CHAPTER IV. THE RETURN FROM THE ARMY.
It was a sunny, summer day-one of those days which incline the heart to prayer, and bring tears of happiness to the eyes. There are no such days in cities; if we would enjoy them we must go into the country—we must seek them in peaceful valleys, in fragrant forests, where the silence is unbroken, except by the fluttering leaves and the singing of birds. We must understand the eloquent silence of Nature in order to enjoy the holy Sabbath quiet of a summer day; and we must be able to hear the language which the flowers breathe forth, to understand the sighing of the wind, and the rustling of the trees.
Very few can do this, but few would care for it. God has not opened the eyes of the hearts of many of us to this extent; these things are hidden by a thick veil from the many; they cannot see the heavenly beauty of Nature—they do not understand the fairy tale which she is ever telling. This is gentle, idyllic, fairy lore, unsought by the learned. It whispers of roses, of dancing elves, of weeping clouds, of dreaming violets.
Happy are those who listen to these fables, who are not called by the necessities of life to hear the roar of cannon—to find all these sweet and holy songs overpowered by the noise of war, the horrors of bloodshed!
War, destructive war, still held a lighted torch over unhappy Germany; cities and villages were in ruins—even the peace of Nature was destroyed. The valleys, usually so quiet, now often resounded with the roar of cannon. The fields remained uncultivated, the meadows uncared for; there were no strong hands to work. The men and youths were gone, only the old graybeards and the women were in the villages, and the work advanced but slowly under their trembling hands. Unhappiness and want, care and sorrow were in the land.
Even in the once peaceful and happy village of Brunen on the Rhine, misery had made itself felt. Grief and anguish dwelt with the bereaved mothers, with the forsaken brides, and the weak old men; with the useless cripples, who had returned from the war, and who spent their time in relating the dangers through which they had passed, in telling of the sons, the brothers, the husbands, and the fathers of those who listened to their tales—those dear ones who were, perhaps, now stretched upon the battle-field.
But on this bright day no one in the village gave a thought to the beauties of Nature, for a new misfortune weighed heavily upon the hearts of the unhappy inhabitants. They were no longer the subjects of the hero-king, who was so worshipped by all; under whose colors their fathers and sons still fought. The French army, led by the Duke de Broglie and the Count de St Germain, had taken possession of all that part of the country, and held it in the name of their king. It was declared a French province, and the inhabitants, helpless and forsaken, were compelled to acknowledge the French as their masters, and to meet the taxes which were imposed upon them.
It was a most bitter necessity, and no one felt it more deeply than the old shepherd Buschman, the father of Charles Henry. He sat, as we first saw him, on the slope of the field where his flock was grazing, guarded and kept in order by the faithful Phylax. His eye was not clear and bright as then, but troubled and sorrowful, and his countenance bore an expression of the deepest grief. He had no one to whom he could pour forth his sorrows—no one to comfort him—he was quite alone Even his youngest son, Charles Henry, the real Charles Henry, had been compelled to leave him. The recruiting officers of the king had come a short time before the French troops had taken possession of the province, and had conscripted the few strong men who were still left in the village of Brunen.
But this time the men of Brunen had not answered joyfully to the demand. Even old Buschman had wished to keep his son Charles Henry with him. Had he not sent six sons to the field of battle, and had they not all died as heroes? Charles Henry was his last treasure, his one remaining child; his grief-torn heart clung to him with the deepest devotion. To be parted from him seemed more bitter than death itself. When the recruiting officer came into the hut of Buschman and summoned Charles Henry to follow him as a soldier, the eyes of the old man filled with tears, and he laid his hands upon the arm of his son as if he feared to see him instantly torn from his sight.
“Captain,” he said, with a trembling voice, “I have sent the king six sons already; they have all died in his service. Tell me truly, is the king in great need? If so, take me as well as my son—if not, leave me my son.”
The officer smiled, and extended his hand to the old man. “Keep your son,” he said. “If you have lost six sons in the war, it is right that you should keep the seventh.”
Buschman uttered a cry of joy, and would have embraced his son, but Charles Henry pushed him gently back, and his father read in his countenance a determination and energy that he had rarely seen there.
“No, father,” he said, “let me go—let me be a soldier as my brothers were. I should have gone four years ago, when I was prevented, and Anna Sophia—Ah, let me be a soldier, father,” he said, interrupting himself. “All the young men of the village are going, and I am ashamed to remain at home.”
The old man bent his head sadly. “Go then, my son,” he said; “God’s blessing rest upon you!”
Thus Charles Henry went; not from a feeling of enthusiasm for the life of a soldier—not from love to his king—but merely because he was ashamed to remain at home.
He had now been absent several months, and his father had not heard from him. But the news of the lately lost battle had reached the village, and it was said that the Prince Royal of Brunswick, in whose corps Charles Henry was, had been defeated. The old shepherd remembered this as he sat in the meadow this bright summer morning. His thoughts were with his distant son, and when he raised his eyes to heaven it was not to admire its dazzling blue, or its immeasurable depth, but to pray to the Almighty to spare his son. The peaceful tranquillity of Nature alarmed the old man—she speaks alone to those who have an ear attuned to her voice—she says nothing to those who listen with a divided heart. Buschman could endure it no longer; he arose and started toward the village. He longed to see some human being—to encounter some look of love—to receive sympathy from some one who understood his grief, who suffered as he did, and who did not wear the eternal smile that Nature wore.
He went to the village, therefore, and left the care of his flock to
Phylax. It comforted his heart as he passed through the principal street
of Brunen and received kind greetings from every hut he passed. He
felt consoled and almost happy when here and there the peasants hurried
toward him as he passed their huts, and begged him to come in and join
them at their simple mid-day meal, and were quite hurt when he refused
because his own dinner was prepared for him at home. These men loved
him—they pitied his loneliness—they told him of their own cares, their
own fears—and as he endeavored to console and encourage them, he felt
his strength increase—he was more hopeful, more able to bear whatever
God might send.
“We must be united in love,” said Buschman; “we will help each
other to bear the sorrows that may come upon us. To-morrow is Sunday; in
the morning we will go to the house of God, and after we have whispered
to Him the prayers which He alone must hear, we will assemble together
under the linden-tree in the square and talk of the old times and those
who have left us. Do you not remember that it was under the linden-tree
we heard of the first victory that our king gained in this fearful
war? It was there that Anna Sophia Detzloff read the news to us, and we
rejoiced over the battle of Losovitz, And I also rejoiced and thanked
God, although the victory had cost me the lives of two of my sons. But
they perished as heroes. I could glory in such a death; and Anna Sophia
read their praises from the paper. Ah, if Anna lived, I would at least
have a daughter.”
He could speak no more, emotion arrested the words on his lips; he bowed to his friends and passed on to his lonely hut. His little table was spread, and the young girl who served him, and who slept in his hut at night, was just placing a dish of steaming potatoes before his plate. The old man sat down to his solitary meal; he ate only to sustain his body; his thoughts were far away; he took no pleasure in his food. In the middle of his meal he started up; a shadow had fallen across the window, and two loving, well-known eyes had seemed to look in on him. Buschman, as if paralyzed with delight, let fall his spoon and looked toward the door. Yes, the bolt moved, the door opened, and there stood the tall figure of a Prussian soldier.
The old man uttered a cry and extended his arms. “Oh, my son, my beloved son, do I indeed see you once more?”
“Yes, father, I am here; and God willing, we will never again be parted.” And Charles Henry hastened to the outstretched arms of his father, and kissing him tenderly, pressed him to his heart.
“The thought of you, dear father, has led me here,” he said; “but for you I would not have returned to Brunen; I should have wandered forth into the world—the world which is so much greater and more beautiful than I ever dreamed. But your dear old eyes were before me; I heard your loved voice, which called to me, and I returned to you.”
“God be praised!” said his father, folding his hands, and raising his eyes gratefully toward heaven. “Oh how kind and merciful is God, to give me back my last, my only son, the support of my old age, the delight of my eyes! You will not leave me again. This is not merely a leave of absence; you have obtained your release, the war is ended, the king has declared peace.”
The eyes of the old man were dimmed with tears; he did not perceive how Charles Henry trembled, and that a deep flush mounted to his brow.
“No, father,” he said, with downcast eyes, “I will never leave you again. We have all returned home. It will be bright and gay once more in the village, and the work will go forward, for there is a great difference between a dozen old men and as many young ones. It was most needful for us to return. The corn is ripe, and should have been already gathered. We must go to work. To-morrow shall be a happy day for the village; the whole neighborhood shall perceive that the twelve young men of Brunen have returned. We met a violinist on the way, and we engaged him for to-morrow. He must play for us under the linden tree, and our fathers and mothers, and sisters and sweethearts must join us, and we will dance and sing and make merry.”
“What a coincidence!” said the old shepherd, with a bright smile. “We had already decided that we would meet together tomorrow under the linden. We wished to sit there and mourn together over our lost sons. To sing and dance is much better, and perhaps the old grayheads will join you.”
“You must dance with me, father,” said Charles Henry, laughing. “I will take no refusal.”
“I will, my son, I will; joy has made me young again, and if Phylax, the old graybeard, does not mind, and will allow me, I will dance with you, but you know he is always jealous of you. I am sure the whole village will envy you your gay young partner. But now, my son,” he continued gravely, “tell me of our king, and how is it that he has declared peace so suddenly, and whether he has been victorious or the reverse.”
“I know nothing of the king,” said Charles Henry; “I was not near him, but in the division of the Duke of Brunswick.”
“I know that, my son; but the duke would not proclaim peace without the knowledge and consent of the king.”
“Oh, father, they will compel the king to make peace,” cried Charles Henry. “And as for the Duke of Brunswick, he has given up the attack against Wesel and has withdrawn to Westphalia, and the French are in possession of the entire lowlands, which, it is to be hoped, they will retain.”
“You hope that?” asked his father, with astonishment.
“Well, yes, father. The French king is now, and perhaps will always be, the lord of Cleve; and, as his subjects, we must wish him success, and hope that he will always conquer the King of Prussia.”
“What do you say, my son?” asked the old man, with a bewildered expression. “I fear you are right. The French are our masters now, and, as our king has declared peace with France, we have the unhappiness of being French subjects. May God protect us from such a fate! It would be fearful if we dared not call the great hero—king our king, and, if we should live to see the day when our sons should be compelled, as French soldiers, to go to battle against their king. Only think, Charles Henry, you would not be allowed to wear your fine Prussian uniform on Sundays, and it is so becoming to you, and is as good as new. But how is it, my son, that they have left you the uniform? They are usually taken from the released soldiers and put amongst the army stores.”
“We all came home in our Prussian uniforms,” said Charles Henry, “but of course we will lay them aside to-day.”
“Why to-day?”
“Because we are French subjects, and therefore it is not proper for us to wear the uniform of the enemy, the King of Prussia. That is also the reason why we have returned home. When we learned that Cleve had fallen into the possession of the French, we knew that we were no longer the subjects of the King of Prussia, and we dared not fight under his flag against the French, whose subjects we had become. We considered that, and we thought how much it would injure you all here in Brunen if it were known that your sons were in the army of the Prussian king. Principally on that account we determined to return home, and we left our regiment yesterday morning, which was on the point of marching off to Minden, and we walked the entire day and half the night. We slept a few hours in a forest, and at the break of day we recommenced our journey. And now, father, that I have seen you, and you know every thing, I will go to my room and take off this uniform, and become a peasant once more.” He sought to leave the room hastily, for the amazed, horror-struck expression of his father was most disagreeable to him.
But Buschman placed his hand so heavily upon his son’s arm that he was compelled to remain. “Say it is a jest, Charles,” he cried, in an excited voice. “It is not possible for my son, the brother of my six hero-boys, to speak thus! It is merely a jest, Charles. You wished to joke with your old father. It is not true that you have deserted the flag of our king; put an end to this cruel jest, Charles Henry, and show me your leave of absence which every honest soldier obtains before leaving his regiment. Do you hear, Charles Henry? Show it to me quickly.” He extended his trembling hand toward his son, while with the other he still held his arm in a powerful grasp.
“Father,” said Charles Henry, fiercely, “I have no such paper. It is as I told you; we have left the Prussian army because we are no longer the subjects of the King of Prussia, and it is not necessary for us to remain in the service. We wish to become peasants once more.”
“You lie! you lie!” cried his father. “You are no deserter—it is impossible that my son should be a deserter.”
“No, father, I am no deserter,” returned his son, defiantly, as he freed his arm from the old man’s grasp. “I am no deserter—I have only done my duty as a subject of the French king. I have left the flag of the enemy, and I am here ready and willing to obey my new master as a true subject. That is all I have to say, father, and I believe when you consider, you will see that I was right, and that you will be pleased for me to take off the Prussian uniform and remain with you.” He did not wait for his father’s answer, but left the room hastily, as if he feared to be again detained.
The old man arose to follow him, but his feet refused their accustomed office; with a deep groan, he sank upon his chair, and as the scalding tears streamed from his eyes, he murmured: “Oh, my God! my son is a deserter! Why did you permit me to live to see this shame? Why did you not close my eyes that they might not meet this disgrace?”