Whatever might have been the sentiments of the crowded court regarding the former life and opinions of Fortescue and the piper, it was clear that now only one impression prevailed,—a general feeling of horror at the complicated villany of Crofts, whose whole existence had been one tissue of the basest treachery.
The testimony was heard with attention throughout; no cross-examination was entered on; and the judge, briefly adverting to the case which was before the jury, and from whose immediate consideration subsequent events had in a great measure withdrawn their minds, directed them to deliver a verdict of “Not guilty.”
The words were re-echoed by the jury, who, man for man, exclaimed these words aloud, amid the most deafening cheers from every side.
As I walked from the dock, fatigued, worn out, and exhausted, a dozen hands were stretched out to seize mine; but one powerful grasp caught my arm, and a well-known voice called in my ear,—
“An' ye wor with Boney, Master Tom? Tare and 'ounds, didn't I know you'd be a great man yet.”
At the same instant Fortescue came through the crowd towards me, with his hands outstretched.
“We should be friends, sir,” said he, “for we both have suffered from a common enemy. If I am at liberty to leave this—”
“You are not, sir,” interposed a deep voice behind. We turned and beheld Major Barton. “The massacre at Kil-macshogue has yet to be atoned for.”
Fortescue's face grew actually livid at the mention of the word, and his breathing became thick and short.
“Here,” continued Barton, “is the warrant for your committal. And you also, Darby,” said he, turning round; “we want your company once more in Newgate.”
“Bedad, I suppose there's no use in sending an apology when friends is so pressing,” said he, buttoning his coat as coolly as possible; “but I hope you 'll let the master come in to see me.”
“Mr. Burke shall be admitted at all times,” said Barton, with an obsequious civility I had never witnessed in him previously.
“Faix, maybe you 'll not be for letting him out so aisy,” said Darby, dryly, for his notions of justice were tempered by a considerable dash of suspicion.
I had only time left to press my purse into the honest fellow's hand, and salute Fortescue hastily, as they both were removed, under the custody of Barton. And I now made my way through the crowd into the hall, which opened a line for me as I went; a thousand welcomes meeting me from those who felt as anxious about the result of the trial as if a brother or a dear friend had been in peril.
One face caught my eye as I passed; and partly from my own excitement, partly from its expression being so different from its habitual character, I could not recognize it as speedily as I ought to have done. Again and again it appeared; and at last, as I approached the door into the street, it was beside me.
“If I might dare to express my congratulations,” said a voice, weak from the tremulous anxiety of the speaker, and the shame which, real or affected, seemed to bow him down.
“What,” cried I, “Mr. Basset!” for it was the worthy man himself.
“Yes, sir. Your father's old and confidential agent,—I might venture to say, friend,—come to see the son of his first patron occupy the station he has long merited.”
“A bad memory is the only touch of age I remark in you, sir,” said I, endeavoring to pass on, for I was unwilling at the moment of my escape from a great difficulty to lose temper with so unworthy an object.
“One moment, sir, just a moment,” said he, in a low whisper. “You'll want money, probably. The November rents are not paid up; but there's a considerable balance to your credit. Will you take a hundred or two for the present?”
“Take money!—money from you!” said I, shrinking back.
“Your own, sir; your own estate. Do you forget,” said he, with a miserable effort of a smile, “that you are Mr. Burke of Cromore, with a clear rental of four thousand a year? We gained the Cluan Bog lawsuit, sir,” continued he. “'Twas I, sir, found the satisfaction for the bond. Your brother said he owed it all to Tony Basset.”
The two last words were all that were needed to sum up the measure of my disgust and I once more tried to get forward.
“I know the property, sir, for thirty-eight years I was over it. Your father and your brother always trusted me—”
“Let me pass on, Mr. Basset,” said I, calmly. “I have no desire to become a greater object of mob curiosity. Pray let me pass on.”
“And for Darby M'Keown,” whispered he.
“What of him?” said I; for he had touched the most anxious chord of my heart at that instant.
“I'll have him free; he shall be at liberty in forty-eight hours for you. I have the whole papers by me; and a statement to the privy council will obtain his liberation.”
“Do this,” said I, “and I 'll forgive more of your treatment of me than I could on any other plea.”
“May I call on you this evening, or to-morrow morning, at your hotel? Where do you stop, sir?”
“This evening be it, if it hasten M'Keown's liberation. Remember, however, Mr. Basset, I'll hold no converse with you on any other subject till that be settled, and to my perfect satisfaction.”
“A bargain, sir,” said he, with a grin of satisfaction; and dropping back, he suffered me to proceed.
Along the quays I went, and down Dame Street, accompanied by a great mob of people, who thought in my acquittal they had gained a triumph. For so it was; every case had its political feature, and seemed to be intimately connected with the objects of one party or the other. Partisan cheers,—the watchwords of faction,—were uttered as I went, and I was made to suffer that least satisfactory of all conditions, which bestows notoriety without fame, and popularity without merit.
As I entered the hotel, I recognized many of the persons I had seen there before; but their looks were no longer thrown towards me with the impertinence they then assumed. On the contrary, a studied desire to evince courtesy and politeness was evident. “How strange is it!” thought I; “how differently does the whole world smile to the rich man and to the poor!” Here were many who could in nowise derive advantage from my altered condition,—as perfectly independent of me as I of them; and yet even they showed that degree of deference in their manner which the expectant bestows upon a patron. So it is, however. The position which wealth confers is recognized by all; the individual who fills it is but an attribute of the station.
Life had, indeed, opened on me with a new and very different aspect; and I felt, as I indulged in the daydreams which the sudden possession of fortune excites, that to enjoy thoroughly the blessings of independence, one must have experienced, as I had, the hard pressure of adversity. It seemed to me that the long road of gloomy fate had at length reached its turning point, and that I should now travel along a calmer and happier path. Thoughts of the new career that lay before me were blended with the memories of the past; hopes they were, but dashed with the shadows which a blighted affection will throw over the whole stream of life. Still that evening was one of happiness; not of that excited pleasure derived from the attainment of a long coveted object, but the calmer enjoyment felt in the safety of the haven by him who has experienced the hurricane and the storm.
With such thoughts I went to rest, and laid my head on my pillow in thoughtfulness and peace. In my dreams my troubles still lingered. But who regrets the anxious minutes of a vision which wakening thoughts dispel? Are they not rather the mountain shadows that serve to brighten the gleam of the sunlight in the plain?
It was thus the morning broke for me, with all the ecstasy of danger passed, and all the crowding hopes of a happy future. The hundred speculations which in poverty I had formed for the comfort of the poor and the humble might now be realized; and I fancied myself the centre of a happy peasantry, confiding and contented. It would be hard, indeed, to forget “the camp and the tented field” in the peaceful paths of a country life. But simple duties are often as engrossing as those of a higher order, and bring a reward not less grateful to the heart; and I flattered myself to think my ambition reached not above them.
The moments in which such daydreams are indulged are the very happiest of a lifetime. The hopes which are based on the benefits we may render to others are sources of elevation to ourselves; and such motives purify the soul, and exalt the mind to a pitch far above the petty ambitions of the world.
To myself, and to my own enjoyments, wealth could contribute less than to most men. The simple habits of a soldier's life satisfied every wish of my mind. The luxuries which custom makes necessary to others I never knew; and I formed my resolution not to wander from this path of humble, inexpensive tastes, so that the stream of charity might flow the wider.
These were my waking thoughts. Alas, how little do we ever realize of such speculations! and how few glide down the stream of life unswayed by the eddies and crosscurrents of fortune! The higher we build the temple of our hopes, the more surely will it topple to its fall. Who shall say that our greatest enjoyment is not in raising the pile, and our happiest hours the full abandonment to those hopes our calmer reason never ratified?
As yet it had not occurred to me to think what position the world might concede to one whose life had been passed like mine, nor did I bestow a care upon a matter whereon so much of future happiness depended. These, however, were considerations which could not be long averted. How they came, and in what manner they were met must remain for a future chapter of my history.
In my last chapter I brought my reader to that portion of my story which formed the turning-point of my destiny. And here I might, perhaps, conclude these brief memoirs of an early life, whose chief object was to point out the results of a hasty and rash judgment, which, formed in mere boyhood, exerted its influence throughout the entire of a lifetime. Only one incident remains still to be told; and I shall not trespass on the good-natured patience of my readers by any delay in the narrative.
From being poor, houseless, and unknown, a sudden turn of fortune had made me wealthy and conspicuous in station; the owner of a large estate,—almost a lead-ing man in my native county. My influence was sufficient to procure the liberation of M'Keown; and my interference in his behalf mainly contributed to procure for Fortescue the royal pardon. The world, as the phrase is, went with me; and the good luck which attended every step I took and every plan I engaged in was become a proverb among my neighbors.
Let not any one suppose I was unmindful or ungrateful, if I confess, that even with all these I was not happy. No: the tranquil mind, the spirit at ease with itself, cannot exist where the sense of duty is not. The impulse which swayed my boyish heart still moved the ambition of the man. The pursuits I should have deemed the noblest and the purest seemed to me uninteresting and ignoble; the associations I ought to have felt the happiest and the highest appeared to me vulgar, and low, and commonplace. I was disappointed in my early dream of liberty, and had found tyranny where I looked for freedom, and intolerance where I expected enlightenment; but if so, I recurred with tenfold enthusiasm to the career of the soldier, whose glories were ever before me. That noble path had not deceived me; far from it. Its wild and whirlwind excitement, its hazardous enterprise, its ever-present dangers, were stimulants I loved and gloried in. All the chances and changes of a peaceful life were poor and mean compared to the hourly vicissitudes of war. I knew not then, it is true, how much of enjoyment I derived from forgetful ness; how many of my springs of happiness flowed from that preoccupation which prevented my dwelling on the only passion that ever stirred my heart,—my love for one whose love was hopeless.
How thoroughly will the character of an early love tinge the whole of a life! Our affections are like flowers,—they derive their sweetness and their bloom from the soil in which they grow: some, budding in joy and gladness, amid the tinkling plash of a glittering fountain, live on ever bright and beautiful; others, struggling on amid thorns and wild weeds, overshadowed by gloom, preserve their early impressions to the last,—their very sweetness tells of sadness.
To conquer the memory of this hopeless passion, I tried a hundred ways. I endeavored, by giving myself up to the duties of a country gentleman, to become absorbed in all the cares and pursuits which had such interest for my neighbors. Failing in this, I became a sportsman; I kept horses and dogs, and entered, with all the zest mere determination can impart, upon that life of manly exertion, so full of pleasure to thousands. But here again without succeeding.
I went into society; but soon retired from it, on finding, that among the class of my equals the prestige of my early life had still tracked me. I was in their eyes a rebel, whose better fortune had saved him from the fate of his companions. My youth had given no guarantee for my manhood; and I was not trusted. Baffled in every endeavor to obliterate my secret grief, I recurred to it now, as though privileged by fate, to indulge a memory nothing could efface. I abandoned all the petty appliances by which I sought to shut out the past, and gave myself up in full abandonment to the luxury of my melancholy.
Living entirely within the walls of my demesne, never seen by my neighbors, not making nor receiving visits, I appeared to many a heartless recluse, whose misanthropy sought indulgence in solitude; others, less harshly, judged me as one whose unhappy entrance on life had unfitted him for the station to which fortune had elevated him. By both I was soon forgotten.
The peasantry were less ungenerous, and more just. They saw in me one who felt acutely for the privations they were suffering; yet never gave them that cheap, delusive hope, that legislative changes will touch social evils,—that the acts of a parliament will penetrate the thousand tortuous windings of a poor man's destiny. They found in me a friend and an adviser. They only-wondered at one thing,—how any man could feel for the poor, and not hate the rich. So long had the struggle lasted between affluence and misery, they could not understand a compromise.
Bitter as their poverty had been, it never extinguished the poetry of their lives. They were hungry and naked; but they held to their ancient traditions, and they built on them great hopes for the future. The old family names, the time-honored memories of place, the famous deeds of ancestors, made an ideal existence powerful enough to exclude the pressure of actual daily evils; and they argued from what had been to what might be, with a persistency of hope it seemed almost cruel to destroy. So deeply were these thoughts engrained into their natures, they felt him but half their friend who ventured to despise them. The relief of present poverty, the succor of actual suffering, became in their eyes an effort of mere passing kindness. They looked to some great amelioration of condition, some wondrous change, some restoration to an imaginary standard of independence and comfort, which all the efforts of common interference fell sadly short of; and thus they strained their gaze to a government, a ruling power, for a boon undefined, unknown, and illimitable.
To expectations like these advice and slight assistance are as the mere drop of water to the parched tongue of thirst; and so I found it. I could neither encourage them in their hopes of such legislative changes as would greatly ameliorate their condition, nor flatter them in the delusion that none of their misfortunes were of home origin; and thus, if they felt gratitude for many kindnesses, they reposed no confidence in my opinion. The trading patriot, who promised much while he pocketed their hard-earned savings; the rabid newspaper writer, who libelled the Government and denounced the landlord,—were their standards of sympathy; and he who fell short of either was not their friend.
In a word, the social state of the people was rotten to its very core. Their highest qualities, degraded by the combined force of poverty, misrule, and superstition, had become sources of crime and misery. They had suffered so long and so much, their patience was exhausted; and they preferred the prospect of any violent convulsion which might change the face of the land, whatever dangers it might come with, to a slow and gradual improvement of condition, however safe and certain.
To win their confidence at the only price they would accord it, I never could consent to; and without it I was almost powerless for good. Here again, therefore, did I find closed against me another avenue for exertion; and the only one of all I could have felt a fitting sphere for my labor. The violence of their own passionate natures, the headlong impulses by which they suffered themselves to be swayed, left them no power of judgment regarding those whose views were more moderate and temperate. They could understand the high Tory landlord, whom they invested with every attribute of tyranny, as their open, candid opponent; they could see a warm friend in the violent mob-orator of the day; but they recognized no trait of kindness in him who would rather see them fed than flattered, and behold them in the enjoyment of comfort sooner than in the ecstasy of triumph.
From “Darby the Blast”—for he was now a member of my household—I learned the light in which I was regarded by the people, and heard the dissatisfaction they expressed that one who “sarved Boney” should not be ready to head a rising, if need be. Thus was I in a false position on every side. Mistrusted by all, because I would neither enter into the exaggerations of party, nor become blind to the truth my senses revealed before me, my sphere of utility was narrowed to the discharge of the mere duties of common charity and benevolence, and my presence among my tenantry no more productive of benefit than if I had left my purse as my representative.
Years rolled on, and in the noiseless track of time I forgot its flight. I now had grown so wedded to the habits of my solitary life, that its very monotony was a source of pleasure. I had intrenched myself within a little circle of enjoyments, and among my books and in my walks my days went pleasantly over.
For a long time, I did not dare to read the daily papers, nor learn the great events which agitated Europe. I tried to think that an interval of repose would leave me indifferent to their mention; and so rigidly did I abstain from indulging my curiosity, that the burning of Moscow, and the commencement of the dreadful retreat which followed, was the first fact I read of.
From the moment I gave way, the passion for intelligence from France became a perfect mania. Where were the different corps of the “Grand Army”? where the Emperor himself? by what great stroke of genius would he emerge from the difficulties around him, and deal one of his fatal blows on the enemy?—were the questions which met me as I awoke, and tortured me during the day.
Each movement of that terrible retreat I followed in the gazettes with an anxiety verging on insanity. I tracked the long journey on the map, and as I counted towns and villages, dreary deserts of snow, and vast rivers to be traversed, my heart grew faint to think how many a brave soldier would never reach that fair France for whose glory he had shed his best blood. Disaster followed disaster; and as the news reached England, came accounts of those great defections which weakened the force of the “Grand Army,” and deranged the places formed for its retiring movements.
They who can recall to mind the time I speak of, will remember the effect produced in England by the daily accounts from the seat of war; how heavily fell the blows of that altered fortune which once rested on the eagles of France; how each new bulletin announced another feature of misfortune,—some shattered remnant of a great corps d'armée cut off by Cossacks,—some dreadful battle engaged against superior numbers, and fought with desperation, not for victory, but the liberty to retreat. Great names were mentioned among the slain, and the proudest chivalry of Gaul left to perish on the far-off steppes of Russia.
Such were the fearful tales men read of that terrible campaign; and the joy in England was great, to hear that the most powerful of her enemies had at length experienced the full bitterness of defeat. While men vied with one another in stories of the misfortunes of the Emperor,—when each post added another to the long catalogue of disasters to the “Grand Army,”—I sat in my lonely house, in a remote part of Ireland, brooding over the sad reverses of him who still formed my ideal of a hero.
I thought how, amid the crumbling ruins of his splendid force, his great soul would survive the crash that made all others despair; that each new evil would suggest its remedy as it arose, and the mind that never failed in expedient would shine out more brilliantly through the gloom of darkening fortune than even it had done in the noonday splendor of success. When all others could only see the tremendous energy of despair, I thought I could recognize those glorious outbursts of heroism by which a French army sought and won the favor of their Emperor. The routed and straggling bodies which hurried along in seeming disorder, I gloried to perceive could assume all the port and bearing of soldiers at the approach of danger, and form their ranks at the wild “houra” of the Cossack as steadily as in the proudest day of their prosperity.
The retreat continued: the horrible suffering of a Russian winter added to the carnage of a battle-tide, which flowed unceasingly from the ruined walls of the Kremlin to the banks of the Vistula: the battle of Borisow and the passage of the Berezina followed fast on each other. And now we heard that the Emperor had surrendered the chief command to Murat, and was hastening back to France with lightning speed; for already the day of his evil fortune had thrown its shadow over the capital. No longer reckoned by tens of thousands, that vast army had now dwindled down to divisions of a few hundred men. The Old Guard scarce exceeded one thousand; and of twenty entire regiments of cavalry, Murat mustered a single squadron as a bodyguard. Crowds of wounded and mutilated men dragged their weary limbs along over the hardened snow, or through dense pine forests where no villages were to be met with,—a fatuous determination to strive to reach France, the only impulse surviving amid all their sufferings.
With the defections of D'York and Massenbach, then began that new feature of disaster which was so soon to burst forth with all the fell fury of long pent-up hatred. The nationality of Germany—so long, so cruelly insulted—now saw the day of retribution arrive. Misfortune hastened misfortune, and defeat engendered treason in the ranks of the Emperor's allies. Murat, too, the favorite of Napoleon, the king of his creation, deserted him now, and fled ignominiously from the command of the army.
“The Elbe! the Elbe!” was now the cry amid the shattered ranks of that army which but a year before saw no limit to its glorious path. The Elbe was the only line remaining which promised a moment's repose from the fatigues and privations of months long. Along that road the army could halt, and stem the tide of pursuit, however hotly it pressed. The Prussians had already united with the Russians; the defection of Austria could not be long distant; Saxony was appealed to, as a member of the German family, to join in arms against the Tyrant; and the wild “houra” of the Cossack now blended with the loud “Vorwarts” of injured Prussia.
“Where shall he seek succor now? What remains to him in this last eventful struggle? How shall the Emperor call back to life the legions by whose valor his great victories were gained, and Europe made a vassal at the foot of his throne?” Such was the thought that never left me day or night. Ever present before me was his calm brow, and his face paler, but not less handsome, than its wont. I could recall his rapid glance; the quick and hurried motion of his hand; his short and thick utterance, as words of command fell from his lips; and his smile, as he heard some intelligence with pleasure.
I could not sleep,—scarcely could I eat. A feverish excitement burned through my frame, and my parched tongue and hot hand told how the very springs of health were dried up within me. I walked with hurried steps from place to place; now muttering the words of some despatch, now fancying that I was sent with orders for a movement of troops. As I rode, I spurred my horse to a gallop, and in my heated imagination believed I was in presence of the enemy, and preparing for the fray. Great as my exhaustion frequently was, weariness brought no rest. Often I returned home at evening, overcome by fatigue; but a sleepless night, tortured with anxieties and harassed with doubts and fears, followed, and I awoke to pursue the same path, till in my weakened frame and hectic cheek the signs of illness could no longer be mistaken.
Terrified at the ravages a few weeks had made in my health, and fearful what secret malady was preying upon me, Darby, without asking any leave from me, left the house one morning at daybreak, and returned with the physician of the neighboring town. I was about to mount my horse, when I saw them coming up the avenue, and immediately guessed the object of the visit. A moment was enough to decide me as to the course to pursue; for well knowing how disposed the world ever is to stamp the impress of wandering intellect on any habit of mere eccentricity, I resolved to receive the doctor as though I was glad of his coming, and consult with him regarding my state. This would at least refute such a scandal, by enlisting the physician among the allies of my cause.
By good fortune, Dr. Clibborn was a man of shrewd common sense, as well as a physician of no mean skill.
In the brief conversation we held together, I perceived, that while he paid all requisite attention to any detail which implied the existence of malady, his questions were more pointedly directed to the possibility of some mental cause of irritation,—the source of my ailment. I could see, however, that his opinion inclined to the belief that the events of the trial had left their indelible traces on my mind; which, inducing me to adopt a life of isolation and retirement, had now produced the effects he witnessed.
I was not sorry at this mistake on his part. By suffering him to indulge in this delusive impression, I saved myself all the trouble of concealing my real feelings, which I had no desire to expose before him. I permitted him, therefore, to reason with me on the groundless notions he supposed I had conceived of the world's feeling regarding me, and heard him patiently as he detailed the course of public duty, by fulfilling which I should occupy my fitting place in society, and best consult my own health and happiness.
“There are,” said he, “certain fixed impressions, which I would not so combat. It was but yesterday, for instance, I yielded to the wish of an old general officer, who has served upwards of half a century, and desires once more to put himself at the head of his regiment. His heart was bent on it. I saw that though he might consent to abandon his purpose, I was not so sure his mind might bear the disappointment; for the intellect will sometimes go astray in endeavoring to retrace its steps. So I thought it better to concede what might cost more in the refusal.”
The last words of the doctor remained in my head long after he took his leave, and I could not avoid applying them to my own case. Was not my impression of this nature? Were not my thoughts all centred on one theme as fixedly as the officer's of whom he spoke? Could I, by any effort of my reason or my will, control my wandering fancies, and call them back to the dull realities amongst which I lived?
These were ever recurring to me, and always with the same reply. It is in vain to struggle against an impulse which has swallowed up all other ambitions. My heart is among the glittering ranks and neighing squadrons of France; I would be there once more; I would follow that career which first stirred the proudest hopes I ever cherished.
That same evening the mail brought the news that Eugène Beauharnais had fallen back on Magdeburg, and sent repeated despatches to the Emperor, entreating his immediate presence among the troops, whom nothing but Napoleon himself in the midst of them could restore to their wonted bravery and determination. The reply of Napoleon was briefly,—
“I am coming; and all who love me, follow me.”
How the words rang in my ears,—“Tous ceux qui m'aiment!” I heard them in every rustling of the wind and motion of the leaves against the window; they were whispered to my sense by every avenue of my brain; and I sat no longer occupied in reading as usual, but with folded arms, repeating word by word the brief sentence.
It was midnight. All was still and silent through the house; no servant stirred, and the very wind was hushed to a perfect calm. I was sitting in my library, when the words I have repeated seemed spoken in a low, clear voice beside me. I started up: the perspiration broke over my forehead and fell upon my cheek with terror; for I knew I was alone, and the fearful thought flashed on me,—this may be madness! For a second or two the agony of the idea was almost insupportable. Then came a resolve as sudden. I opened my desk, and took from it all the ready money I possessed; I wrote a few hurried lines to my agent; and then, making my way noiselessly to the stable, I saddled my horse and led him out.
In two hours I was nearly twenty miles on my way to Dublin. Day was breaking as I entered the capital. I made no delay there; but taking fresh horses, started for Skerries, where I knew the fishermen of the coast resorted.
“One hundred pounds to the man who will land me on the coast of France or Holland,” said I to a group that were preparing their nets on the shore.
A look of incredulity was the only reply. A very few words, however, settled the bargain. Ere half an hour I was on board. The wind freshened, and we stood out to sea.
“Let the breeze keep to this,” said the skipper, “and we'll make the voyage quickly.”
Both wind and tide were in our favor. We held down Channel rapidly; and I saw the blue hills grow fainter and fainter, till the eye could but detect a gray cloud on the horizon, which at last disappeared in the bright sun of noon, and a wide waste of blue water lay on every side.
The snow, half melted with the heavy rains, lay still deeply on the roads, and a dark, lowering sky stretched above, as I harried onwards, with all the speed I could, towards the east of France.
Already the Allies had passed the Rhine. Schwartzen-berg in the south, Blucher in the east, and Bernadotte on the Flemish frontier, were conveying their vast armies to bear down on him whom singly none had dared to encounter. All France was in arms, and every step was turned eastwards. Immense troops of conscripts, many scarce of the age of boyhood, crowded the highways. The veterans themselves were enrolled once more, and formed battalions for the defence of their native land. Every town and village was a garrison. The deep-toned rolling of ammunition wagons and the heavy tramp of horses sounded through the nights long. War, terrible war, spoke from every object around. Strongholds were strengthening, regiments brigading, cavalry organizing on all sides.
No longer, however, did I witness the wild enthusiasm which I so well remembered among the soldiers of the army. Here were no glorious outbreaks of that daring spirit which so marked the Frenchman, and made him almost irresistible in arms. A sad and gloomy silence prevailed: a look of fierce but hopeless determination was over all. They marched like men going to death, but with the step and bearing of heroes.
I entered the little town of Verviers. The day was breaking, but the troops were under arms. The Emperor had but just taken his departure for Châlons-sur-Marne. They told me of it as I changed horses,—not with that fierce pride which a mere passing glance at the great Napoleon would once have evoked; they spoke of him without emotion. I asked if he were paler or thinner than his wont: they did not know. They said that he travelled post, but that his staff were on horseback. From this I gathered that he was either ill, or in that frame of mind in which he preferred to be alone. While I was yet speaking, an officer of Engineers came up to the carriage, and called out,—
“Unharness these horses, and bring them down to the barracks. These, sir,” said he, turning towards me, “are not times to admit of ceremony. We have eighteen guns to move, and want cattle.”
“Enough, sir,” said I. “I am not here to retard your movements, but if I can, to forward them. Can I, as a volunteer, be of any service at this moment?”
“Have you served before? Of course you have, though. In what arm?”
“As a Hussar of the Guard, for some years.”
“Come along with me; I 'll bring you to the general at once.”
Re-entering the inn, the officer preceded me up stairs, and after a moment's delay, introduced me into the presence of General Letort, then commanding a cavalry brigade.
“I have heard your request, sir. Where is your commission? Have you got it with you?”
I handed it to him in silence. He examined it rapidly; and then turning the reverse, read the few lines inscribed by the minister of war.
“I could have given you a post this day, sir, this very hour,” said he, “but for a blunder of our commissariat people. There's a troop here waiting for a re-mount, but the order has not come down from Paris; and our officials here will not advance the money till it arrives, as if these were times for such punctilio. They are to form part of General Kellermann's force, which is sadly deficient. Remain here, however, and perhaps by to-morrow—”
“How much may the sum be, sir?” asked I, interrupting.
The general almost started with surprise at the abruptness of my question, and in a tone of half reproof answered,—
“The amount required is beside the matter, sir; unless,” added he, sarcastically, “you are disposed to advance it yourself.”
“Such was the object of my question,” said I, calmly, and determining not to notice the manner he had assumed.
“Parbleu!” exclaimed he, “that is very different. Twenty thousand francs, however, is a considerable sum.”
“I have as much, and something more, if need be, in my carriage,—if English gold be no objection.”
“No, pardie! that it is not,” cried he, laughing; “I only wish we saw more of it. Are you serious in all this?”
The best reply to his question was to hasten down stairs and return with two small canvas bags in my hands.
“Here are one thousand guineas,” said I, laying them on the table.
While one of the general's aides-de-camp was counting and examining the gold, I repeated at his request the circumstances which brought me once again to France to serve under the banner of the Emperor.
“And your name, sir,” said he, as he seated himself to write, “is Thomas Burke, ci-devant captain of the Eighth Hussars of the Guard. Well, I can promise you the restoration of your old grade. Meanwhile, you must take command of these fellows. They are mere partisan troops, hurriedly raised, and ill organized; but I'll give you a letter to General Damrémont at Chalons, and he 'll attend to you.”
“It is not a position for myself I seek, General,” said I. “Wherever I can best serve the Emperor, there only I desire to be.”
“I have ventured to leave that point to General Damrémont,” said he, smiling. “Your motives do not require much explanation. Let us to breakfast now, and by noon we shall have everything in readiness for your departure.”
Thus rapidly, and as it were by the merest accident, was I again become a soldier of the Emperor; and that same day was once more at the head of a squadron, on my way to Châlons. My troop were, indeed, very unlike the splendid array of my old Hussars of the Guard. They were hurriedly raised, and not over well equipped, but still they were stout-looking, hardy peasants, who, whatever deficiency of drill they might display, I knew well would exhibit no lack of courage before an enemy.
On reaching Châlons, I found that General Damrémont had left with the staff for Vitry only a few hours before; and so I reported myself to the officer commanding the town, and was ordered by him to join the cavalry brigade then advancing on Vitry.
Had I time at this moment, I could not help devoting some minutes to an account of that strange and motley mass which then were brigaded as Imperial cavalry. Dragoons of every class, heavy and light-armed,—grenadiers à cheval and hussars, cuirassiers, carbineers, and lancers,—were all, pell-mell, mixed up confusedly together, and hurried onwards; some to join their respective corps if they could find them, but all prepared to serve wherever their sabres might be called for. It was confusion to the last degree; but a tumult without enthusiasm or impulse. The superior officers, who were well acquainted with the state of events, made no secret of their gloomy forebodings; the juniors lacked energy in a cause where they saw no field for advancement; and the soldiers, always prepared to imbibe their feelings from their officers, seemed alike sad and dispirited.
What a change was this from the wild and joyous spirit which once animated every grade and class,—from the generous enthusiasm that once warmed each bold heart, and made every soldier a hero! Alas! the terrible consequences of long defeat were on all. The tide of battle that rolled disastrously from the ruined walls of the Kremlin still swept along towards the great Palace of the Tuileries. Germany had witnessed the destruction of two mighty armies; the third and last was now awaiting the eventful struggle on the very soil of their country. The tide of fugitives, which preceded the retiring columns of Victor and Ney, met the advancing bodies of the conscripts, and spread dismay and consternation as they went.
The dejection was but the shadow of the last approaching disaster.
On the night of the 27th January, the cavalry brigade with which I was received orders to march by the Forest of Bar on Brienne, where Blücher was stationed in no expectation of being attacked. The movement, notwithstanding the heavy roads, was made with great rapidity; and by noon on the following day we came up with the main body of the army in full march against the enemy.
Then once more did I recognize the old spirit of the army. Joyous songs and gay cheers were heard from the different corps we passed. The announcement of a speedy meeting with the Prussians had infused new vigor among the troops. We were emerging from the deep shade of the wood into a valley, where a light infantry regiment were bivouacked. Their fires were formed in a wide circle, and the cooking went merrily on, amid the pleasant song and jocund cries.
Our own brief halt was just concluded, when the bugles sounded to resume the march; and I stood for a moment admiring the merry gambols of the infantry, when an air I well remembered was chanted forth in full chorus. But my memory was not left long in doubt as to where and how these sounds were first heard. The wild uproar at once recalled both, as they sang out,—
“Hurrah for the Faubourg of St. Antoine!”
No sooner did I hear the words, than I spurred my horse forward and rode down towards them.
“What regiment's yours, Comrade?” said I, to a fellow hurrying to the ranks.
“The Fifth, mon officier,” said he, “Voltigeurs of the Line.”
“Have you a certain François, a maître d'armes, still among you?”
“Yes, that we have. There he is yonder, beating time to the roulade.”
I looked in the direction he pointed, and there stood my old friend. He was advanced in front of a company, and with the air of a tambour-major he seemed as if he was giving time to the melody.
“Ah, sacré conscripts that ye are!” cried he, as with his fist clenched he gesticulated fiercely towards them; “can't ye keep the measure? Once, now, and all together:—
“'Picardy first, and then—.”
“Halloo, Maître François! can you remember an old friend?”
The little man turned suddenly, and bringing his hand to the salute, remained stiff and erect, as if on parade.
“Connais pas, mon capitaine,” was his answer, after a considerable pause.
“What! not know me!—me, whom you made one of your own gallant company, calling me 'Burke of Ours'?”
“Ah, par la barbe de Saint Pierre! is this my dear comrade of the Eighth? Why, where have you been? They said you left us forever and aye.”
“I tried it, François; but it wouldn't do.”
“Mille bombes!” said he; “but you 're back in pleasant times,—to see the Cossacks learning to drink champagne, and leave us to pay the score. Come along, however; take your old place here. You are free to choose now, and needn't be a dragoon any longer; not but that your old general will be glad to see you again.”
“General d'Auvergne! Where is he now?”
“With the light cavalry brigade, in front; I saw him pass here two hours since.”
“And how looks he, François?”
“A little stooped, or so, more than you knew him; but his seat in the saddle seems just as firm. Ventrebleu! if he 'd been a voltigeur, he 'd be a good man these ten years to come.”
Delighted to learn that I was so near my dearest and oldest friend in the world, I shook Francois's hand, and parted; but not without a pledge, that whenever I joined the infantry, the Fifth Voltigeurs of the Line were to have the preference.
As we advanced towards Brienne the distant thunder of large guns was heard; which gradually grew louder and more sustained, and betokened that the battle had already begun. The roads, blocked up with dense masses of infantry and long trains of wagons, prevented our rapid advance; and when we tried the fields at either side, the soil, cut up with recent rains, made us sink to the very girths of our horses. Still, order after order came for the troops to press forward, and every effort was made to obey the command.
It was five o'clock as we debouched into the plain, and beheld the fields whereon the battle had been contested; for already the enemy were retiring, and the French troops in eager pursuit. Behind, however, lay the town of Brienne, still held by the Russians, but now little better than a heap of smoking ruins, the tremendous fire of the French artillery having reduced the place to ashes. Conspicuous above all rose the dismantled walls of the ancient military college; the school where Napoleon had learned his first lesson in war, where first he essayed to point those guns which now with such fearful havoc he turned against itself. What a strange, sad Subject of contemplation for him who now gazed on it! On either side, the fire of the artillery continued till nightfall; but the Russians still held the town. A few straggling shots closed the combat; and darkness now spread over the wide plain, save where the watchfires marked out the position of the French troops.
A sudden flash of lurid flame, however, threw its gleam over the town, and a wild cheer was heard rising above the clatter of musketry. It was a surprise party of grenadiers, who had forced their way into the grounds of the old château, where Blücher held his headquarters. Louder and louder grew the firing, and a red glare in the dark sky told how the battle was raging. Up that steep street, at the top of which the venerable château stood, poured the infantry columns in a run. The struggle was short. The dull sound of the Russian drum soon proclaimed a retreat; and a rocket darting through the black sky announced to the Emperor that the position had been won.
The next day the Emperor fixed his headquarters at the château, and a battalion of the guard bivouacked in the park around it. I had sent forward the letter to Général Damrémont, and was wondering when and in what terms the reply might come, when the general himself rode up, accompanied by a single aide-de-camp.
“I have had the opportunity, sir, to speak of your conduct in the proper quarter,” said he, courteously; “and the result is, your appointment as major of the Tenth Hussars, or, if you prefer it, the staff.”
“Wherever, sir, my humble services can best be employed. I have no other wish.”
“Then take the regimental rank,” said he; “your brigade will see enough of hot work ere long. And now push forward to Mézières, where you'll find your regiment. They have received orders to march to-morrow, early.”
I was not sorry to be relieved from the command of my irregular horse, who went by the title of “brigands” in the army generally; though, if the truth were to be told, the reproach on the score of honesty came ill from those who conferred it. Still, it was a more gratifying position to hold a rank in a regiment of regular cavalry, and one whose reputation was second to none in the service.
“I wish to present myself to the colonel in command, sir,” said I, addressing an officer, who with two or three others stood chatting at the door of a cottage.
“You 'll find him here, sir,” said he, pointing to the hut. But, as he spoke, the clank of a sabre was heard, and at the same instant a tall, soldierlike figure stooped beneath the low doorway, and came forth.
“The colonel of the Tenth, I presume?” said I, handing the despatch from General Damrémont.
“What! my old college friend and companion!” cried the colonel, as he stepped back in amazement. “Have I such good fortune as to see you in my regiment?”
“Can it be really so?” said I, in equal astonishment. “Are you Tascher?”
“Yes, my dear friend; the same Tascher you used to disarm so easily at college,—a colonel at last. But why are you not at the head of a regiment long since? Oh! I forgot, though,” said he, in some confusion; “I heard all about it. But come in here; I've no better quarters to offer you, but such as it is, make it yours.”
My old companion of the Polytechnique was, indeed, little altered by time,—careless, inconsiderate, and good-hearted as ever. He told me that he had only gained the command of the regiment a few weeks before; “and,” added he, “if matters mend not soon, I am scarcely like to hold it much longer. The despatches just received tell that the Allies are concentrating at Trannes; and if so, we shall have a battle against overwhelming odds. No matter, Burke; you have got into a famous corps,—they fight splendidly, and my excellent uncle, his Majesty, loves to indulge their predilection.”
I passed the day with Tascher, chatting over our respective fortunes; and in discussing the past and the future the greater part of the night went over. Before dawn, however, we were on the march towards Chaumière, whither the army was directed, and the Emperor himself then stationed.
It was the 1st of February, and the weather was dark, lowering, and gloomy. A cold wind drove the snowdrift in fitful gusts before it, and the deep roads made our progress slow and difficult. As our line of advance, however, was not that by which the other divisions were marching, it was already past noon before we knew that the enemy was but three leagues distant. On advancing farther, we heard the faint sounds of a cannonade; and then they grew louder and louder, till the whole air seemed tremulous with the concussion.
“A heavy fire, Colonel,” said a veteran officer of the regiment. “I should guess there are not less than eighty or a hundred guns engaged.”
“Press on, men! press on!” cried Tascher. “When his Majesty provides such music, it's scarcely polite to be late.”
At a quick trot we came on, and about three o'clock debouched in the plain behind Oudinot's battalions of reserve, which were formed in two dense columns, about a hundred yards apart.
“Hussars to the front!” cried an aide-de-camp, as he galloped past, and waved his cap in the direction of the space between the columns.
In separate squadrons we penetrated through the defile, and came out on an open plain behind the centre of the first line. The ground was sufficiently elevated here, so that I could overlook the front line; but all I could see was a dense, heavy smoke, which intervened between the two positions, in the midst of which, and directly in front, a village lay. Towards this, three columns of infantry were converging, and around the sounds of battle were raging. This was La Giberie: the hamlet formed the key of the French position, and had been twice carried by, and twice regained from, the Allies. As I looked, the supporting columns halted, wheeled, and retired; while a tremendous shower of grape was poured upon them from the village, which now seemed to have been retaken by the Allies.
“Cavalry to the front!” was now the order; and a force of six thousand sabres advanced from between the battalions, and formed for attack. It was Nansouty who led them, and his heavy cuirassiers were in the van; and then came the grenadiers à cheval; ours was the third, in column. As each regiment debouched, the word “Charge!” rang out, and forward we went. The snow drifting straight against us, we could see nothing; nor was I conscious of any check to our course till the shaking of the vast column in front and then the opening of the squadrons denoted resistance, when suddenly a flash flared out, and a hurricane of cannon-shot tore through our dense files. Then I knew that we were attacking a battery of guns,—and not till then. Mad cheers and cries of wounded men burst forth upon the air, with the clashing din of sabres and small-arms; the mass of cavalry appeared to heave and throb like some great monster in its agony. The trumpet to retreat sounded, and we galloped back to our lines, leaving above five hundred dead behind us, on a field where I had not yet seen the enemy.
Meanwhile the Russians were assembling a mighty force around the village; for now the cannonade opened with tenfold vigor in front, and fresh guns were called up to reply to the fire. Hitherto all was shrouded in the blue smoke of the artillery and the dense flakes of the snowdrift, when suddenly a storm of wind swept past, carrying with it both sleet and smoke; and now, within less than five hundred yards, we beheld the Allied armies in front of us. Two of the three villages, which formed our advanced position, already had been carried; and towards the third, La Bothière, they were advancing quickly.
Ney's corps, ordered up to its defence, rushed boldly on, and the clattering musketry announced that they were engaged; while twelve guns were moved up in full gallop to their support, and opened their fire at once. Scarce had they done so, when a wild hurrah was heard; and like a whirlwind, a vast mass of cavalry,—the Cossacks of the Don and the Uhlans of the South, commingled and mixed,—bear down on the guns. The struggle is for life or death; no quarter given. Ney recalls his columns, and the guns are lost.
“Who shall bring the Emperor the tidings?” said Tascher, as his voice trembled with excitement. “I'd rather storm the battery single-handed than do it.”
“He has seen worse than that already to-day,” said an aide-de-camp at our side. “He has seen Lahorie's squadrons of the Dragoons of the Guard cut to pieces by the Russian horse.”
“The Guard! the Guard!” repeated Tascher, in accents where doubt and despair were blended.
“There goes another battalion to certain death!” muttered the aide-de-camp, as he pointed to a column of grenadiers emerging from the front line; “see,—I knew it well,—they are moving on La Bothière. But here comes the Emperor.”
Before I could detect the figure among the crowd, the staff tore rapidly past, followed by a long train of cavalry moving towards the left.
“His favorite stroke,” said Tascher: “an infantry advance, and a flank movement with cavalry.” And as the words escaped him, we saw the horsemen bearing down at top speed towards the village.
But now we could look no longer; our brigade was ordered to support the attack, and we advanced at a trot. The enemy saw the movement, and a great mass of cavalry were thrown out to meet it.
“Here they come!” was the cry repeated by three or four together, and the earth shook as the squadrons came down.
Our column dashed forward to meet them; when suddenly through the drift we beheld a mass of fugitives, scattered and broken, approaching: they were our own cavalry, routed in the attempt on the flank, now flying to the rear, broken and disordered.
Before we could cover their retreat, the enemy were upon us. The shock was dreadful, and for some minutes carried all before it; but then rallying, the brave horsemen of France closed up and faced the foe. How vain all the efforts of the redoubted warrior of the Dnieper and the Wolga against the stern soldier of Napoleon! Their sabres flashed like lightning glances, and as fatally bore down on all before them; and as the routed squadrons fell back, the wild cheers of “Vive l'Empereur!” told that at least one great moment of success atoned for the misfortunes of the day.
“His Majesty saw your charge, Colonel,” said a general officer to Tascher as he rode back at the head of a squadron. “So gallant a thing as that never goes unrewarded.”
Tascher's cheek flushed as he bowed in acknowledgment of the praise; but I heard him mutter to himself the same instant, “Too late! too late!” Fatal words they were,—the presage of the mishap they threatened!
A great attack on La Rothière was now preparing. It was to be made by Napoleon's favorite manoeuvre of cavalry, artillery, and infantry combined, each supporting and sustaining the other. Eighteen guns, with three thousand sabres, and two columns of infantry numbering four thousand each, were drawn up in readiness for the moment to move. Ney received orders to lead them, and now they issued forth into the plain.
Our own impatience at not being of the number was quickly merged in intense anxiety for the result. It was a gorgeous thing, indeed, to see that mighty mass unravelling itself,—the guns galloping madly to the front, supported on either flank by cavalry; while, masked behind, marched the black columns of infantry, their tall shakos nodding like the tree-tops of a forest. The snow was now falling fast, and the figures grew fainter and fainter, and all that remained within our view was the tail of the columns, which were only disengaging themselves from the lines.
A deafening cannonade opened from the Allied artillery on the advance, unreplied to by our guns, which were ordered not to fire until within half range of the enemy. Suddenly a figure is seen emerging from the heavy snowdrift at the full speed of his horse; another, and another, follow him in quick succession. They make for the position of the Emperor. “What can it be?” cries each, in horrible suspense; “see, the columns have halted!”
Dreadful tidings! The guns are embedded in the soft ground,—the horses cannot stir them; one-half of the distance is scarcely won, and there they are beneath the withering cannonade of the Allied guns, powerless and immovable! Cavalry are dismounted, and the horses harnessed to the teams: all in vain! the wheels sink deeper in the miry earth. And now the enemy have found out the range, and their shot are sweeping through the dense mass with frightful slaughter. Again the aides-de-camp hasten to the rear for orders. But Ney can wait no longer; he launches his cavalry at the foe, and orders up the infantry to follow.
Meanwhile a great cloud of cavalry issues from the Allied lines, and directs its course towards the flank of the column: the Emperor sees the danger, and despatches one of his staff to prepare them to receive cavalry. Too late! too late!—the snowdrift has concealed the advance, and the wild horsemen of the desert ride down on the brave ranks. Disorder and confusion ensue; the column breaks and scatters. The lancers pursue the fugitives through the plain; and before the very eyes of the Emperor, the Guard—his Guard—are sabred and routed.
“What is to become of our cavalry?” is now the cry, for they have advanced unsupported against the village. Dreadful moment of suspense! None can see them; the guns lie deserted, alike by friend and foe. Who dares approach them now? “They are cheering yonder,” exclaimed an officer: “I hear them again.”
“Hussars, to the front!” calls out Damrémont,—“to your comrades' rescue! Men, yonder!” and he points in the direction of the village.
Like an eagle on the swoop, the swift squadrons skim the plain, and mount the slope beyond it. The drift clears, and what a spectacle is before us! The cavalry are dismounted; their horses, dead or dying, cumber the ground; the men, sabre in hand, have attacked the village by assault. Two of the enemy's guns are taken and turned against them, and the walls are won in many places. An opening in the enclosure of a farmyard admits our leading squadron, and in an instant we have taken them in flank and rear.
The Russians will neither retreat nor surrender, and the carnage is awful; for though overpowered by numbers, they still continue the slaughter, and deal death while dying. The chief farmhouse of the village has been carried by our troops, but the enemy still holds the garden: the low hedge offers a slight obstacle, and over it we dash, and down upon them ride the gallant Tenth with cheers of victory.
At this instant the crashing sound of cannon-shot among masonry is heard. It is the Allied artillery, which, regardless of their own troops, has opened on the village. Every discharge tells; the range is at quarter distance, and whole files fall at every fire. The trumpet sounds a retreat; and I am endeavoring to collect my scattered followers, when my eye falls on the aigulet of a general officer among the heap of dead; and at the same time I perceive that some old and gallant officer has fallen sword in hand, for his long white hair is strewn loosely across his face.