible as the laugh of the Grand Army.
But why was it that
these helpless men were not destroyed by the Russians? Why was it that they
were not speared by the Cossacks or herded into droves, and driven as prisoners
into the heart of Russia? On every side as you watched the black snake winding
over the snow you saw also dark, moving shadows which came and went like cloud
drifts on either flank and behind. They were the Cossacks, who hung round us
like wolves round the flock. But the reason why they did not ride in upon us
was that all the ice of Russia could not cool the hot hearts of some of our
soldiers. To the end there were always those who were ready to throw themselves
between these savages and their prey. One man above all rose greater as the
danger thickened, and won a higher name amid disaster than he had done when he
led our van to victory. To him I drink this glass--to Ney, the red-maned Lion,
glaring back over his shoulder at the enemy who feared to tread too closely on
his heels. I can see him now, his broad white face convulsed with fury, his
light blue eyes sparkling like flints, his great voice roaring and crashing
amid the roll of the musketry. His glazed and featherless cocked hat was the
ensign upon which France rallied during those dreadful days.
It is well known that
neither I nor the regiment of Hussars of Conflans were at Moscow. We were left
behind on the lines of communication at Borodino. How the Emperor could have
advanced without us is incomprehensible to me, and, indeed, it was only then
that I understood that his judgment was weakening and that he was no longer the
man that he had been. However, a soldier has to obey orders, and so I remained
at this village, which was poisoned by the bodies of thirty thousand men who
had lost their lives in the great battle. I spent the late autumn in getting my
horses into condition and reclothing my men, so that when the army fell back on
Borodino my Hussars were the best of the cavalry, and were placed under Ney in
the rear-guard. What could he have done without us during those dreadful days? “Ah,
Gerard,” said he one evening-- but it is not for me to repeat the words.
Suffice it that he spoke what the whole army felt. The rear-guard covered the
army and the Hussars of Conflans covered the rear-guard. There was the whole
truth in a sentence. Always the Cossacks were on us. Always we held them off.
Never a day passed that we had not to wipe our sabres. That was soldiering
indeed.
But there came a time
between Wilna and Smolensk when the situation became impossible. Cossacks and
even cold we could fight, but we could not fight hunger as well. Food must be
got at all costs. That night Ney sent for me to the waggon in which he slept.
His great head was sunk on his hands. Mind and body he was wearied to death.
“Colonel Gerard,” said
he, “things are going very badly with us. The men are starving. We must have
food at all costs.”
“The horses,” I
suggested.
“Save your handful of
cavalry; there are none left.”
“The band,” said I.
He laughed, even in his
despair.
“Why the band?” he
asked.
“Fighting men are of
value.”
“Good,” said he. “You
would play the game down to the last card and so would I. Good, Gerard, good!”
He clasped my hand in his. “But there is one chance for us yet, Gerard.” He
unhooked a lantern from the roof of the waggon and he laid it on a map which
was stretched before him. “To the south of us,” said he, “there lies the town
of Minsk. I have word from a Rus- sian deserter that much corn has been stored
in the town- hall. I wish you to take as many men as you think best, set forth
for Minsk, seize the corn, load any carts which you may collect in the town,
and bring them to me between here and Smolensk. If you fail it is but a
detachment cut off. If you succeed it is new life to the army.”
He had not expressed
himself well, for it was evident that if we failed it was not merely the loss
of a detachment. It is quality as well as quantity which counts. And yet how
honourable a mission and how glorious a risk! If mortal men could bring it,
then the corn should come from Minsk. I said so, and spoke a few burning words
about a brave man&csq;s duty until the Marshal was so moved that he rose
and, taking me affectionately by the shoulders, pushed me out of the waggon.
It was clear to me that
in order to succeed in my enterprise I should take a small force and depend
rather upon surprise than upon numbers. A large body could not conceal itself,
would have great difficulty in getting food, and would cause all the Russians
around us to concentrate for its certain destruction. On the other hand, if a
small body of cavalry could get past the Cossacks unseen it was probable that
they would find no troops to oppose them, for we knew that the main Russian
army was several days&csq; march behind us. This corn was meant, no doubt,
for their consumption. A squadron of Hussars and thirty Polish Lancers were all
whom I chose for the venture. That very night we rode out of the camp, and
struck south in the direction of Minsk.
Fortunately there was
but a half moon, and we were able to pass without being attacked by the enemy.
Twice we saw great fires burning amid the snow, and around them a thick bristle
of long poles. These were the lances of Cossacks, which they had stood upright
while they slept. It would have been a great joy to us to have charged in
amongst them, for we had much to revenge, and the eyes of my comrades looked
longingly from me to those red flickering patches in the darkness. My faith, I
was sorely tempted to do it, for it would have been a good lesson to teach them
that they must keep a few miles between themselves and a French army. It is the
essence of good generalship, however, to keep one thing before one at a time,
and so we rode silently on through the snow, leaving these Cossack bivouacs to
right and left. Behind us the black sky was all mottled with a line of flame
which showed where our own poor wretches were trying to keep themselves alive
for another day of misery and starvation.
All night we rode
slowly onward, keeping our horses&csq; tails to the Pole Star. There were
many tracks in the snow, and we kept to the line of these, that no one might
remark that a body of cavalry had passed that way. These are the little
precautions which mark the experienced officer. Besides, by keeping to the
tracks we were most likely to find the villages, and only in the villages could
we hope to get food. The dawn of day found us in a thick fir-wood, the trees so
loaded with snow that the light could hardly reach us. When we had found our
way out of it it was full daylight, the rim of the rising sun peeping over the
edge of the great snow-plain and turning it crimson from end to end. I halted
my Hussars and Lancers under the shadow of the wood, and I studied the country.
Close to us there was a small farm-house. Beyond, at the distance of several
miles, was a village. Far away on the sky-line rose a considerable town all
bristling with church towers. This must be Minsk. In no direction could I see
any signs of troops. It was evident that we had passed through the Cossacks and
that there was nothing between us and our goal. A joyous shout burst from my
men when I told them our position, and we advanced rapidly toward the village.
I have said, however,
that there was a small farm- house immediately in front of us. As we rode up to
it I observed that a fine grey horse with a military saddle was tethered by the
door. Instantly I galloped forward, but before I could reach it a man dashed
out of the door, flung himself on to the horse, and rode furiously away, the
crisp, dry snow flying up in a cloud behind him. The sunlight gleamed upon his
gold epaulettes, and I knew that he was a Russian officer. He would raise the
whole country-side if we did not catch him. I put spurs to Violette and flew
after him. My troopers followed; but there was no horse among them to compare
with Violette, and I knew well that if I could not catch the Russian I need
expect no help from them.
But it is a swift horse
indeed and a skilful rider who can hope to escape from Violette with Etienne
Gerard in the saddle. He rode well, this young Russian, and his mount was a
good one, but gradually we wore him down. His face glanced continually over his
shoulder--dark, handsome face, with eyes like an eagle--and I saw as I closed
with him that he was measuring the distance between us. Suddenly he half
turned; there were a flash and a crack as his pistol bullet hummed past my ear.
Before he could draw his sword I was upon him; but he still spurred his horse,
and the two galloped together over the plain, I with my leg against the Russian&csq;s
and my left hand upon his right shoulder. I saw his hand fly up to his mouth.
Instantly I dragged him across my pommel and seized him by the throat, so that
he could not swallow. His horse shot from under him, but I held him fast and
Violette came to a stand. Sergeant Oudin of the Hussars was the first to join
us. He was an old soldier, and he saw at a glance what I was after.
“Hold tight, Colonel,”
said he, “I&csq;ll do the rest.”
He slipped out his
knife, thrust the blade between the clenched teeth of the Russian, and turned
it so as to force his mouth open. There, on his tongue, was the little wad of
wet paper which he had been so anxious to swallow. Oudin picked it out and I
let go of the man&csq;s throat. From the way in which, half strangled as he
was, he glanced at the paper I was sure that it was a message of extreme
importance. His hands twitched as if he longed to snatch it from me. He
shrugged his shoulders, however, and smiled good-humouredly when I apologised
for my roughness.
“And now to business,”
said I, when he had done coughing and hawking. “What is your name?”
“Alexis Barakoff.”
“Your rank and
regiment?”
“Captain of the
Dragoons of Grodno.”
“What is this note
which you were carrying?”
“It is a line which I
had written to my sweetheart.”
“Whose name,” said I,
examining the address, “is the Hetman Platoff. Come, come, sir, this is an
important military document, which you are carrying from one general to
another. Tell me this instant what it is.”
“Read it and then you
will know.” He spoke perfect French, as do most of the educated Russians. But
he knew well that there is not one French officer in a thousand who knows a
word of Russian. The inside of the note contained one single line, which ran
like this:--
“Pustj Franzuzy pridutt
v Minsk. Min gotovy.”
I stared at it, and I
had to shake my head. Then I showed it to my Hussars, but they could make
nothing of it. The Poles were all rough fellows who could not read or write,
save only the sergeant, who came from Memel, in East Prussia, and knew no
Russian. It was maddening, for I felt that I had possession of some important
secret upon which the safety of the army might depend, and yet I could make no
sense of it. Again I entreated our prisoner to translate it, and offered him
his freedom if he would do so. He only smiled at my request. I could not but
admire him, for it was the very smile which I should have myself smiled had I
been in his position.
“At least,” said I, “tell
us the name of this village.”
“It is Dobrova.”
“And that is Minsk over
yonder, I suppose.”
“Yes, that is Minsk.”
“Then we shall go to
the village and we shall very soon find some one who will translate this
despatch.”
So we rode onward
together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on either side of our prisoner.
The village was but a little place, and I set a guard at the ends of the single
street, so that no one could escape from it. It was necessary to call a halt and
to find some food for the men and horses, since they had travelled all night
and had a long journey still before them.
There was one large
stone house in the centre of the village, and to this I rode. It was the house
of the priest --a snuffy and ill-favoured old man who had not a civil answer to
any of our questions. An uglier fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was very
different with his only daughter, who kept house for him. She was a brunette, a
rare thing in Russia, with creamy skin, raven hair, and a pair of the most
glorious dark eyes that ever kindled at the sight of a Hussar. From the first
glance I saw that she was mine. It was no time for love-making when a
soldier&csq;s duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple meal
which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady, and we were the
best of friends before an hour had passed. Sophie was her first name, her
second I never knew. I taught her to call me Etienne, and I tried to cheer her
up, for her sweet face was sad and there were tears in her beautiful dark eyes.
I pressed her to tell me what it was which was grieving her.
“How can I be
otherwise,” said she, speaking French with a most adorable lisp, “when one of
my poor countrymen is a prisoner in your hands? I saw him between two of your
Hussars as you rode into the village.”
“It is the fortune of
war,” said I. “His turn to-day; mine, perhaps, to-morrow.”
“But consider,
Monsieur--” said she.
“Etienne,” said I.
“Oh, Monsieur----”
“Etienne,” said I.
“Well, then,” she
cried, beautifully flushed and desperate, “consider, Etienne, that this young
officer will be taken back to your army and will be starved or frozen, for if,
as I hear, your own soldiers have a hard march, what will be the lot of a
prisoner?”
I shrugged my
shoulders.
“You have a kind face,
Etienne,” said she; “you would not condemn this poor man to certain death. I
entreat you to let him go.”
Her delicate hand
rested upon my sleeve, her dark eyes looked imploringly into mine.
A sudden thought passed
through my mind. I would grant her request, but I would demand a favour in
return. At my order the prisoner was brought up into the room.
“Captain Barakoff,”
said I, “this young lady has begged me to release you, and I am inclined to do
so. I would ask you to give your parole that you will remain in this dwelling
for twenty-four hours, and take no steps to inform anyone of our movements.”
“I will do so,” said
he.
“Then I trust in your
honour. One man more or less can make no difference in a struggle between great
armies, and to take you back as a prisoner would be to condemn you to death.
Depart, sir, and show your gratitude not to me, but to the first French officer
who falls into your hands.”
When he was gone I drew
my paper from my pocket.
“Now, Sophie,” said I, “I
have done what you asked me, and all that I ask in return is that you will give
me a lesson in Russian.”
“With all my heart,”
said she.
“Let us begin on this,”
said I, spreading out the paper before her. “Let us take it word for word and
see what it means.”
She looked at the
writing with some surprise. “It means,” said she, “if the French come to Minsk
all is lost.” Suddenly a look of consternation passed over her beautiful face. “Great
Heavens!” she cried, “what is it that I have done? I have betrayed my country!
Oh, Etienne, your eyes are the last for whom this message is meant. How could
you be so cunning as to make a poor, simple-minded, and unsuspecting girl
betray the cause of her country?”
I consoled my poor
Sophie as best I might, and I assured her that it was no reproach to her that
she should be outwitted by so old a campaigner and so shrewd a man as myself.
But it was no time now for talk. This message made it clear that the corn was
indeed at Minsk, and that there were no troops there to defend it. I gave a
hurried order from the window, the trumpeter blew the assembly, and in ten
minutes we had left the village behind us and were riding hard for the city,
the gilded domes and minarets of which glimmered above the snow of the horizon.
Higher they rose and higher, until at last, as the sun sank toward the west, we
were in the broad main street, and galloped up it amid the shouts of the
moujiks and the cries of frightened women until we found ourselves in front of
the great town-hall. My cavalry I drew up in the square, and I, with my two
sergeants, Oudin and Papilette, rushed into the building.
Heavens! shall I ever
forget the sight which greeted us? Right in front of us was drawn up a triple
line of Russian Grenadiers. Their muskets rose as we entered, and a crashing
volley burst into our very faces. Oudin and Papilette dropped upon the floor,
riddled with bullets. For myself, my busby was shot away and I had two holes
through my dolman. The Grenadiers ran at me with their bayonets. “Treason!” I
cried. “We are betrayed! Stand to your horses!” I rushed out of the hall, but
the whole square was swarming with troops. From every side street Dragoons and
Cossacks were riding down upon us, and such a rolling fire had burst from the
surrounding houses that half my men and horses were on the ground. “Follow me!”
I yelled, and sprang upon Violette, but a giant of a Russian Dragoon officer
threw his arms round me and we rolled on the ground together. He shortened his
sword to kill me, but, changing his mind, he seized me by the throat and banged
my head against the stones until I was unconscious. So it was that I became the
prisoner of the Russians.
When I came to myself
my only regret was that my captor had not beaten out my brains. There in the
grand square of Minsk lay half my troopers dead or wounded, with exultant
crowds of Russians gathered round them. The rest in a melancholy group were
herded into the porch of the town-hall, a sotnia of Cossacks keeping guard over
them. Alas! what could I say, what could I do? It was evident that I had led my
men into a carefully- baited trap. They had heard of our mission and they had
prepared for us. And yet there was that despatch which had caused me to neglect
all precautions and to ride straight into the town. How was I to account for
that? The tears ran down my cheeks as I surveyed the ruin of my squadron, and
as I thought of the plight of my comrades of the Grand Army who awaited the
food which I was to have brought them. Ney had trusted me and I had failed him.
How often he would strain his eyes over the snow-fields for that convoy of
grain which should never gladden his sight! My own fate was hard enough. An
exile in Siberia was the best which the future could bring me. But you will
believe me, my friends, that it was not for his own sake, but for that of his
starving comrades, that Etienne Gerard&csq;s cheeks were lined by his
tears, frozen even as they were shed.
“What&csq;s this?”
said a gruff voice at my elbow; and I turned to face the huge, black-bearded
Dragoon who had dragged me from my saddle. “Look at the Frenchman crying! I
thought that the Corsican was followed by brave men and not by children.”
“If you and I were face
to face and alone, I should let you see which is the better man,” said I.
For answer the brute
struck me across the face with his open hand. I seized him by the throat, but a
dozen of his soldiers tore me away from him, and he struck me again while they
held my hands.
“You base hound,” I
cried, “is this the way to treat an officer and a gentleman?”
“We never asked you to
come to Russia,” said he. “If you do you must take such treatment as you can
get. I would shoot you off-hand if I had my way.”
“You will answer for
this some day,” I cried, as I wiped the blood from my moustache.
“If the Hetman Platoff
is of my way of thinking you will not be alive this time to-morrow,” he
answered, with a ferocious scowl. He added some words in Russian to his troops,
and instantly they all sprang to their saddles. Poor Violette, looking as
miserable as her master, was led round and I was told to mount her. My left arm
was tied with a thong which was fastened to the stirrup- iron of a sergeant of
Dragoons. So in most sorry plight I and the remnant of my men set forth from
Minsk.
Never have I met such a
brute as this man Sergine, who commanded the escort. The Russian army contains
the best and the worst in the world, but a worse than Major Sergine of the
Dragoons of Kieff I have never seen in any force outside of the guerillas of
the Peninsula. He was a man of great stature, with a fierce, hard face and a
bristling black beard, which fell over his cuirass. I have been told since that
he was noted for his strength and his bravery, and I could answer for it that
he had the grip of a bear, for I had felt it when he tore me from my saddle. He
was a wit, too, in his way, and made continual remarks in Russian at our
expense which set all his Dragoons and Cossacks laughing. Twice he beat my
comrades with his riding-whip, and once he approached me with the lash swung
over his shoulder, but there was something in my eyes which prevented it from
falling. So in misery and humiliation, cold and starving, we rode in a
disconsolate column across the vast snow-plain. The sun had sunk, but still in
the long northern twilight we pursued our weary journey. Numbed and frozen,
with my head aching from the blows it had received, I was borne onward by
Violette, hardly conscious of where I was or whither I was going. The little
mare walked with a sunken head, only raising it to snort her contempt for the
mangy Cossack ponies who were round her.
But suddenly the escort
stopped, and I found that we had halted in the single street of a small Russian
village. There was a church on one side, and on the other was a large stone
house, the outline of which seemed to me to be familiar. I looked around me in
the twilight, and then I saw that we had been led back to Dobrova, and that
this house at the door of which we were waiting was the same house of the
priest at which we had stopped in the morning. Here it was that my charming
Sophie in her innocence had translated the unlucky message which had in some
strange way led us to our ruin. To think that only a few hours before we had left
this very spot with such high hopes and all fair prospects for our mission, and
now the remnants of us waited as beaten and humiliated men for whatever lot a
brutal enemy might ordain! But such is the fate of the soldier, my friends
--kisses to-day, blows to-morrow. Tokay in a palace, ditch-water in a hovel,
furs or rags, a full purse or an empty pocket, ever swaying from the best to
the worst, with only his courage and his honour unchanging.
The Russian horsemen
dismounted, and my poor fellows were ordered to do the same. It was already
late, and it was clearly their intention to spend the night in this village.
There were great cheering and joy amongst the peasants when they understood
that we had all been taken, and they flocked out of their houses with flaming
torches, the women carrying out tea and brandy for the Cossacks. Amongst others
the old priest came forth-- the same whom we had seen in the morning. He was
all smiles now, and he bore with him some hot punch on a salver, the reek of
which I can remember still. Behind her father was Sophie. With horror I saw her
clasp Major Sergine&csq;s hand as she congratulated him upon the victory he
had won and the prisoners he had made. The old priest, her father, looked at me
with an insolent face and made insulting remarks at my expense, pointing at me
with his lean and grimy hand. His fair daughter Sophie looked at me also, but
she said nothing, and I could read her tender pity in her dark eyes. At last
she turned to Major Sergine and said something to him in Russian, on which he
frowned and shook his head impatiently. She appeared to plead with him,
standing there in the flood of light which shone from the open door of her
father&csq;s house. My eyes were fixed upon the two faces, that of the
beautiful girl and of the dark, fierce man, for my instinct told me that it was
my own fate which was under debate. For a long time the soldier shook his head,
and then, at last softening before her pleadings, he appeared to give way. He
turned to where I stood with my guardian sergeant beside me.
“These good people
offer you the shelter of their roof for the night,” said he to me, looking me
up and down with vindictive eyes. “I find it hard to refuse them, but I tell
you straight that for my part I had rather see you on the snow. It would cool
your hot blood, you rascal of a Frenchman!”
I looked at him with
the contempt that I felt.
“You were born a savage
and you will die one,” said I.
My words stung him, for
he broke into an oath, raising his whip as if he would strike me.
“Silence, you
crop-eared dog!” he cried. “Had I my way some of the insolence would be frozen
out of you before morning.” Mastering his passion, he turned upon Sophie with
what he meant to be a gallant manner. “If you have a cellar with a good lock,”
said he, “the fellow may lie in it for the night, since you have done him the
honour to take an interest in his comfort. I must have his parole that he will
not attempt to play us any tricks, as I am answerable for him until I hand him
over to the Hetman Platoff to-morrow.”
His supercilious manner
was more than I could endure. He had evidently spoken French to the lady in
order that I might understand the humiliating way in which he referred to me.
“I will take no favour
from you,” said I. “You may do what you like, but I will never give you my
parole.”
The Russian shrugged
his great shoulders, and turned away as if the matter were ended.
“Very well, my fine
fellow, so much the worse for your fingers and toes. We shall see how you are
in the morning after a night in the snow.”
“One moment, Major
Sergine,” cried Sophie. “You must not be so hard upon this prisoner. There are
some special reasons why he has a claim upon our kindness and mercy.”
The Russian looked with
suspicion upon his face from her to me.
“What are the special
reasons? You certainly seem to take a remarkable interest in this Frenchman,”
said he.
“The chief reason is
that he has this very morning of his own accord released Captain Alexis
Barakoff, of the Dragoons of Grodno.”
“It is true,” said
Barakoff, who had come out of the house. “He captured me this morning, and he
released me upon parole rather than take me back to the French army, where I
should have been starved.”
“Since Colonel Gerard
has acted so generously you will surely, now that fortune has changed, allow us
to offer him the poor shelter of our cellar upon this bitter night,” said
Sophie. “It is a small return for his gen- erosity.”
But the Dragoon was
still in the sulks.
“Let him give me his
parole first that he will not attempt to escape,” said he. “Do you hear, sir?
Do you give me your parole?”
“I give you nothing,”
said I.
“Colonel Gerard,” cried
Sophie, turning to me with a coaxing smile, “you will give me your parole, will
you not?”
“To you, mademoiselle,
I can refuse nothing. I will give you my parole, with pleasure.”
“There, Major Sergine,”
cried Sophie, in triumph,
“that is surely
sufficient. You have heard him say that he gives me his parole. I will be
answerable for his safety .”
In an ungracious
fashion my Russian bear grunted his consent, and so I was led into the house,
followed by the scowling father and by the big, black-bearded Dragoon. In the
basement there was a large and roomy chamber, where the winter logs were
stored. Thither it was that I was led, and I was given to understand that this
was to be my lodging for the night. One side of this bleak apartment was heaped
up to the ceiling with fagots of firewood. The rest of the room was stone-
flagged and bare-walled, with a single, deep-set window upon one side, which
was safely guarded with iron bars. For light I had a large stable lantern,
which swung from a beam of the low ceiling. Major Sergine smiled as he took
this down, and swung it round so as to throw its light into every corner of
that dreary chamber.
“How do you like our
Russian hotels, monsieur?” he asked, with his hateful sneer. “They are not very
grand, but they are the best that we can give you. Perhaps the next time that
you Frenchmen take a fancy to travel you will choose some other country where
they will make you more comfortable.” He stood laughing at me, his white teeth
gleaming through his beard. Then he left me, and I heard the great key creak in
the lock.
For an hour of utter
misery, chilled in body and soul, I sat upon a pile of fagots, my face sunk
upon my hands and my mind full of the saddest thoughts. It was cold enough
within those four walls, but I thought of the sufferings of my poor troopers
outside, and I sorrowed with their sorrow. Then. I paced up and down, and I
clapped my hands together and kicked my feet against the walls to keep them
from being frozen. The lamp gave out some warmth, but still it was bitterly
cold, and I had had no food since morning. It seemed to me that everyone had
forgotten me, but at last I heard the key turn in the lock, and who should
enter but my prisoner of the morning, Captain Alexis Barakoff. A bottle of wine
projected from under his arm, and he carried a great plate of hot stew in front
of him.
“Hush!” said he; “not a
word! Keep up your heart! I cannot stop to explain, for Sergine is still with
us. Keep awake and ready!” With these hurried words he laid down the welcome
food and ran out of the room.
“Keep awake and ready!”
The words rang in my ears. I ate my food and I drank my wine, but it was
neither food nor wine which had warmed the heart within me. What could those
words of Barakoff mean? Why was I to remain awake? For what was I to be ready?
Was it possible that there was a chance yet of escape? I have never respected
the man who neglects his prayers at all other times and yet prays when he is in
peril. It is like a bad soldier who pays no respect to the colonel save when he
would demand a favour of him. And yet when I thought of the salt-mines of
Siberia on the one side and of my mother in France upon the other, I could not
help a prayer rising, not from my lips, but from my heart, that the words of
Barakoff might mean all that I hoped. But hour after hour struck upon the
village clock, and still I heard nothing save the call of the Russian sentries
in the street outside.
Then at last my heart
leaped within me, for I heard a light step in the passage. An instant later the
key turned, the door opened, and Sophie was in the room.
“Monsieur--" she
cried.
“Etienne,” said I.
“Nothing will change
you,” said she. “But is it possible that you do not hate me? Have you forgiven
me the trick which I played you?”
“What trick?” I asked.
“Good heavens! Is it
possible that even now you have not understood it? You have asked me to
translate the despatch. I have told you that it meant, &osq;If the French
come to Minsk all is lost.&csq; ”
“What did it mean,
then?”
“It means, &csq;Let
the French come to Minsk. We are awaiting them.”&csq;
I sprang back from her.
“You betrayed me!” I
cried. “You lured me into this trap. It is to you that I owe the death and
capture of my men. Fool that I was to trust a woman!”
“Do not be unjust,
Colonel Gerard. I am a Russian woman, and my first duty is to my country. Would
you not wish a French girl to have acted as I have done? Had I translated the
message correctly you would not have gone to Minsk and your squadron would have
escaped. Tell me that you forgive me!”
She looked bewitching
as she stood pleading her cause in front of me. And yet, as I thought of my
dead men, I could not take the hand which she held out to me.
“Very good,” said she,
as she dropped it by her side.
“You feel for your own
people and I feel for mine, and so we are equal. But you have said one wise and
kindly thing within these walls, Colonel Gerard. You have said, &osq;One
man more or less can make no difference in a struggle between two great
armies.&csq; Your lesson of nobility is not wasted. Behind those fagots is
an unguarded door. Here is the key to it. Go forth, Colonel Gerard, and I trust
that we may never look upon each other&csq;s faces again.”
I stood for an instant
with the key in my hand and my head in a whirl. Then I handed it back to her.
“I cannot do it,” I
said.
“Why not?”
“I have given my
parole.”
“To whom?” she asked.
“Why, to you.”
“And I release you from
it.”
My heart bounded with
joy. Of course, it was true what she said. I had refused to give my parole to
Sergine. I owed him no duty. If she relieved me from my promise my honour was
clear. I took the key from her hand.
“You will find Captain
Barakoff at the end of the village street,” said she. “We of the North never
forget either an injury or a kindness. He has your mare and your sword waiting
for you. Do not delay an instant, for in two hours it will be dawn.”
So I passed out into
the star-lit Russian night, and had that last glimpse of Sophie as she peered
after me through the open door. She looked wistfully at me as if she expected
something more than the cold thanks which I gave her, but even the humblest man
has his pride, and I will not deny that mine was hurt by the deception which
she had played upon me. I could not have brought myself to kiss her hand, far
less her lips. The door led into a narrow alley, and at the end of it stood a
muffled figure, who held Violette by the bridle.
“You told me to be kind
to the next French officer whom I found in distress,” said he. “Good luck! Bon
voyage!” he whispered, as I bounded into the saddle. “Remember,
&osq;Poltava&csq; is the watchword.”
It was well that he had
given it to me, for twice I had to pass Cossack pickets before I was clear of
the lines. I had just ridden past the last vedettes and hoped that I was a free
man again, when there was a soft thudding in the snow behind me, and a heavy
man upon a great black horse came swiftly after me. My first impulse was to put
spurs to Violette. My second, as I saw a long black beard against a steel
cuirass, was to halt and await him.
“I thought that it was
you, you dog of a Frenchman,” he cried, shaking his drawn sword at me. “So you
have broken your parole, you rascal!”
“I gave no parole.”
“You lie, you hound!”
I looked around and no
one was coming. The vedettes were motionless and distant. We were all alone,
with the moon above and the snow beneath. Fortune has ever been my friend.
“I gave you no parole.”
“You gave it to the
lady.”
“Then I will answer for
it to the lady.”
“That would suit you
better, no doubt. But, unfortunately, you will have to answer for it to me.”
“I am ready.”
“Your sword, too! There
is treason in this! Ah, I see it all! The woman has helped you. She shall see
Siberia for this night&csq;s work.”
The words were his
death-warrant. For Sophie&csq;s sake I could not let him go back alive. Our
blades crossed, and an instant later mine was through his black beard and deep
in his throat. I was on the ground almost as soon as he, but the one thrust was
enough. He died, snapping his teeth at my ankles like a savage wolf.
Two days later I had
rejoined the army at Smolensk, and was a part once more of that dreary
procession which tramped onward through the snow, leaving a long weal of blood
to show the path which it had taken.
Enough, my friends; I
would not re-awaken the memory of those days of misery and death. They still
come to haunt me in my dreams. When we halted at last in Warsaw we had left
behind us our guns, our transport, and three-fourths of our comrades. But we
did not leave behind us the honour of Etienne Gerard. They have said that I
broke my parole. Let them beware how they say it to my face, for the story is
as I tell it, and old as I am my forefinger is not too weak to press a trigger
when my honour is in question.
Of all the great
battles in which I had the honour of drawing my sword for the Emperor and for
France there was not one which was lost. At Waterloo, although, in a sense, I
was present, I was unable to fight, and the enemy was victorious. It is not for
me to say that there is a connection between these two things. You know me too
well, my friends, to imagine that I would make such a claim. But it gives
matter for thought, and some have drawn flattering conclusions from it. After
all, it was only a matter of breaking a few English squares and the day would
have been our own. If the Hussars of Conflans, with Etienne Gerard to lead
them, could not do this, then the best judges are mistaken. But let that pass.
The Fates had ordained that I should hold my hand and that the Empire should
fall. But they had also ordained that this day of gloom and sorrow should bring
such honour to me as had never come when I swept on the wings of victory from
Boulogne to Vienna. Never had I burned so brilliantly as at that supreme moment
when the darkness fell upon all around me. You are aware that I was faithful to
the Emperor in his adversity, and that I refused to sell my sword and my honour
to the Bourbons. Never again was I to feel my war horse between my knees, never
again to hear the kettledrums and silver trumpets behind me as I rode in front
of my little rascals. But it comforts my heart, my friends, and it brings the
tears to my eyes, to think how great I was upon that last day of my soldier
life, and to remember that of all the remarkable exploits which have won me the
love of so many beautiful women, and the respect of so many noble men, there
was none which, in splendour, in audacity, and in the great end which was
attained, could compare with my famous ride upon the night of June 18th, 1815.
I am aware that the story is often told at mess-tables and in barrack-rooms, so
that there are few in the army who have not heard it, but modesty has sealed my
lips, until now, my friends, in the privacy of these intimate gatherings, I am
inclined to lay the true facts before you.
In the first place,
there is one thing which I can assure you. In all his career Napoleon never had
so splendid an army as that with which he took the field for that campaign. In
1813 France was exhausted. For every veteran there were five children--Marie
Louises, as we called them; for the Empress had busied herself in raising
levies while the Emperor took the field. But it was very different in 1815. The
prisoners had all come back-- the men from the snows of Russia, the men from
the dungeons of Spain, the men from the hulks in England. These were the
dangerous men, veterans of twenty battles, longing for their old trade, and
with hearts filled with hatred and revenge. The ranks were full of soldiers who
wore two and three chevrons, every chevron meaning five years&csq; service.
And the spirit of these men was terrible. They were raging, furious, fanatical,
adoring the Emperor as a Mameluke does his prophet, ready to fall upon their
own bayonets if their blood could serve him. If you had seen these fierce old
veterans going into battle, with their flushed faces, their savage eyes, their
furious yells, you would wonder that anything could stand against them. So high
was the spirit of France at that time that every other spirit would have
quailed before it; but these people, these English, had neither spirit nor
soul, but only solid, immovable beef, against which we broke ourselves in vain.
That was it, my friends! On the one side, poetry, gallantry, self-
sacrifice-all that is beautiful and heroic. On the other side, beef. Our hopes,
our ideals, our dreams--all were shattered on that terrible beef of Old
England.
You have read how the
Emperor gathered his forces, and then how he and I, with a hundred and thirty
thousand veterans, hurried to the northern frontier and fell upon the Prussians
and the English. On the 16th of June, Ney held the English in play at
Quatre-Bras while we beat the Prussians at Ligny. It is not for me to say how
far I contributed to that victory, but it is well known that the Hussars of
Conflans covered themselves with glory. They fought well, these Prussians, and
eight thousand of them were left upon the field. The Emperor thought that he
had done with them, as he sent Marshal Grouchy with thirty-two thousand men to
follow them up and to prevent their interfering with his plans. Then with
nearly eighty thousand men, he turned upon these “Goddam” Englishmen. How much
we had to avenge upon them, we Frenchmen--the guineas of Pitt, the hulks of
Portsmouth, the invasion of Wellington, the perfidious victories of Nelson! At
last the day of punishment seemed to have arisen.
Wellington had with him
sixty-seven thousand men, but many of them were known to be Dutch and Belgian,
who had no great desire to fight against us. Of good troops he had not fifty
thousand. Finding himself in the presence of the Emperor in person with eighty
thousand men, this Englishman was so paralysed with fear that he could neither
move himself nor his army. You have seen the rabbit when the snake approaches.
So stood the English upon the ridge of Waterloo. The night before, the Emperor,
who had lost an aide-de- camp at Ligny, ordered me to join his staff, and I had
left my Hussars to the charge of Major Victor. I know not which of us was the
most grieved, they or I, that I should be called away upon the eve of battle,
but an order is an order, and a good soldier can but shrug his shoulders and
obey. With the Emperor I rode across the front of the enemy&csq;s position
on the morning of the 18th, he looking at them through his glass and planning
which was the shortest way to destroy them. Soult was at his elbow, and Ney and
Foy and others who had fought the English in Portugal and Spain. “Have a care,
Sire,” said Soult. “The English infantry is very solid.”
“You think them good
soldiers because they have beaten you,” said the Emperor, and we younger men
turned away our faces and smiled. But Ney and Foy were grave and serious. All
the time the English line, chequered with red and blue and dotted with
batteries, was drawn up silent and watchful within a long musket- shot of us.
On the other side of the shallow valley our own people, having finished their
soup, were assembling for the battle. It had rained very heavily, but at this
moment the sun shone out and beat upon the French army, turning our brigades of
cavalry into so many dazzling rivers of steel, and twinkling and sparkling on
the innumerable bayonets of the infantry. At the sight of that splendid army,
and the beauty and majesty of its appearance, I could contain myself no longer,
but, rising in my stirrups, I waved my busby and cried, “Vive
l&csq;Empereur!” a shout which growled and roared and clattered from one
end of the line to the other, while the horsemen waved their swords and the
footmen held up their shakos upon their bayonets. The English remained
petrified upon their ridge. They knew that their hour had come.
And so it would have
come if at that moment the word had been given and the whole army had been
permitted to advance. We had but to fall upon them and to sweep them from the
face of the earth. To put aside all question of courage, we were the more
numerous, the older soldiers, and the better led. But the Emperor desired to do
all things in order, and he waited until the ground should be drier and harder,
so that his artillery could manœuvre. So three hours were wasted, and it was
eleven o&csq;clock before we saw Jerome Buonaparte&csq;s columns
advance upon our left and heard the crash of the guns which told that the
battle had begun. The loss of those three hours was our destruction. The attack
upon the left was directed upon a farm-house which was held by the English
Guards, and we heard the three loud shouts of apprehension which the defenders
were compelled to utter. They were still holding out, and
D&csq;Erlon&csq;s corps was advancing upon the right to engage another
portion of the English line, when our attention was called away from the battle
beneath our noses to a distant portion of the field of action.
The Emperor had been
looking through his glass to the extreme left of the English line, and now he
turned suddenly to the Duke of Dalmatia, or Soult, as we soldiers preferred to
call him.
“What is it, Marshal?”
said he.
We all followed the
direction of his gaze, some raising our glasses, some shading our eyes. There
was a thick wood over yonder, then a long, bare slope, and another wood beyond.
Over this bare strip between the two woods there lay something dark, like the
shadow of a moving cloud.
“I think that they are
cattle, Sire,” said Soult.
At that instant there
came a quick twinkle from amid the dark shadow.
“It is Grouchy,” said
the Emperor, and he lowered his glass. “They are doubly lost, these English. I
hold them in the hollow of my hand. They cannot escape me.”
He looked round, and
his eyes fell upon me.
“Ah! here is the prince
of messengers,” said he. “Are you well mounted, Colonel Gerard?”
I was riding my little
Violette, the pride of the brigade. I said so.
“Then ride hard to
Marshal Grouchy, whose troops you see over yonder. Tell him that he is to fall
upon the left flank and rear of the English while I attack them in front.
Together we should crush them and not a man escape.”
I saluted and rode off
without a word, my heart dancing with joy that such a mission should be mine. I
looked at that long, solid line of red and blue looming through the smoke of
the guns, and I shook my fist at it as I went. “We shall crush them and not a
man escape.” They were the Emperor&csq;s words, and it was I, Etienne
Gerard, who was to turn them into deeds. I burned to reach the Marshal, and for
an instant I thought of riding through the English left wing, as being the shortest
cut. I have done bolder deeds and come out safely, but I reflected that if
things went badly with me and I was taken or shot the message would be lost and
the plans of the Emperor miscarry. I passed in front of the cavalry, therefore,
past the Chasseurs, the Lancers of the Guard, the Carabineers, the Horse
Grenadiers, and, lastly, my own little rascals, who followed me wistfully with
their eyes. Beyond the cavalry the Old Guard was standing, twelve regiments of
them, all veterans of many battles, sombre and severe, in long blue overcoats
and high bearskins from which the plumes had been removed. Each bore within the
goatskin knapsack upon his back the blue and white parade uniform which they
would use for their entry into Brussels next day. As I rode past them I
reflected that these men had never been beaten, and as I looked at their
weather-beaten faces and their stern and silent bearing, I said to myself that
they never would be beaten. Great heavens, how little could I foresee what a
few more hours would bring!
On the right of the Old
Guard were the Young Guard and the 6th Corps of Lobau, and then I passed
Jacquinot&csq;s Lancers and Marbot&csq;s Hussars, who held the extreme
flank of the line. All these troops knew nothing of the corps which was coming
toward them through the wood, and their attention was taken up in watching the
battle which raged upon their left. More than a hundred guns were thundering
from each side, and the din was so great that of all the battles which I have
fought I cannot recall more than half-a-dozen which were as noisy. I looked
back over my shoulder, and there were two brigades of Cuirassiers, English and
French, pouring down the hill together, with the sword-blades playing over them
like summer lightning. How I longed to turn Violette, and to lead my Hussars
into the thick of it! What a picture! Etienne Gerard with his back to the
battle, and a fine cavalry action raging behind him. But duty is duty, so I
rode past Marbot&csq;s vedettes and on in the direction of the wood,
passing the village of Frishermont upon my left.
In front of me lay the
great wood, called the Wood of Paris, consisting mostly of oak trees, with a
few narrow paths leading through it. I halted and listened when I reached it,
but out of its gloomy depths there came no blare of trumpet, no murmur of
wheels, no tramp of horses to mark the advance of that great column which, with
my own eyes, I had seen streaming toward it. The battle roared behind me, but
in front all was as silent as that grave in which so many brave men would
shortly sleep. The sunlight was cut off by the arches of leaves above my head,
and a heavy damp smell rose from the sodden ground. For several miles I
galloped at such a pace as few riders would care to go with roots below and branches
above. Then, at last, for the first time I caught a glimpse of
Grouchy&csq;s advance guard. Scattered parties of Hussars passed me on
either side, but some distance of, among the trees. I heard the beating of a
drum far away, and the low, dull murmur which an army makes upon the march. Any
moment I might come upon the staff and deliver my message to Grouchy in person,
for I knew well that on such a march a Marshal of France would certainly ride
with the van of his army.
Suddenly the trees
thinned in front of me, and I understood with delight that I was coming to the
end of the wood? whence I could see the army and find the Marshal. Where the
track comes out from amid the trees there is a small cabaret, where
wood-cutters and waggoners drink their wine. Outside the door of this I reined
up my horse for an instant while I took in the scene which was before me. Some
few miles away I saw a second great forest, that of St. Lambert, out of which
the Emperor had seen the troops advancing. It was easy to see, however, why
there had been so long a delay in their leaving one wood and reaching the
other, because between the two ran the deep defile of the Lasnes, which had to
be crossed. Sure enough, a long column of troops --horse, foot, and guns--was
streaming down one side of it and swarming up the other, while the advance
guard was already among the trees on either side of me. A battery of Horse
Artillery was coming along the road, and I was about to gallop up to it and ask
the officer in command if he could tell me where I should find the Marshal,
when suddenly I observed that, though the gunners were dressed in blue, they
had not the dolman trimmed with red brandenburgs as our own horse-gunners wear
it. Amazed at the sight, I was looking at these soldiers to left and right when
a hand touched my thigh, and there was the landlord, who had rushed from his
inn.
“Madman!” he cried, “why
are you here? What are you doing?”
“I am seeking Marshal
Grouchy.”
“You are in the heart
of the Prussian army. Turn and fly!”
“Impossible; this is
Grouchy&csq;s corps.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the Emperor
has said it.”
“Then the Emperor has
made a terrible mistake! I tell you that a patrol of Silesian Hussars has this
instant left me. Did you not see them in the wood?”
“I saw Hussars.”
“They are the enemy.”
“Where is Grouchy?”
“He is behind. They
have passed him.”
“Then how can I go
back? If I go forward I may see him yet. I must obey my orders and find him
where- ever{sic} he is.”
The man reflected for
an instant.
“Quick! quick!” he
cried, seizing my bridle. “Do what I say and you may yet escape. They have not
observed you yet. Come with me and I will hide you until they pass.”
Behind his house there
was a low stable, and into this he thrust Violette. Then he half led and half
dragged me into the kitchen of the inn. It was a bare, brick- floored room. A
stout, red-faced woman was cooking cutlets at the fire.
“What&csq;s the
matter now?” she asked, looking with a frown from me to the innkeeper. “Who is this
you have brought in?”
“It is a French
officer, Marie. We cannot let the Prussians take him.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Sacred name
of a dog, was I not myself a soldier of Napoleon? Did I not win a musket of
honour among the Velites of the Guard? Shall I see a comrade taken before my
eyes? Marie, we must save him.” But the lady looked at me with most unfriendly
eyes.
“Pierre Charras,” she
said, “you will not rest until you have your house burned over your head. Do
you not understand, you blockhead, that if you fought for Napoleon it was
because Napoleon ruled Belgium? He does so no longer. The Prussians are our
allies and this is our enemy. I will have no Frenchman in this house. Give him
up!”
The innkeeper scratched
his head and looked at me in despair, but it was very evident to me that it was
neither for France nor for Belgium that this woman cared, but that it was the
safety of her own house that was nearest her heart.
“Madame,” said I, with
all the dignity and assurance I could command, “the Emperor is defeating the
English, and the French army will be here before evening. If you have used me
well you will be rewarded, and if you have denounced me you will be punished
and your house will certainly be burned by the provost-martial.”
She was shaken by this,
and I hastened to complete my victory by other methods.
“Surely,” said I, “it
is impossible that anyone so beautiful can also be hard-hearted? You will not
refuse me the refuge which I need.”
She looked at my
whiskers and I saw that she was softened. I took her hand, and in two minutes
we were on such terms that her husband swore roundly that he would give me up
himself if I pressed the matter farther.
“Besides, the road is
full of Prussians,” he cried.
“Quick! quick! into the
loft!”
“Quick! quick! into the
loft!” echoed his wife, and together they hurried me toward a ladder which led
to a trap-door in the ceiling. There was loud knocking at the door, so you can
think that it was not long before my spurs went twinkling through the hole and
the board was dropped behind me. An instant later I heard the voices of the
Germans in the rooms below me.
The place in which I
found myself was a single long attic, the ceiling of which was formed by the
roof of the house. It ran over the whole of one side of the inn, and through
the cracks in the flooring I could look down either upon the kitchen, the
sitting-room, or the bar at my pleasure. There were no windows, but the place
was in the last stage of disrepair, and several missing slates upon the roof
gave me light and the means of observation. The place was heaped with
lumber-fodder at one end and a huge pile of empty bottles at the other. There
was no door or window save the hole through which I had come up.
I sat upon the heap of
hay for a few minutes to steady myself and to think out my plans. It was very
serious that the Prussians should arrive upon the field of battle earlier than
our reserves, but there appeared to be only one corps of them, and a corps more
or less makes little difference to such a man as the Emperor. He could afford
to give the English all this and beat them still. The best way in which I could
serve him, since Grouchy was behind, was to wait here until they were past, and
then to resume my journey, to see the Marshal, and to give him his orders. If
he advanced upon the rear of the English instead of following the Prussians all
would be well. The fate of France depended upon my judgment and my nerve. It
was not the first time, my friends, as you are well aware, and you know the
reasons that I had to trust that neither nerve nor judgment would ever fail me.
Certainly, the Emperor had chosen the right man for his mission. “The prince of
messengers” he had called me. I would earn my title.
It was clear that I
could do nothing until the Prussians had passed, so I spent my time in
observing them. I have no love for these people, but I am compelled to say that
they kept excellent discipline, for not a man of them entered the inn, though
their lips were caked with dust and they were ready to drop with fatigue. Those
who had knocked at the door were bearing an insensible comrade, and having left
him they returned at once to the ranks. Several others were carried in in the
same fashion and laid in the kitchen, while a young surgeon, little more than a
boy, remained behind in charge of them. Having observed them through the cracks
in the floor, I next turned my attention to the holes in the roof, from which I
had an excellent view of all that was passing outside. The Prussian corps was
still streaming past. It was easy to see that they had made a terrible march
and had little food, for the faces of the men were ghastly, and they were
plastered from head to foot with mud from their falls upon the foul and
slippery roads. Yet, spent as they were, their spirit was excellent, and they
pushed and hauled at the gun-carriages when the wheels sank up to the axles in
the mire, and the weary horses were floundering knee-deep unable to draw them
through. The officers rode up and down the column encouraging the more active
with words of praise, and the laggards with blows from the flat of their
swords. All the time from over the wood in front of them there came the
tremendous roar of the battle, as if all the rivers on earth had united in one
gigantic cataract, booming and crashing in a mighty fall. Like the spray of the
cataract was the long veil of smoke which rose high over the trees. The
officers pointed to it with their swords, and with hoarse cries from their
parched lips the mud-stained men pushed onward to the battle. For an hour I
watched them pass, and I reflected that their vanguard must have come into touch
with Marbot&csq;s vedettes and that the Emperor knew already of their
coming. “You are going very fast up the road, my friends, but you will come
down it a great deal faster,” said I to myself, and I consoled myself with the
thought.
But an adventure came
to break the monotony of this long wait. I was seated beside my loophole and
congratulating myself that the corps was nearly past, and that the road would
soon be clear for my journey, when suddenly I heard a loud altercation break
out in French in the kitchen.
“You shall not go!”
cried a woman&csq;s voice.
“I tell you that I
will!” said a man&csq;s, and there was a sound of scuffling.
In an instant I had my
eye to the crack in the floor. There was my stout lady, like a faithful
watch-dog, at the bottom of the ladder, while the young German surgeon, white
with anger, was endeavouring to come up it. Several of the German soldiers who
had recovered from their prostration were sitting about on the kitchen floor
and watching the quarrel with stolid, but attentive, faces. The landlord was
nowhere to be seen.
“There is no liquor
there,” said the woman.
“I do not want liquor;
I want hay or straw for these men to lie upon. Why should they lie on the
bricks when there is straw overhead?”
“There is no straw.”
“What is up there?”
“Empty bottles.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
For a moment it looked
as if the surgeon would abandon his intention, but one of the soldiers pointed
up to the ceiling. I gathered from what I could understand of his words that he
could see the straw sticking out between the planks. In vain the woman
protested. Two of the soldiers were able to get upon their feet and to drag her
aside, while the young surgeon ran up the ladder, pushed open the trap-door,
and climbed into the loft. As he swung the door back I slipped behind it, but
as luck would have it he shut it again behind him, and there we were left
standing face to face.
Never have I seen a
more astonished young man.
“A French officer!” he
gasped.
“Hush!” said I, “hush!
Not a word above a whisper.” I had drawn my sword.
“I am not a combatant,”
he said; “I am a doctor. Why do you threaten me with your sword? I am not
armed.”
“I do not wish to hurt
you, but I must protect myself. I am in hiding here.”
“A spy!”
“A spy does not wear
such a uniform as this, nor do you find spies on the staff of an army. I rode
by mistake into the heart of this Prussian corps, and I concealed myself here
in the hope of escaping when they are past. I will not hurt you if you do not hurt
me, but if you do not swear that you will be silent as to my presence you will
never go down alive from this attic.”
“You can put up your
sword, sir,” said the surgeon, and I saw a friendly twinkle in his eyes. “I am
a Pole by birth, and I have no ill-feeling to you or your people. I will do my
best for my patients, but I will do no more. Capturing Hussars is not one of
the duties of a surgeon. With your permission I will now descend with this
truss of hay to make a couch for these poor fellows below.”
I had intended to exact
an oath from him, but it is my experience that if a man will not speak the
truth he will not swear the truth, so I said no more. The surgeon opened the
trap-door, threw out enough hay for his purpose, and then descended the ladder,
letting down the door behind him. I watched him anxiously when he rejoined his
patients, and so did my good friend the landlady, but he said nothing and
busied himself with the needs of his soldiers.
By this time I was sure
that the last of the army corps was past, and I went to my loophole confident
that I should find the coast clear, save, perhaps, for a few stragglers, whom I
could disregard. The first corps was indeed past, and I could see the last
files of the infantry disappearing into the wood; but you can imagine my
disappointment when out of the Forest of St. Lambert I saw a second corps
emerging, as numerous as the first. There could be no doubt that the whole
Prussian army, which we thought we had destroyed at Ligny, was about to throw
itself upon our right wing while Marshal Grouchy had been coaxed away upon some
fool&csq;s errand. The roar of guns, much nearer than before, told me that
the Prussian batteries which had passed me were already in action. Imagine my
terrible position! Hour after hour was passing; the sun was sinking toward the
west. And yet this cursed inn, in which I lay hid, was like a little island
amid a rushing stream of furious Prussians. It was all important that I should
reach Marshal Grouchy, and yet I could not show my nose without being made
prisoner. You can think how I cursed and tore my hair. How little do we know
what is in store for us! Even while I raged against my ill-fortune, that same
fortune was reserving me for a far higher task than to carry a message to Grouchy--a
task which could not have been mine had I not been held tight in that little
inn on the edge of the Forest of Paris.
Two Prussian corps had
passed and a third was coming up, when I heard a great fuss and the sound of
several voices in the sitting-room. By altering my position I was able to look
down and see what was going on.
Two Prussian generals
were beneath me, their heads bent over a map which lay upon the table. Several
aides- de-camp and staff officers stood round in silence. Of the two generals,
one was a fierce old man, white-haired and wrinkled, with a ragged, grizzled
moustache and a voice like the bark of a hound. The other was younger, but
long-faced and solemn. He measured distances upon the map with the air of a
student, while his companion stamped and fumed and cursed like a corporal of
Hussars. It was strange to see the old man so fiery and the young one so
reserved. I could not understand all that they said, but I was very sure about
their general meaning.
“I tell you we must push
on and ever on!” cried the old fellow, with a furious German oath. “I promised
Wellington that I would be there with the whole army even if I had to be
strapped to my horse. Bülow&csq;s corps is in action, and Ziethen&csq;s
shall support it with every man and gun. Forward, Gneisenau, forward!”
The other shook his
head.
“You must remember,
your Excellency, that if the English are beaten they will make for the coast.
What will your position be then, with Grouchy between you and the Rhine?”
“We shall beat them,
Gneisenau; the Duke and I will grind them to powder between us. Push on, I say!
The whole war will be ended in one blow. Bring Pirsch up, and we can throw
sixty thousand men into the scale while Thielmann holds Grouchy beyond Wavre.”
Gneisenau shrugged his
shoulders, but at that instant an orderly appeared at the door.
“An aide-de-camp from
the Duke of Wellington,” said he.
“Ha, ha!” cried the old
man; “let us hear what he has to say!”
An English officer,
with mud and blood all over his scarlet jacket, staggered into the room. A
crimson- stained handkerchief was knotted round his arm, and he held the table
to keep himself from falling.
“My message is to
Marshal Blucher,” said he;
“I am Marshal Blucher.
Go on! go on!” cried the impatient old man.
“The Duke bade me to
tell you, sir, that the British Army can hold its own and that he has no fears
for the result. The French cavalry has been destroyed, two of their divisions
of infantry have ceased to exist, and only the Guard is in reserve. If you give
us a vigorous support the defeat will be changed to absolute rout and--” His
knees gave way under him and he fell in a heap upon the floor.
“Enough! enough!” cried
Blucher. “Gneisenau, send an aide-de-camp to Wellington and tell him to rely
upon me to the full. Come on, gentlemen, we have our work to do!” He bustled
eagerly out of the room with all his staff clanking behind him, while two
orderlies carried the English messenger to the care of the surgeon.
Gneisenau, the Chief of
the Staff, had lingered behind for an instant, and he laid his hand upon one of
the aides- de-camp. The fellow had attracted my attention, for I have always a
quick eye for a fine man. He was tall and slender, the very model of a
horseman; indeed, there was something in his appearance which made it not
unlike my own. His face was dark and as keen as that of a hawk, with fierce
black eyes under thick, shaggy brows, and a moustache which would have put him
in the crack squadron of my Hussars. He wore a green coat with white facings,
and a horse-hair helmet--a Dragoon, as I conjectured, and as dashing a cavalier
as one would wish to have at the end of one&csq;s sword-point.
“A word with you, Count
Stein,” said Gneisenau. “If the enemy are routed, but if the Emperor escapes,
he will rally another army, and all will have to be done again. But if we can
get the Emperor, then the war is indeed ended. It is worth a great effort and a
great risk for such an object as that.”
The young Dragoon said
nothing, but he listened attentively.
“Suppose the Duke of
Wellington&csq;s words should prove to be correct, and the French army
should be driven in utter rout from the field, the Emperor will certainly take
the road back through Genappe and Charleroi as being the shortest to the
frontier. We can imagine that his horses will be fleet, and that the fugitives
will make way for him. Our cavalry will follow the rear of the beaten army, but
the Emperor will be far away at the front of the throng.”
The young Dragoon
inclined his head.
“To you, Count Stein, I
commit the Emperor. If you take him your name will live in history. You have
the reputation of being the hardest rider in our army. Do you choose such
comrades as you may select--ten or a dozen should be enough. You are not to engage
in the battle, nor are you to follow the general pursuit, but you are to ride
clear of the crowd, reserving your energies for a nobler end. Do you understand
me?”
Again the Dragoon
inclined his head. This silence impressed me. I felt that he was indeed a
dangerous man.
“Then I leave the
details in your own hands. Strike at no one except the highest. You cannot
mistake the Imperial carriage, nor can you fail to recognise the figure of the
Emperor. Now I must follow the Marshal. Adieu! If ever I see you again I trust
that it will be to congratulate you upon a deed which will ring through Europe.”
The Dragoon saluted and
Gneisenau hurried from the room. The young officer stood in deep thought for a
few moments. Then he followed the Chief of the Staff. I looked with curiosity
from my loophole to see what his next proceeding would be. His horse, a fine,
strong chestnut with two white stockings, was fastened to the rail of the inn.
He sprang into the saddle, and, riding to intercept a column of cavalry which
was passing, he spoke to an officer at the head of the leading regiment.
Presently after some talk I saw two Hussars--it was a Hussar regiment--drop out
of the ranks and take up their position beside Count Stein. The next regiment
was also stopped, and two Lancers were added to his escort. The next furnished
him with two Dragoons and the next with two Cuirassiers. Then he drew his
little group of horsemen aside and he gathered them round him, explaining to
them what they had to do. Finally the nine soldiers rode off together and
disappeared into the Wood of Paris.
I need not tell you, my
friends, what all this portended. Indeed, he had acted exactly as I should have
done in his place. From each colonel he had demanded the two best horsemen in
the regiment, and so he had assembled a band who might expect to catch whatever
they should follow. Heaven help the Emperor if, without an escort, he should
find them on his track!
And I, dear
friends--imagine the fever, the ferment, the madness of my mind! All thought of
Grouchy had passed away. No guns were to be heard to the east. He could not be
near. If he should come up he would not now be in time to alter the event of
the day. The sun was already low in the sky and there could not be more than
two or three hours of daylight. My mission might be dismissed as useless. But here
was another mission, more pressing, more immediate, a mission which meant the
safety, and perhaps the life, of the Emperor. At all costs, through every
danger, I must get back to his side. But how was I to do it? The whole Prussian
army was now between me and the French lines. They blocked every road, but they
could not block the path of duty when Etienne Gerard sees it lie before him. I
could not wait longer. I must be gone.
There was but the one
opening to the loft, and so it was only down the ladder that I could descend. I
looked into the kitchen and I found that the young surgeon was still there. In
a chair sat the wounded English aide-de- camp, and on the straw lay two
Prussian soldiers in the last stage of exhaustion. The others had all recovered
and been sent on. These were my enemies, and I must pass through them in order
to gain my horse. From the surgeon I had nothing to fear; the Englishman was
wounded, and his sword stood with his cloak in a corner; the two Germans were
half insensible, and their muskets were not beside them. What could be simpler?
I opened the trap-door, slipped down the ladder, and appeared in the midst of
them, my sword drawn in my hand.
What a picture of
surprise! The surgeon, of course, knew all, but to the Englishman and the two
Germans it must have seemed that the god of war in person had descended from
the skies. With my appearance, with my figure, with my silver and grey uniform,
and with that gleaming sword in my hand, I must indeed have been a sight worth
seeing. The two Germans lay petrified with staring eyes. The English officer
half rose, but sat down again from weakness, his mouth open and his hand on the
back of his chair.
“What the deuce!” he
kept on repeating, “what the deuce!”
“Pray do not move,”
said I; “I will hurt no one, but woe to the man who lays hands upon me to stop
me. You have nothing to fear if you leave me alone, and nothing to hope if you
try to hinder me. I am Colonel Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans.”
“The deuce!” said the
Englishman. “You are the man that killed the fox.” A terrible scowl had
darkened his face. The jealousy of sportsmen is a base passion. He hated me,
this Englishman, because I had been before him in transfixing the animal. How
different are our natures! Had I seen him do such a deed I would have embraced
him with cries of joy. But there was no time for argument.
“I regret it, sir,”
said I; “but you have a cloak here and I must take it.”
He tried to rise from
his chair and reach his sword, but I got between him and the corner where it
lay.
“If there is anything
in the pockets----”
“A case,” said he.
“I would not rob you,”
said I; and raising the cloak I took from the pockets a silver flask, a square
wooden case and a field-glass. All these I handed to him. The wretch opened the
case, took out a pistol, and pointed it straight at my head.
“Now, my fine fellow,”
said he, “put down your sword and give yourself up.”
I was so astounded at
this infamous action that I stood petrified before him. I tried to speak to him
of honour and gratitude, but I saw his eyes fix and harden over the pistol.
“Enough talk!” said he.
“Drop it!”
Could I endure such a
humiliation? Death were better than to be disarmed in such a fashion. The word
“Fire!” was on my lips
when in an instant the English man vanished from before my face, and in his
place was a great pile of hay, with a red-coated arm and two Hessian boots
waving and kicking in the heart of it. Oh, the gallant landlady! It was my
whiskers that had saved me.
“Fly, soldier, fly!”
she cried, and she heaped fresh trusses of hay from the floor on to the
struggling Englishman. In an instant I was out in the courtyard, had led
Violette from her stable, and was on her back. A pistol bullet whizzed past my
shoulder from the window, and I saw a furious face looking out at me. I smiled
my contempt and spurred out into the road. The last of the Prussians had
passed, and both my road and my duty lay clear before me. If France won, all
well. If France lost, then on me and my little mare depended that which was
more than victory or defeat--the safety and the life of the Emperor. “On,
Etienne, on!” I cried.
“Of all your noble
exploits, the greatest, even if it be the last, lies now before you!”
I told you when last we
met, my friends, of the important mission from the Emperor to Marshal Grouchy,
which failed through no fault of my own, and I described to you how during a
long afternoon I was shut up in the attic of a country inn, and was prevented
from coming out because the Prussians were all around me. You will remember
also how I overheard the Chief of the Prussian Staff give his instructions to
Count Stein, and so learned the dangerous plan which was on foot to kill or
capture the Emperor in the event of a French defeat. At first I could not have
believed in such a thing, but since the guns had thundered all day, and since
the sound had made no advance in my direction, it was evident that the English
had at least held their own and beaten off all our attacks.
I have said that it was
a fight that day between the soul of France and the beef of England, but it
must be confessed that we found the beef was very tough. It was clear that if
the Emperor could not defeat the English when alone, then it might, indeed, go
hard with him now that sixty thousand of these cursed Prussians were swarming
on his flank. In any case, with this secret in my possession, my place was by
his side.
I had made my way out
of the inn in the dashing manner which I have described to you when last we
met, and I left the English aide-de-camp shaking his foolish fist out of the
window. I could not but laugh as I looked back at him, for his angry red face
was framed and frilled with hay. Once out on the road I stood erect in my
stirrups, and I put on the handsome black riding- coat, lined with red, which
had belonged to him. It fell to the top of my high boots, and covered my
tell-tale uniform completely. As to my busby, there are many such in the German
service, and there was no reason why it should attract attention. So long as no
one spoke to me there was no reason why I should not ride through the whole of
the Prussian army; but though I understood German, for I had many friends among
the German ladies during the pleasant years that I fought all over that
country, still I spoke it with a pretty Parisian accent which could not be
confounded with their rough, unmusical speech. I knew that this quality of my
accent would attract attention, but I could only hope and pray that I would be
permitted to go my way in silence.
The Forest of Paris was
so large that it was useless to think of going round it, and so I took my
courage in both hands and galloped on down the road in the track of the
Prussian army. It was not hard to trace it, for it was rutted two feet deep by
the gun-wheels and the caissons. Soon I found a fringe of wounded men,
Prussians and French, on each side of it, where Bülow&csq;s advance had
come into touch with Marbot&csq;s Hussars. One old man with a long white
beard, a surgeon, I suppose, shouted at me, and ran after me still shouting,
but I never turned my head and took no notice of him save to spur on faster. I
heard his shouts long after I had lost sight of him among the trees.
Presently I came up
with the Prussian reserves. The infantry were leaning on their muskets or lying
exhausted on the wet ground, and the officers stood in groups listening to the
mighty roar of the battle and discussing the reports which came from the front.
I hurried past at the top of my speed, but one of them rushed out and stood in
my path with his hand up as a signal to me to stop. Five thousand Prussian eyes
were turned upon me. There was a moment! You turn pale, my friends, at the
thought of it. Think how every hair upon me stood on end. But never for one
instant did my wits or my courage desert me. “General Blucher!” I cried. Was it
not my guardian angel who whispered the words in my ear? The Prussian sprang
from my path, saluted, and pointed forward. They are well disciplined, these
Prussians, and who was he that he should dare to stop the officer who bore a
message to the general? It was a talisman that would pass me out of every
danger, and my heart sang within me at the thought. So elated was I that I no
longer waited to be asked, but as I rode through the army I shouted to right
and left,
“General Blucher!
General Blucher!” and every man pointed me onward and cleared a path to let me
pass. There are times when the most supreme impudence is the highest wisdom. But
discretion must also be used, and I must admit that I became indiscreet. For as
I rode upon my way, ever nearer to the fighting line, a Prussian officer of
Uhlans gripped my bridle and pointed to a group of men who stood near a burning
farm. “There is Marshal Blucher. Deliver your message!” said he, and sure
enough, my terrible old grey-whiskered veteran was there within a pistol-shot,
his eyes turned in my direction.
But the good guardian
angel did not desert me. Quick as a flash there came into my memory the name of
the general who commanded the advance of the Prussians. “General Bülow!” I
cried. The Uhlan let go my bridle. “General Bülow! General Bülow!” I shouted,
as every stride of the dear little mare took me nearer my own people. Through
the burning village of Planchenoit I galloped, spurred my way between two
columns of Prussian infantry, sprang over a hedge, cut down a Silesian Hussar
who flung himself before me, and an instant afterward, with my coat flying open
to show the uniform below, I passed through the open files of the tenth of the
line, and was back in the heart of Lobau&csq;s corps once more. Outnumbered
and outflanked, they were being slowly driven in by the pressure of the
Prussian advance. I galloped onward, anxious only to find myself by the
Emperor&csq;s side.
But a sight lay before
me which held me fast as though I had been turned into some noble equestrian
statue. I could not move, I could scarce breathe, as I gazed upon it. There was
a mound over which my path lay, and as I came out on the top of it I looked down
the long, shallow valley of Waterloo. I had left it with two great armies on
either side and a clear field between them. Now there were but long, ragged
fringes of broken and exhausted regiments upon the two ridges, but a real army
of dead and wounded lay between. For two miles in length and half a mile across
the ground was strewed and heaped with them. But slaughter was no new sight to
me, and it was not that which held me spellbound. It was that up the long slope
of the British position was moving a walking forest-black, tossing, waving,
unbroken. Did I not know the bearskins of the Guard? And did I not also know,
did not my soldier&csq;s instinct tell me, that it was the last reserve of
France; that the Emperor, like a desperate gamester, was staking all upon his
last card? Up they went and up--grand, solid, unbreakable, scourged with
musketry, riddled with grape, flowing onward in a black, heavy tide, which
lapped over the British batteries. With my glass I could see the English
gunners throw themselves under their pieces or run to the rear. On rolled the
crest of the bearskins, and then, with a crash which was swept across to my
ears, they met the British infantry. A minute passed, and another, and another.
My heart was in my mouth. They swayed back and forward; they no longer
advanced; they were held. Great Heaven! was it possible that they were
breaking? One black dot ran down the hill, then two, then four, then ten, then
a great, scattered, struggling mass, halting, breaking, halting, and at last shredding
out and rushing madly downward. “The Guard is beaten! The Guard is beaten!”
From all around me I heard the cry. Along the whole line the infantry turned
their faces and the gunners flinched from their guns.
“The Old Guard is
beaten! The Guard retreats!” An officer with a livid face passed me yelling out
these words of woe. “Save yourselves! Save yourselves! You are betrayed!” cried
another. “Save yourselves! Save yourselves!” Men were rushing madly to the
rear, blundering and jumping like frightened sheep. Cries and screams rose from
all around me. And at that moment, as I looked at the British position, I saw
what I can never forget. A single horseman stood out black and clear upon the
ridge against the last red angry glow of the setting sun. So dark, so
motionless, against that grim light, he might have been the very spirit of
Battle brooding over that terrible valley. As I gazed, he raised his hat high
in the air, and at the signal, with a low, deep roar like a breaking wave, the
whole British army flooded over their ridge and came rolling down into the
valley. Long steel-fringed lines of red and blue, sweeping waves of cavalry,
horse batteries rattling and bounding--down they came on to our crumbling
ranks. It was over. A yell of agony, the agony of brave men who see no hope,
rose from one flank to the other, and in an instant the whole of that noble
army was swept in a wild, terror- stricken crowd from the field. Even now, dear
friends, I cannot, as you see, speak of that dreadful moment with a dry eye or
with a steady voice.
At first I was carried
away in that wild rush, whirled off like a straw in a flooded gutter. But,
suddenly, what should I see amongst the mixed regiments in front of me but a
group of stern horsemen, in silver and grey, with a broken and tattered
standard held aloft in the heart of them! Not all the might of England and of
Prussia could break the Hussars of Conflans. But when I joined them it made my
heart bleed to see them. The major, seven captains, and five hundred men were
left upon the field. Young Captain Sabbatier was in command, and when I asked
him where were the five missing squadrons he pointed back and answered: “You
will find them round one of those British squares.” Men and horses were at
their last gasp, caked with sweat and dirt, their black tongues hanging out
from their lips; but it made me thrill with pride to see how that shattered
remnant still rode knee to knee, with every man, from the boy trumpeter to the
farrier-sergeant, in his own proper place. Would that I could have brought them
on with me as an escort for the Emperor! In the heart of the Hussars of
Conflans he would be safe indeed. But the horses were too spent to trot. I left
them behind me with orders to rally upon the farm-house of St. Aunay, where we
had camped two nights before. For my own part, I forced my horse through the
throng in search of the Emperor.
There were things which
I saw then, as I pressed through that dreadful crowd, which can never be
banished from my mind. In evil dreams there comes back to me the memory of that
flowing stream of livid, staring, screaming faces upon which I looked down. It
was a nightmare. In victory one does not understand the horror of war. It is
only in the cold chill of defeat that it is brought home to you. I remember an
old Grenadier of the Guard lying at the side of the road with his broken leg
doubled at a right angle. “Comrades, comrades, keep off my leg!” he cried, but
they tripped and stumbled over him all the same. In front of me rode a Lancer officer
without his coat. His arm had just been taken off in the ambulance. The
bandages had fallen. It was horrible. Two gunners tried to drive through with
their gun. A Chasseur raised his musket and shot one of them through the head.
I saw a major of Cuirassiers draw his two holster pistols and shoot first his
horse and then himself. Beside the road a man in a blue coat was raging and
raving like a madman. His face was black with powder, his clothes were torn,
one epaulette was gone, the other hung dangling over his breast. Only when I
came close to him did I recognise that it was Marshal Ney. He howled at the
flying troops and his voice was hardly human. Then he raised the stump of his
sword-- it was broken three inches from the hilt. “Come and see how a Marshal
of France can die!” he cried. Gladly would I have gone with him, but my duty
lay elsewhere. He did not, as you know, find the death he sought, but he met it
a few weeks later in cold blood at the hands of his enemies.
There is an old proverb
that in attack the French are more than men, in defeat they are less than
women. I knew that it was true that day. But even in that rout I saw things
which I can tell with pride. Through the fields which skirt the road moved
Cambronne&csq;s three reserve battalions of the Guard, the cream of our
army. They walked slowly in square, their colours waving over the sombre line
of the bearskins. All round them raged the English cavalry and the black
Lancers of Brunswick, wave after wave thundering up, breaking with a crash, and
recoiling in ruin. When last I saw them, the English guns, six at a time, were
smashing grape-shot through their ranks and the English infantry were closing
in upon three sides and pouring volleys into them; but still, like a noble lion
with fierce hounds clinging to its flanks, the glorious remnant of the Guard,
marching slowly, halting, closing up, dressing, moved majestically from their
last battle. Behind them the Guard&csq;s battery of twelve- pounders was
drawn up upon the ridge. Every gunner was in his place, but no gun fired. “Why
do you not fire?” I asked the colonel as I passed. “Our powder is finished.”
"Then why not retire?” “Our appearance may hold them back for a little. We
must give the Emperor time to escape.” Such were the soldiers of France.
Behind this screen of
brave men the others took their breath, and then went on in less desperate
fashion. They had broken away from the road, and all over the countryside in
the twilight I could see the timid, scattered, frightened crowd who ten hours
before had formed the finest army that ever went down to battle. I with my
splendid mare was soon able to get clear of the throng, and just after I passed
Genappe I overtook the Emperor with the remains of his Staff. Soult was with
him still, and so were Drouot, Lobau, and Bertrand, with five Chasseurs of the
Guard, their horses hardly able to move. The night was falling, and the
Emperor&csq;s haggard face gleamed white through the gloom as he turned it
toward me.
“Who is that?” he
asked.
“It is Colonel Gerard,”
said Soult.
“Have you seen Marshal
Grouchy?”
“No, Sire. The
Prussians were between.”
“It does not matter.
Nothing matters now. Soult, I will go back.”
He tried to turn his
horse, but Bertrand seized his bridle. “Ah, Sire,” said Soult, “the enemy has
had good fortune enough already.” They forced him on among them. He rode in
silence with his chin upon his breast, the greatest and the saddest of men. Far
away behind us those remorseless guns were still roaring. Sometimes out of the
darkness would come shrieks and screams and the low thunder of galloping hoofs.
At the sound we would spur our horses and hasten onward through the scattered
troops. At last, after riding all night in the clear moonlight, we found that
we had left both pursued and pursuers behind. By the time we passed over the
bridge at Charleroi the dawn was breaking. What a company of spectres we looked
in that cold, clear, searching light, the Emperor with his face of wax, Soult
blotched with powder, Lobau dabbled with blood! But we rode more easily now,
and had ceased to glance over our shoulders, for Waterloo was more than thirty
miles behind us. One of the Emperor&csq;s carriages had been picked up at
Charleroi, and we halted now on the other side of the Sambre, and dismounted
from our horses.
You will ask me why it
was that during all this time I had said nothing of that which was nearest my
heart, the need for guarding the Emperor. As a fact, I had tried to speak of it
both to Soult and to Lobau, but their minds were so overwhelmed with the
disaster and so distracted by the pressing needs of the moment that it was
impossible to make them understand how urgent was my message. Besides, during
this long flight we had always had numbers of French fugitives beside us on the
road, and, however demoralised they might be, we had nothing to fear from the
attack of nine men. But now, as we stood round the Emperor&csq;s carriage
in the early morning, I observed with anxiety that not a single French soldier
was to be seen upon the long, white road behind us. We had outstripped the
army. I looked round to see what means of defence were left to us. The horses
of the Chasseurs of the Guard had broken down, and only one of them, a
grey-whiskered sergeant, remained. There were Soult, Lobau, and Bertrand; but,
for all their talents, I had rather, when it came to hard knocks, have a single
quartermaster-sergeant of Hussars at my side than the three of them put
together. There remained the Emperor himself, the coachman, and a valet of the
household who had joined us at Charleroi--eight all told; but of the eight only
two, the Chasseur and I, were fighting soldiers who could be depended upon at a
pinch. A chill came over me as I reflected how utterly helpless we were. At
that moment I raised my eyes, and there were the nine Prussian horsemen coming
over the hill.
On either side of the
road at this point are long stretches of rolling plain, part of it yellow with
corn and part of it rich grass land watered by the Sambre. To the south of us
was a low ridge, over which was the road to France. Along this road the little
group of cavalry was riding. So well had Count Stein obeyed his instructions
that he had struck far to the south of us in his determination to get ahead of
the Emperor. Now he was riding from the direction in which we were going-- the
last in which we could expect an enemy. When I caught that first glimpse of
them they were still half a mile away.
“Sire!” I cried, “the
Prussians!”
They all started and
stared. It was the Emperor who broke the silence.
“Who says they are
Prussians?”
“I do, Sire--I, Etienne
Gerard!”
Unpleasant news always
made the Emperor furious against the man who broke it. He railed at me now in
the rasping, croaking, Corsican voice which only made itself heard when he had
lost his self-control.
“You were always a
buffoon,” he cried. “What do you mean, you numskull, by saying that they are
Prussians? How could Prussians be coming from the direction of France? You have
lost any wits that you ever possessed.”
His words cut me like a
whip, and yet we all felt toward the Emperor as an old dog does to its master.
His kick is soon forgotten and forgiven. I would not argue or justify myself.
At the first glance I had seen the two white stockings on the forelegs of the
leading horse, and I knew well that Count Stein was on its back. For an instant
the nine horsemen had halted and surveyed us. Now they put spurs to their
horses, and with a yell of triumph they galloped down the road. They had
recognised that their prey was in their power.
At that swift advance
all doubt had vanished. “By heavens, Sire, it is indeed the Prussians!” cried
Soult. Lobau and Bertrand ran about the road like two frightened hens. The
sergeant of Chasseurs drew his sabre with a volley of curses. The coachman and
the valet cried and wrung their hands. Napoleon stood with a frozen face, one
foot on the step of the carriage. And I--ah, my friends, I was magnificent!
What words can I use to do justice to my own bearing at that supreme instant of
my life? So coldly alert, so deadly cool, so clear in brain and ready in hand.
He had called me a numskull and a buffoon. How quick and how noble was my
revenge! When his own wits failed him, it was Etienne Gerard who supplied the
want.
To fight was absurd; to
fly was ridiculous. The Emperor was stout, and weary to death. At the best he
was never a good rider. How could he fly from these, the picked men of an army?
The best horseman in Prussia was among them. But I was the best horseman in
France. I, and only I, could hold my own with them. If they were on my track
instead of the Emperor&csq;s, all might still be well. These were the
thoughts which flashed so swiftly through my mind that in an instant I had
sprung from the first idea to the final conclusion. Another instant carried me
from the final conclusion to prompt and vigorous action. I rushed to the side
of the Emperor, who stood petrified, with the carriage between him and our
enemies. “Your coat, Sire! your hat!” I cried. I dragged them of him. Never had
he been so hustled in his life. In an instant I had them on and had thrust him
into the carriage. The next I had sprung on to his famous white Arab and had
ridden clear of the group upon the road.
You have already
divined my plan; but you may well ask how could I hope to pass myself off as
the Emperor. My figure is as you still see it, and his was never beautiful, for
he was both short and stout. But a man&csq;s height is not remarked when he
is in the saddle, and for the rest one had but to sit forward on the horse and
round one&csq;s back and carry oneself like a sack of flour. I wore the
little cocked hat and the loose grey coat with the silver star which was known
to every child from one end of Europe to the other. Beneath me was the Emperor&csq;s
own famous white charger. It was complete.
Already as I rode clear
the Prussians were within two hundred yards of us. I made a gesture of terror
and despair with my hands, and I sprang my horse over the bank which lined the
road. It was enough. A yell of exultation and of furious hatred broke from the
Prussians. It was the howl of starving wolves who scent their prey. I spurred
my horse over the meadow-land and looked back under my arm as I rode. Oh, the
glorious moment when one after the other I saw eight horsemen come over the
bank at my heels! Only one had stayed behind, and I heard shouting and the
sounds of a struggle. I remembered my old sergeant of Chasseurs, and I was sure
that number nine would trouble us no more. The road was clear and the Emperor
free to continue his journey.
But now I had to think
of myself. If I were overtaken the Prussians would certainly make short work of
me in their disappointment. If it were so--if I lost my life--I should still
have sold it at a glorious price. But I had hopes that I might shake them off.
With ordinary horsemen upon ordinary horses I should have had no difficulty in
doing so, but here both steeds and riders were of the best. It was a grand
creature that I rode, but it was weary with its long night&csq;s work, and
the Emperor was one of those riders who do not know how to manage a horse. He
had little thought far them and a heavy hand upon their mouths. On the other
hand, Stein and his men had come both far and fast. The race was a fair one.
So quick had been my
impulse, and so rapidly had I acted upon it, that I had not thought enough of
my own safety. Had I done so in the first instance I should, of course, have
ridden straight back the way we had come, for so I should have met our own people.
But I was off the road and had galloped a mile over the plain before this
occurred to me. Then when I looked back I saw that the Prussians had spread out
into a long line, so as to head me off from the Charleroi road. I could not
turn back, but at least I could edge toward the north. I knew that the whole
face of the country was covered with our flying troops, and that sooner or
later I must come upon some of them.
But one thing I had
forgotten--the Sambre. In my excitement I never gave it a thought until I saw
it, deep and broad, gleaming in the morning sunlight. It barred my path, and
the Prussians howled behind me. I galloped to the brink, but the horse refused
the plunge. I spurred him, but the bank was high and the stream deep. He shrank
back trembling and snorting. The yells of triumph were louder every instant. I
turned and rode for my life down the river bank. It formed a loop at this part,
and I must get across somehow, for my retreat was blocked. Suddenly a thrill of
hope ran through me, for I saw a house on my side of the stream and another on
the farther bank. Where there are two such houses it usually means that there
is a ford between them. A sloping path led to the brink and I urged my horse
down it. On he went, the water up to the saddle, the foam flying right and
left. He blundered once and I thought we were lost, but he recovered and an
instant later was clattering up the farther slope. As we came out I heard the
splash behind me as the first Prussian took the water. There was just the breadth
of the Sambre between us.
I rode with my head
sunk between my shoulders in Napoleon&csq;s fashion, and I did not dare to
look back for fear they should see my moustache. I had turned up the collar of
the grey coat so as partly to hide it. Even now if they found out their mistake
they might turn and overtake the carriage. But when once we were on the road I
could tell by the drumming of their hoofs how far distant they were, and it
seemed to me that the sound grew perceptibly louder, as if they were slowly
gaining upon me. We were riding now up the stony and rutted lane which led from
the ford. I peeped back very cautiously from under my arm and I perceived that
my danger came from a single rider, who was far ahead of his comrades. He was a
Hussar, a very tiny fellow, upon a big black horse, and it was his light weight
which had brought him into the foremost place. It is a place of honour; but it
is also a place of danger, as he was soon to learn. I felt the holsters, but,
to my horror, there were no pistols. There was a field-glass in one and the
other was stuffed with papers. My sword had been left behind with Violette. Had
I only my own weapons and my own little mare I could have played with these
rascals. But I was not entirely unarmed. The Emperor&csq;s own sword hung
to the saddle. It was curved and short, the hilt all crusted with gold--a thing
more fitted to glitter at a review than to serve a soldier in his deadly need.
I drew it, such as it was, and I waited my chance. Every instant the clink and
clatter of the hoofs grew nearer. I heard the panting of the horse, and the
fellow shouted some threat at me. There was a turn in the lane, and as I
rounded it I drew up my white Arab on his haunches. As we spun round I met the
Prussian Hussar face to face. He was going too fast to stop, and his only
chance was to ride me down. Had he done so he might have met his own death, but
he would have injured me or my horse past all hope of escape. But the fool
flinched as he saw me waiting and flew past me on my right. I lunged over my
Arab&csq;s neck and buried my toy sword in his side. It must have been the
finest steel and as sharp as a razor, for I hardly felt it enter, and yet his
blood was within three inches of the hilt. His horse galloped on and he kept his
saddle for a hundred yards before he sank down with his face on the mane and
then dived over the side of the neck on to the road. For my own part I was
already at his horse&csq;s heels. A few seconds had sufficed for all that I
have told.
I heard the cry of rage
and vengeance which rose from the Prussians as they passed their dead comrade,
and I could not but smile as I wondered what they could think of the Emperor as
a horseman and a swordsman. I glanced back cautiously as before, and I saw that
none of the seven men stopped. The fate of their comrade was nothing compared
to the carrying out of their mission. They were as untiring and as remorseless
as bloodhounds. But I had a good lead and the brave Arab was still going well.
I thought that I was safe. And yet it was at that very instant that the most
terrible danger befell me. The lane divided, and I took the smaller of the two
divisions because it was the more grassy and the easier for the horse&csq;s
hoofs. Imagine my horror when, riding through a gate, I found myself in a
square of stables and farm-buildings, with no way out save that by which I had
come! Ah, my friends, if my hair is snowy white, have I not had enough to make
it so?
To retreat was
impossible. I could hear the thunder of the Prussians&csq; hoofs in the
lane. I looked round me, and Nature has blessed me with that quick eye which is
the first of gifts to any soldier, but most of all to a leader of cavalry.
Between a long, low line of stables and the farm-house there was a pig-sty. Its
front was made of bars of wood four feet high; the back was of stone, higher
than the front. What was beyond I could not tell. The space between the front
and the back was not more than a few yards. It was a desperate venture, and yet
I must take it. Every instant the beating of those hurrying hoofs was louder
and louder. I put my Arab at the pig-sty. She cleared the front beautifully and
came down with her forefeet upon the sleeping pig within, slipping forward upon
her knees. I was thrown over the wall beyond, and fell upon my hands and face
in a soft flower-bed. My horse was upon one side of the wall, I upon the other,
and the Prussians were pouring into the yard. But I was up in an instant and
had seized the bridle of the plunging horse over the top of the wall. It was
built of loose stones, and I dragged down a few of them to make a gap. As I
tugged at the bridle and shouted the gallant creature rose to the leap, and an
instant afterward she was by my side and I with my foot on the stirrup.
An heroic idea had
entered my mind as I mounted into the saddle. These Prussians, if they came
over the pig- sty, could only come one at once, and their attack would not be
formidable when they had not had time to recover from such a leap. Why should I
not wait and kill them one by one as they came over? It was a glorious thought.
They would learn that Etienne Gerard was not a safe man to hunt. My hand felt
for my sword, but you can imagine my feelings, my friends, when I came upon an
empty scabbard. It had been shaken out when the horse had tripped over that
infernal pig. On what absurd trifles do our destinies hang--a pig on one side,
Etienne Gerard on the other! Could I spring over the wall and get the sword?
Impossible! The Prussians were already in the yard. I turned my Arab and
resumed my flight.
But for a moment it
seemed to me that I was in a far worse trap than before. I found myself in the
garden of the farm-house, an orchard in the centre and flower- beds all round.
A high wall surrounded the whole place. I reflected, however, that there must
be some point of entrance, since every visitor could not be expected to spring
over the pig-sty. I rode round the wall. As I expected, I came upon a door with
a key upon the inner side. I dismounted, unlocked it, opened it, and there was
a Prussian Lancer sitting his horse within six feet of me.
For a moment we each
stared at the other. Then I shut the door and locked it again. A crash and a
cry came from the other end of the garden. I understood that one of my enemies
had come to grief in trying to get over the pig-sty. How could I ever get out
of this cul-de-sac? It was evident that some of the party had galloped round,
while some had followed straight upon my tracks. Had I my sword I might have
beaten off the Lancer at the door, but to come out now was to be butchered. And
yet if I waited some of them would certainly follow me on foot over the
pig-sty, and what could I do then? I must act at once or I was lost. But it is
at such moments that my wits are most active and my actions most prompt. Still
leading my horse, I ran for a hundred yards by the side of the wall away from
the spot where the Lancer was watching. There I stopped, and with an effort I
tumbled down several of the loose stones from the top of the wall. The instant
I had done so I hurried back to the door. As I had expected, he thought I was
making a gap for my escape at that point, and I heard the thud of his
horse&csq;s hoofs as he galloped to cut me off. As I reached the gate I
looked back, and I saw a green-coated horseman, whom I knew to be Count Stein,
clear the pig-sty and gallop furiously with a shout of triumph across the
garden. “Surrender, your Majesty, surrender!” he yelled; “we will give you
quarter!” I slipped through the gate, but had no time to lock it on the other
side. Stein was at my very heels, and the Lancer had already turned his horse.
Springing upon my Arab&csq;s back, I was off once more with a clear stretch
of grass land before me. Stein had to dismount to open the gate, to lead his
horse through, and to mount again before he could follow. It was he that I
feared rather than the Lancer, whose horse was coarse-bred and weary. I
galloped hard for a mile before I ventured to look back, and then Stein was a
musket-shot from me, and the Lancer as much again, while only three of the
others were in sight. My nine Prussians were coming down to more manageable
numbers, and yet one was too much for an unarmed man.
It had surprised me
that during this long chase I had seen no fugitives from the army, but I
reflected that I was considerably to the west of their line of flight, and that
I must edge more toward the east if I wished to join them. Unless I did so it
was probable that my pursuers, even if they could not overtake me themselves,
would keep me in view until I was headed off by some of their comrades coming
from the north. As I looked to the eastward I saw afar off a line of dust which
stretched for miles across the country. This was certainly the main road along
which our unhappy army was flying. But I soon had proof that some of our
stragglers had wandered into these side tracks, for I came suddenly upon a
horse grazing at the corner of a field, and beside him, with his back against
the bank, his master, a French Cuirassier, terribly wounded and evidently on
the point of death. I sprang down, seized his long, heavy sword, and rode on
with it. Never shall I forget the poor man&csq;s face as he looked at me
with his failing sight. He was an old, grey-moustached soldier, one of the real
fanatics, and to him this last vis ion of his Emperor was like a revelation
from on high. Astonishment, love, pride--all shone in his pallid face. He said
something--I fear they were his last words --but I had no time to listen, and I
galloped on my way.
All this time I had
been on the meadow-land, which was intersected in this part by broad ditches.
Some of them could not have been less than from fourteen to fifteen feet, and
my heart was in my mouth as I went at each of them, for a slip would have been
my ruin. But whoever selected the Emperor&csq;s horses had done his work
well. The creature, save when it balked on the bank of the Sambre, never failed
me for an instant. We cleared everything in one stride. And yet we could not
shake off! those infernal Prussians. As I left each water-course behind me I
looked back with renewed hope; but it was only to see Stein on his white-legged
chestnut flying over it as lightly as I had done myself. He was my enemy, but I
honoured him for the way in which he carried himself that day.
Again and again I
measured the distance which separated him from the next horseman. I had the
idea that I might turn and cut him down, as I had the Hussar, before his
comrade could come to his help. But the others had closed up and ere not far
behind. I reflected that this Stein was probably as fine a swordsman as he was
a rider, and that it might take me some little time to get the better of him.
In that case the others would come to his aid an I should be lost. On the whole,
it was wiser to continue my flight.
A road with poplars on
either side ran across the plain from east to west. It would lead me toward
that long line of dust which marked the French retreat. I wheeled my horse,
therefore, and galloped down it. As I rode I saw a single house in front of me
upon the right, with a great bush hung over the door to mark it as an inn.
Outside there were several peasants, but for them I cared nothing. What
frightened me was to see the gleam of a red coat, which showed that there were
British in the place. However, I could not turn and I could not stop, so there
was nothing for it but to gallop on and to take my chance. There were no troops
in sight, so these men must be stragglers or marauders, from whom I had little
to fear. As I approached I saw that there were two of them sitting drinking on
a bench outside the inn door. I saw them stagger to their feet, and it was
evident that they were both very drunk. One stood swaying in the middle of the
road.
“It&csq;s Boney! So
help me, it&csq;s Boney!” he yelled. He ran with his hands out to catch me,
but luckily for himself his drunken feet stumbled and he fell on his face on
the road. The other was more dangerous. He had rushed into the inn, and just as
I passed I saw him run out with his musket in his hand. He dropped upon one
knee, and I stooped forward over my horse&csq;s neck. A single shot from a
Prussian or an Austrian is a small matter, but the British were at that time
the best shots in Europe, and my drunkard seemed steady enough when he had a
gun at his shoulder. I heard the crack, and my horse gave a convulsive spring
which would have unseated many a rider. For an instant I thought he was killed,
but when I turned in my saddle I saw a stream of blood running down the off hind-quarter.
I looked back at the Englishman, and the brute had bitten the end off another
cartridge and was ramming it into his musket, but before he had it primed we
were beyond his range. These men were foot-soldiers and could not join in the
chase, but I heard them whooping and tally-hoing behind me as if I had been a
fox. The peasants also shouted and ran through the fields flourishing their
sticks. From all sides I heard cries, and everywhere were the rushing, waving
figures of my pursuers. To think of the great Emperor being chivvied over the
country-side in this fashion! It made me long to have these rascals within the
sweep of my sword.
But now I felt that I
was nearing the end of my course. I had done all that a man could be expected
to do--some would say more--but at last I had come to a point from which I
could see no escape. The horses of my pursuers were exhausted, but mine was
exhausted and wounded also. It was losing blood fast, and we left a red trail
upon the white, dusty road. Already his pace was slackening, and sooner or
later he must drop under me. I looked back, and there were the five inevitable
Prussians--Stein a hundred yards in front, then a Lancer, and then three others
riding together. Stein had drawn his sword, and he waved it at me. For my own
part I was determined not to give myself up. I would try how many of these
Prussians I could take with me into the other world. At this supreme moment all
the great deeds of my life rose in a vision before me, and I felt that this, my
last exploit, was indeed a worthy close to such a career. My death would be a
fatal blow to those who loved me, to my dear mother, to my Hussars, to others
who shall be nameless. But all of them had my honour and my fame at heart, and
I felt that their grief would be tinged with pride when they learned how I had
ridden and how I had fought upon this last day. Therefore I hardened my heart
and, as my Arab limped more and more upon his wounded leg, I drew the great
sword which I had taken from the Cuirassier, and I set my teeth for my supreme
struggle. My hand was in the very act of tightening the bridle, for I feared
that if I delayed longer I might find myself on foot fighting against five
mounted men. At that instant my eye fell upon something which brought hope to
my heart and a shout of joy to my lips.
From a grove of trees
in front of me there projected the steeple of a village church. But there could
not be two steeples like that, for the corner of it had crumbled away or been
struck by lightning, so that it was of a most fantastic shape. I had seen it
only two daye{sic} before, and it was the church of the village of Gosselies.
It was not the hope of reaching the village which set my heart singing with
joy, but it was that I knew my ground now, and that farm-house not half a mile
ahead, with its gable end sticking out from amid the trees, must be that very
farm of St. Aunay where we had bivouacked, and which I had named to Captain
Sabbatier as the rendezvous of the Hussars of Conflans. There they were, my little
rascals, if I could but reach them. With every bound my horse grew weaker. Each
instant the sound of the pursuit grew louder. I heard a gust of crackling
German oaths at my very heels. A pistol bullet sighed in my ears. Spurring
frantically and beating my poor Arab with the flat of my sword I kept him at
the top of his speed. The open gate of the farm-yard lay before me. I saw the
twinkle of steel within. Stein&csq;s horse&csq;s head was within ten
yards of me as I thundered through.
“To me, comrades! To
me!” I yelled. I heard a buzz as when the angry bees swarm from their nest.
Then my splendid white Arab fell dead under me and I was hurled on to the
cobble-stones of the yard, where I can remember no more.
Such was my last and
most famous exploit, my dear friends, a story which rang through Europe and has
made the name of Etienne Gerard famous in history. Alas! that all my efforts
could only give the Emperor a few weeks more liberty, since he surrendered upon
the 15th of July to the English. But it was not my fault that he was not able
to collect the forces still waiting for him in France, and to fight another
Waterloo with a happier ending. Had others been as loyal as I was the history
of the world might have been changed, the Emperor would have preserved his
throne, and such a soldier as I would not have been left to spend his life in
planting cabbages or to while away his old age telling stories in a café. You
ask me about the fate of Stein and the Prussian horsemen! Of the three who
dropped upon the way I know nothing. One you will remember that I killed. There
remained five, three of whom were cut down by my Hussars, who, for the instant,
were under the impression that it was indeed the Emperor whom they were
defending. Stein was taken, slightly wounded, and so was one of the Uhlans. The
truth was not told to them, for we thought it best that no news, or false news,
should get about as to where the Emperor was, so that Count Stein still
believed that he was within a few yards of making that tremendous capture. “You
may well love and honour your Emperor,” said he, “for such a horseman and such
a swordsman I have never seen.” He could not understand why the young colonel
of Hussars laughed so heartily at his words--but he has learned since.
I will tell you no more
stories, my dear friends. It is said that man is like the hare, which runs in a
circle and comes back to die at the point from which it started. Gascony has
been calling to me of late. I see the blue Garonne winding among the vineyards
and the bluer ocean toward which its waters sweep. I see the old town also, and
the bristle of masts from the side of the long stone quay. My heart hungers for
the breath of my native air and the warm glow of my native sun. Here in Paris
are my friends, my occupations, my pleasures. There all who have known me are
in their grave. And yet the southwest wind as it rattles on my windows seems
always to be the strong voice of the motherland calling her child back to that
bosom into which I am ready to sink. I have played my part in my time. The time
has passed. I must pass also. Nay, dear friends, do not look sad, for what can
be happier than a life completed in honour and made beautiful with friendship
and love? And yet it is solemn also when a man approaches the end of the long
road and sees the turning which leads him into the unknown. But the Emperor and
all his Marshals have ridden round that dark turning and passed into the
beyond. My Hussars, too--there are not fifty men who are not waiting yonder. I
must go. But on this the last night I will tell you that which is more than a
tale--it is a great historical secret. My lips have been sealed, but I see no
reason why I should not leave behind me some account of this remarkable
adventure, which must otherwise be entirely lost, since I and only I, of all
living men, have a knowledge of the facts.
I will ask you to go
back with me to the year 1821. In that year our great Emperor had been absent
from us for six years, and only now and then from over the seas we heard some
whisper which showed that he was still alive. You cannot think what a weight it
was upon our hearts for us who loved him to think of him in captivity eating
his giant soul out upon that lonely island. From the moment we rose until we
closed our eyes in sleep the thought was always with us, and we felt
dishonoured that he, our chief and master, should be so humiliated without our
being able to move a hand to help him. There were many who would most willingly
have laid down the remainder of their lives to bring him a little ease, and yet
all that we could do was to sit and grumble in our cafés and stare at the map,
counting up the leagues of water which lay between us. It seemed that he might
have been in the moon for all that we could do to help him. But that was only
because we were all soldiers and knew nothing of the sea.
Of course, we had our
own little troubles to make us bitter, as well as the wrongs of our Emperor.
There were many of us who had held high rank and would hold it again if he came
back to his own. We had not found it possible to take service under the white
flag of the Bourbons, or to take an oath which might turn our sabres against
the man whom we loved. So we found ourselves with neither work nor money. What
could we do save gather together and gossip and grumble, while those who had a
little paid the score and those who had nothing shared the bottle? Now and
then, if we were lucky, we managed to pick a quarrel with one of the Garde du
Corps, and if we left him on his hack in the Bois we felt that we had struck a
blow for Napoleon once again. They came to know our haunts in time, and they
avoided them as if they had been hornets&csq; nests.
There was one of
these--the Sign of the Great Man --in the Rue Varennes, which was frequented by
several of the more distinguished and younger Napoleonic officers. Nearly all
of us had been colonels or aides- de-camp, and when any man of less distinction
came among us we generally made him feel that he had taken a liberty. There
were Captain Lepine, who had won the medal of honour at Leipzig; Colonel
Bonnet, aide-de-camp to Macdonald; Colonel Jourdan, whose fame in the army was
hardly second to my own; Sabbatier of my own Hussars, Meunier of the Red Lancers,
Le Breton of the Guards, and a dozen others. Every night we met and talked,
played dominoes, drank a glass or two, and wondered how long it would be before
the Emperor would be back and we at the head of our regiments once more. The
Bourbons had already lost any hold they ever had upon the country, as was shown
a few years afterward, when Paris rose against them and they were hunted for
the third time out of France. Napoleon had but to show himself on the coast,
and he would have marched without firing a musket to the capital, exactly as he
had done when he came back from Elba.
Well, when affairs were
in this state there arrived one night in February, in our café, a most singular
little man. He was short but exceedingly broad, with huge shoulders, and a head
which was a deformity, so large was it. His heavy brown face was scarred with
white streaks in a most extraordinary manner, and he had grizzled whiskers such
as seamen wear. Two gold earrings in his ears, and plentiful tattooing upon his
hands and arms, told us also that he was of the sea before he introduced
himself to us as Captain Fourneau, of the Emperor&csq;s navy. He had
letters of introduction to two of our number, and there could be no doubt that
he was devoted to the cause. He won our respect, too, for he had seen as much
fighting as any of us, and the burns upon his face were caused by his standing
to his post upon the Orient, at the Battle of the Nile, until the vessel blew
up underneath him. Yet he would say little about himself, but he sat in the
corner of the café watching us all with a wonderfully sharp pair of eyes and
listening intently to our talk.
One night I was leaving
the café when Captain Fourneau followed me, and touching me on the arm he led
me without saying a word for some distance until we reached his lodgings. “I
wish to have a chat with you,” said he, and so conducted me up the stair to his
room. There he lit a lamp and handed me a sheet of paper which he took from an
envelope in his bureau. It was dated a few months before from the Palace of Schönbrunn
at Vienna. “Captain Fourneau is acting in the highest interests of the Emperor
Napoleon. Those who love the Emperor should obey him without question.--Marie
Louise.” That is what I read. I was familiar with the signature of the Empress,
and I could not doubt that this was genuine.
“Well,” said he, “are
you satisfied as to my credentials?”
“Entirely.”
“Are you prepared to
take your orders from me?”
“This document leaves
me no choice.”
“Good! In the first
place, I understand from something you said in the café that you can speak
English?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Let me hear you do so.”
I said in English, “Whenever
the Emperor needs the help of Etienne Gerard I am ready night and day to give
my life in his service.” Captain Fourneau smiled.
“It is funny English,”
said he, “but still it is better than no English. For my own part I speak
English like an Englishman. It is all that I have to show for six years spent
in an English prison. Now I will tell you why I have come to Paris. I have come
in order to choose an agent who will help me in a matter which affects the
interests of the Emperor. I was told that it was at the café of the Great Man
that I would find the pick of his old officers, and that I could rely upon every
man there being devoted to his interests. I studied you all, therefore, and I
have come to the conclusion that you are the one who is most suited for my
purpose.”
I acknowledged the
compliment. “What is it that you wish me to do?” I asked.
“Merely to keep me
company for a few months,” said he. “You must know that after my release in
England I settled down there, married an English wife, and rose to command a
small English merchant ship, in which I have made several voyages from
Southampton to the Guinea coast. They look on me there as an Englishman. You
can understand, however, that with my feelings about the Emperor I am lonely
sometimes, and that it would be an advantage to me to have a companion who
would sympathize with my thoughts. One gets very bored on these long voyages,
and I would make it worth your while to share my cabin.”
He looked hard at me
with his shrewd grey eyes all the time that he was uttering this rigmarole, and
I gave him a glance in return which showed him that he was not dealing with a
fool. He took out a canvas bag full of money.
“There are a hundred
pounds in gold in this bag,” said he. “You will be able to buy some comforts
for your voyage. I should recommend you to get them in Southampton, whence we
will start in ten days. The name of the vessel is the Black Swan. I return to
Southampton to-morrow, and I shall hope to see you in the course of the next
week.”
“Come now,” said I. “Tell
me frankly what is the destination of our voyage?”
“Oh, didn&csq;t I
tell you?” he answered. “We are bound for the Guinea coast of Africa.”
“Then how can that be
in the highest interests of the Emperor?” I asked.
“It is in his highest
interests that you ask no indiscreet questions and I give no indiscreet
replies,” he answered, sharply. So he brought the interview to an end, and I
found myself back in my lodgings with nothing save this bag of gold to show
that this singular interview had indeed taken place.
There was every reason
why I should see the adventure to a conclusion, and so within a week I was on
my way to England. I passed from St. Malo to Southampton, and on inquiry at the
docks I had no difficulty in finding the Black Swan, a neat little vessel of a
shape which is called, as I learned afterward, a brig. There was Captain
Fourneau himself upon the deck, and seven or eight rough fellows hard at work
grooming her and making her ready for sea. He greeted me and led me down to his
cabin.
“You are plain Mr.
Gerard now,” said he, “and a Channel Islander. I would be obliged to you if you
would kindly forget your military ways and drop your cavalry swagger when you
walk up and down my deck. A beard, too, would seem more sailor-like than those
moustaches.”
I was horrified by his
words, but, after all, there are no ladies on the high seas, and what did it
matter? He rang for the steward.
“Gustav,” said he, “you
will pay every attention to my friend, Monsieur Etienne Gerard, who makes this
voyage with us. This is Gustav Kerouan, my Breton steward,” he explained, “and
you are very safe in his hands.”
This steward, with his
harsh face and stern eyes, looked a very warlike person for so peaceful an
employment. I said nothing, however, though you may guess that I kept my eyes
open. A berth had been prepared for me next the cabin, which would have seemed
comfortable enough had it not contrasted with the extraordinary splendour of
Fourneau&csq;s quarters. He was certainly a most luxurious person, for his
room was new-fitted with velvet and silver in a way which would have suited the
yacht of a noble better than a little West African trader. So thought the mate,
Mr. Burns, who could not hide his amusement and contempt whenever he looked at
it. This fellow, a big, solid, red-headed Englishman, had the other berth
connected with the cabin. There was a second mate named Turner, who lodged in
the middle of the ship, and there were nine men and one boy in the crew, three
of whom, as I was informed by Mr. Burns, were Channel Islanders like myself.
This Burns, the first mate, was much interested to know why I was coming with
them.
“I come for pleasure,”
said I.
He stared at me.
“Ever been to the West
Coast?” he asked.
I said that I had not.
“I thought not,” said
he. “You&csq;ll never come again for that reason, anyhow.”
Some three days after
my arrival we untied the ropes by which the ship was tethered and we set off
upon our journey. I was never a good sailor, and I may confess that we were far
out of sight of any land before I was able to venture upon deck. At last,
however, upon the fifth day I drank the soup which the good Kerouan brought me,
and I was able to crawl from my bunk and up the stair. The fresh air revived
me, and from that time onward I accommodated myself to the motion of the
vessel. My beard had begun to grow also, and I have no doubt that I should have
made as fine a sailor as I have a soldier had I chanced to be born to that
branch of the service. I learned to pull the ropes which hoisted the sails, and
also to haul round the long sticks to which they are attached. For the most
part, however, my duties were to play écarté with Captain Fourneau, and to act
as his companion. It was not strange that he should need one, for neither of
his mates could read or write, though each of them was an excellent seaman. If
our captain had died suddenly I cannot imagine how we should have found our way
in that waste of waters, for it was only he who had the knowledge which enabled
him to mark our place upon the chart. He had this fixed upon the cabin wall,
and every day he put our course upon it so that we could see at a glance how
far we were from our destination. It was wonderful how well he could calculate
it, for one morning he said that we should see the Cape Verd light that very
night, and there it was, sure enough, upon our left front the moment that
darkness came. Next day, however, the land was out of sight, and Burns, the
mate, explained to me that we should see no more until we came to our port in
the Gulf of Biafra. Every day we flew south with a favouring wind, and always at
noon the pin upon the chart was moved nearer and nearer to the African coast. I
may explain that palm oil was the cargo which we were in search of, and that
our own lading consisted of coloured cloths, old muskets, and such other
trifles as the English sell to the savages.
At last the wind which
had followed us so long died away, and for several days we drifted about on a
calm and oily sea, under a sun which brought the pitch bubbling out between the
planks upon the deck. We turned and turned our sails to catch every wandering
puff, until at last we came out of this belt of calm and ran south again with a
brisk breeze, the sea all round us being alive with flying fishes. For some
days Burns appeared to be uneasy, and I observed him continually shading his
eyes with his hand and staring at the horizon as if he were looking for land.
Twice I caught him with his red head against the chart in the cabin, gazing at
that pin, which was always approaching and yet never reaching the African
coast. At last one evening, as Captain Fourneau and I were playing écarté in
the cabin, the mate entered with an angry look upon his sunburned face.
“I beg your pardon,
Captain Fourneau,” said he. “But do you know what course the man at the wheel
is steering?”
“Due south,” the
captain answered, with his eyes fixed upon his cards.
“And he should be
steering due east.”
“How do you make that
out?”
The mate gave an angry
growl.
“I may not have much
education,” said he, “but let me tell you this, Captain Fourneau, I&csq;ve
sailed these waters since I was a little nipper of ten, and I know the line
when I&csq;m on it, and I know the doldrums, and I know how to find my way
to the oil rivers. We are south of the line now, and we should be steering due
east instead of due south if your port is the port that the owners sent you to.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Gerard.
Just remember that it is my lead,” said the captain, laying down his cards. “Come
to the map here, Mr. Burns, and I will give you a lesson in practical
navigation. Here is the trade wind from the southwest and here is the line, and
here is the port that we want to make, and here is a man who will have his own
way aboard his own ship.” As he spoke he seized the unfortunate mate by the
throat and squeezed him until he was nearly senseless. Kerouan, the steward,
had rushed in with a rope, and between them they gagged and trussed the man, so
that he was utterly helpless.
“There is one of our
Frenchmen at the wheel. We had best put the mate overboard,” said the steward.
“That is safest,” said
Captain Fourneau.
But that was more than
I could stand. Nothing would persuade me to agree to the death of a helpless
man.
With a bad grace Captain
Fourneau consented to spare him, and we carried him to the after-hold, which
lay under the cabin. There he was laid among the bales of Manchester cloth.
“It is not worth while
to put down the hatch,” said Captain Fourneau. “Gustav, go to Mr. Turner and
tell him that I would like to have a word with him.”
The unsuspecting second
mate entered the cabin, and was instantly gagged and secured as Burns had been.
He was carried down and laid beside his comrade. The hatch was then replaced.
“Our hands have been
forced by that red-headed dolt,” said the captain, “and I have had to explode
my mine before I wished. However, there is no great harm done, and it will not
seriously disarrange my plans. Kerouan, you will take a keg of rum forward to
the crew and tell them that the captain gives it to them to drink his health on
the occasion of crossing the line. They will know no better. As to our own
fellows, bring them down to your pantry so that we may me sure that they are
ready for business. Now, Colonel Gerard, with your permission we will resume
our game of écarté.”
It is one of those
occasions which one does not forget. This captain, who was a man of iron,
shuffled and cut, dealt and played as if he were in his café. From be low we
heard the inarticulate murmurings of the two mates, half smothered by the
handkerchiefs which gagged them. Outside the timbers creaked and the sails
hummed under the brisk breeze which was sweeping us upon our way. Amid the
splash of the waves and the whistle of the wind we heard the wild cheers and
shoutings of the English sailors as they broached the keg of rum. We played
half-a-dozen games and then the captain rose. “I think they are ready for us
now,” said he. He took a brace of pistols from a locker, and he handed one of them
to me.
But we had no need to
fear resistance, for there was no one to resist. The Englishman of those days,
whether soldier or sailor, was an incorrigible drunkard. Without drink he was a
brave and good man. But if drink were laid before him it was a perfect
madness-- nothing could induce him to take it with moderation. In the dim light
of the den which they inhabited, five senseless figures and two shouting,
swearing, singing madmen represented the crew of the Black Swan. Coils of rope
were brought forward by the steward, and with the help of two French seamen
(the third was at the wheel) we secured the drunkards and tied them up, so that
it was impossible for them to speak or move. They were placed under the
fore-hatch, as their officers had been under the after one, and Kerouan was
directed twice a day to give them food and drink. So at last we found that the
Black Swan was entirely our own.
Had there been bad
weather I do not know what we should have done, but we still went gaily upon
our way with a wind which was strong enough to drive us swiftly south, but not
strong enough to cause us alarm. On the evening of the third day I found
Captain Fourneau gazing eagerly out from the platform in the front of the
vessel. “Look, Gerard, look!” he cried, and pointed over the pole which stuck
out in front.
A light blue sky rose
from a dark blue sea, and far away, at the point where they met, was a shadowy
something like a cloud, but more definite in shape.
“What is it?” I cried.
“It is land.”
“And what land?”
I strained my ears for
the answer, and yet I knew already what the answer would be.
“It is St. Helena.”
Here, then, was the
island of my dreams! Here was the cage where our great Eagle of France was
confined! All those thousands of leagues of water had not sufficed to keep
Gerard from the master whom he loved. There he was, there on that cloud-bank
yonder over the dark blue sea. How my eyes devoured it! How my soul flew in
front of the vessel--flew on and on to tell him that he was not forgotten, that
after many days one faithful servant was coming to his side. Every instant the
dark blur upon the water grew harder and clearer. Soon I could see plainly
enough that it was indeed a mountainous island. The night fell, but still I
knelt upon the deck, with my eyes fixed upon the darkness which covered the
spot where I knew that the great Emperor was. An hour passed and another one,
and then suddenly a little golden twinkling light shone out exactly ahead of
us. It was the light of the window of some house--perhaps of his house. It
could not be more than a mile or two away. Oh, how I held out my hands to
it!--they were the hands of Etienne Gerard, but it was for all France that they
were held out.
Every light had been
extinguished aboard our ship, and presently, at the direction of Captain
Fourneau, we all pulled upon one of the ropes, which had the effect of swinging
round one of the sticks above us, and so stopping the vessel. Then he asked me
to step down to the cabin.
“You understand
everything now, Colonel Gerard,” said he, “and you will forgive me if I did not
take you into my complete confidence before. In a matter of such importance I
make no man my confidant. I have long planned the rescue of the Emperor, and my
remaining in England and joining their merchant service was entirely with that
design. All has worked out exactly as I expected. I have made several
successful voyages to the West Coast of Africa, so that there was no difficulty
in my obtaining the command of this one. One by one I got these old French
man-of-war&csq;s-men among the hands. As to you, I was anxious to have one
tried fighting man in case of resistance, and I also desired to have a fitting
companion for the Emperor during his long homeward voyage. My cabin is already
fitted up for his use. I trust that before to-morrow morning he will be inside
it, and we out of sight of this accursed island.”
You can think of my
emotion, my friends, as I listened to these words. I embraced the brave
Fourneau, and implored him to tell me how I could assist him.
“I must leave it all in
your hands,” said he. “Would that I could have been the first to pay him
homage, but it would not be wise for me to go. The glass is falling, there is a
storm brewing, and we have the land under our lee. Besides, there are three
English cruisers near the island which may be upon us at any moment. It is for
me, therefore, to guard the ship and for you to bring off the Emperor.”
I thrilled at the
words.
“Give me your
instructions!” I cried.
“I can only spare you
one man, for already I can hardly pull round the yards,” said he. “One of the
boats has been lowered, and this man will row you ashore and await your return.
The light which you see is indeed the light of Longwood. All who are in the
house are your friends, and all may be depended upon to aid the
Emperor&csq;s escape. There is a cordon of English sentries, but they are
not very near to the house. Once you have got as far as that you will convey
our plans to the Emperor, guide him down to the boat, and bring him on board.”
The Emperor himself
could not have given his instructions more shortly and clearly. There was not a
moment to be lost. The boat with the seaman was waiting alongside. I stepped
into it, and an instant afterward we had pushed off. Our little boat danced
over the dark waters, but always shining before my eyes was the light of
Longwood, the light of the Emperor, the star of hope. Presently the bottom of
the boat grated upon the pebbles of the beach. It was a deserted cove, and no
challenge from a sentry came to disturb us. I left the seaman by the boat and I
began to climb the hillside.
There was a goat track
winding in and out among the rocks, so I had no difficulty in finding my way.
It stands to reason that all paths in St. Helena would lead to the Emperor. I
came to a gate. No sentry--and I passed through. Another gate--still no sentry!
I wondered what had become of this cordon of which Fourneau had spoken. I had
come now to the top of my climb, for there was the light burning steadily right
in front of me. I concealed myself and took a good look round, but still I
could see no sign of the enemy. As I approached I saw the house, a long, low
building with a veranda. A man was walking up and down upon the path in front.
I crept nearer and had a look at him. Perhaps it was this cursed Hudson Lowe.
What a triumph if I could not only rescue the Emperor, but also avenge him! But
it was more likely that this man was an English sentry. I crept nearer still,
and the man stopped in front of the lighted window, so that I could see him.
No; it was no soldier, but a priest. I wondered what such a man could be doing
there at two in the morning. Was he French or English? If he were one of the
household I might take him into my confidence. If he were English he might ruin
all my plans. I crept a little nearer still, and at that moment he entered the
house, a flood of light pouring out through the open door. All was clear for me
now and I understood that not an instant was to be lost. Bending myself double
I ran swiftly forward to the lighted window. Raising my head I peeped through,
and there was the Emperor lying dead before me.
My friends, I fell down
upon the gravel walk as senseless as if a bullet had passed through my brain.
So great was the shock that I wonder that I survived it. And yet in half an
hour I had staggered to my feet again, shivering in every limb, my teeth
chattering, and there I stood staring with the eyes of a maniac into that room
of death.
He lay upon a bier in
the centre of the chamber, calm, composed, majestic, his face full of that
reserve power which lightened our hearts upon the day of battle. A half-smile
was fixed upon his pale lips, and his eyes, half-opened, seemed to be turned on
mine. He was stouter than when I had seen him at Waterloo, and there was a
gentleness of expression which I had never seen in life. On either side of him
burned rows of candles, and this was the beacon which had welcomed us at sea,
which had guided me over the water, and which I had hailed as my star of hope.
Dimly I became conscious that many people were kneeling in the room; the little
Court, men and women, who had shared his fortunes, Bertrand, his wife, the
priest, Montholon--all were there. I would have prayed too, but my heart was too
heavy and bitter for prayer. And yet I must leave, and I could not leave him
without a sign. Regardless of whether I was seen or not, I drew myself erect
before my dead leader, brought my heels together, and raised my hand in a last
salute. Then I turned and hurried of through the darkness, with the picture of
the wan, smiling lips and the steady grey eyes dancing always before me.
It had seemed to me but
a little time that I had been away, and yet the boatman told me that it was
hours. Only when he spoke of it did I observe that the wind was blowing half a
gale from the sea and that the waves were roaring in upon the beach. Twice we
tried to push out our little boat, and twice it was thrown back by the sea. The
third time a great wave filled it and stove the bottom. Helplessly we waited
beside it until the dawn broke, to show a raging sea and a flying scud above
it. There was no sign of the Black Swan. Climbing the hill we looked down, but
on all the great torn expanse of the ocean there was no gleam of a sail. She
was gone. Whether she had sunk, or whether she was recaptured by her English
crew, or what strange fate may have been in store for her, I do not know. Never
again in this life did I see Captain Fourneau to tell him the result of my
mission. For my own part I gave myself up to the English, my boatman and I
pretending that we were the only survivors of a lost vessel--though, indeed,
there was no pretence in the matter. At the hands of their officers I received
that generous hospitality which I have always encountered, but it was many a
long month before I could get a passage back to the dear land outside of which
there can be no happiness for so true a Frenchman as myself.
And so I tell you in
one evening how I bade good-bye to my master, and I take my leave also of you,
my kind friends, who have listened so patiently to the long- winded stories of
an old broken soldier. Russia, Italy, Germany, Spain, Portugal, and England,
you have gone with me to all these countries, and you have seen through my dim
eyes something of the sparkle and splendour of those great days, and I have
brought back to you some shadow of those men whose tread shook the earth.
Treasure it in your minds and pass it on to your children, for the memory of a
great age is the most precious treasure that a nation can possess. As the tree
is nurtured by its own cast leaves so it is these dead men and vanished days
which may bring out another blossoming of heroes, of rulers, and of sages. I go
to Gascony, but my words stay here in your memory, and long after Etienne
Gerard is forgotten a heart may be warmed or a spirit braced by some faint echo
of the words that he has spoken. Gentlemen, an old soldier salutes you and bids
you farewell.
A NOVEL which will
fascinate by the grace and charm with which it is written, by the delightful
characters that take part in it, and by the interest of the plot. The scene is
laid in a magnificent Austrian castle in North Italy, and that serves as a
background for the working out of a sparkling love-story between a heroine who
is brilliant and beautiful and a hero who is quite her match in cleverness and
wit. It is a book with all the daintiness and polish of Mr. Harland&csq;s
former novels, and other virtues all its own.
Frontispiece in colors
by Louis Loeb.
GENEVA in the early
days of the 17th century; a ruffling young theologue new to the city; a
beautiful and innocent girl, suspected of witchcraft; a crafty scholar and
metaphysician seeking to give over the city into the hands of the Savoyards; a
stern and powerful syndic whom the scholar beguiles to betray his office by
promises of an elixir which shall save him from his fatal illness; a brutal
soldier of fortune; these are the elements of which Weyman has composed the
most brilliant and thrilling of his romances. Claude Mercier, the student,
seeing the plot in which the girl he loves is involved, yet helpless to divulge
it, finds at last his opportunity when the treacherous men of Savoy are admitted
within Geneva&csq;s walls, and in a night of whirlwind fighting saves the
city by his courage and address. For fire and spirit there are few chapters in
modern literature such as those which picture the splendid defence of Geneva,
by the staid, churchly, heroic burghers, fighting in their own blood under the
divided leadership of the fat Syndic, Baudichon, and the bandy-legged sailor,
Jehan Brosse, winning the battle against the armed and armored forces of the
invaders.
THE story is set in
those desperate days when the ebbing tide of Napoleon&csq;s fortunes swept
Europe with desolation. Barlaseh--“Papa Barlasch of the Guard, Italy, Egypt,
the Danube”-- a veteran in the Little Corporal&csq;s service is the
dominant figure of the story. Quartered on a distinguished family in the
historic town of Dantzig, he gives his life to the romance of Desirée, the
daughter of the family, and Louis d&csq; Arragon, whose cousin she has
married and parted with at the church door. Louis&csq;s search with
Barlasch for the missing Charles gives an unforgettable picture of the terrible
retreat from Russia; and as a companion picture there is the heroic defence of
Dantzig by Rapp and his little army of sick and starving. At the last Barlasch,
learning of the death of Charles, plans and executes the escape of Desirée from
the beleaguered town to join Louis.
A STUDY in the tyranny
of wealth. James Galloway founds his fortune on a fraud. He ruins the man who
has befriended him and steals away his business. Vast railroad operations next
claim his attention. He becomes a bird of prey in the financial world. One by
one he forsakes his principles; he becomes a hypocrite, posing, even to
himself. With the degeneration of his moral character come domestic troubles.
His wife grows to despise him. One of his sons becomes a spendthrift; the other
a forger. His daughter, Helen, alone retains any affection for him. His
attempts to force his family into the most exclusive circles subject him and
them to mortifying rebuffs, for all his millions cannot overcome the ill-repute
of his name. At last, with his hundred millions won, his house the finest in
America, his name a name to conjure with in the financial world, he realizes
that the goal he has reached was not worth the race. Still he clings to his old
ways, and dies in a fit of anger, haggling over his daughter&csq;s dowry.
IN “The Reign of Queen
Isyl” the authors have hit upon a new scheme in fiction. The book is both a
novel and a collection of short stories. The main story deals with a carnival
of flowers in a California city. Just before the coronation the Queen of the
Fiesta disappears, and her Maid of Honor is crowned in her stead--Queen Isyl.
There are plots and counterplots--half- mockery, half-earnest--beneath which
the reader is tantalized by glimpses of the genuine mystery surrounding the
real queen&csq;s disappearance.
Thus far the story
differs from other novels only in the quaintly romantic atmosphere of modern
chivalry. Its distinctive feature lies in the fact that in every chapter one of
the characters relates an anecdote. Each anecdote is a short story of the
liveliest and most amusing kind-- complete in itself--yet each bears a vital
relation to the main romance and its characters. The short stories are as
unusual and striking as the novel of which they form a part.
LOVE fiddles both
merrily and sadly in the stories that make up this book, but however he fiddles
he makes the music for a sparkling, charmingly told love-episode. “All the
world loves a lover,” and all the world has here choice from among a very wide
and varied assortment of them--every one a human and real person--involved in
an event which the author makes you feel is critically interesting.
$1.50
McClure, Phillips & Co.
The end.