The Invasion; Or, Yegof The Fool.
Chapter XIV.
At seven o'clock everything was still quiet.
From time to time Dr. Lorquin opened a window of the great hall and looked abroad. Nothing was stirring; even the fires had gone out.
Louise, seated near her father, gazed sadly and tenderly upon him. She seemed to fear that she would never again see him, and her reddened eyes showed that she had been weeping.
Hullin, though firm, showed signs of emotion.
The doctor and the Anabaptist, both grave and solemn in their manner, were conversing, and Lagarmitte, behind the stove, listened thoughtfully to their words.
"We have not only the right, but it is our duty to defend ourselves," the doctor was saying. "Our fathers cleared these woods and cultivated the land. They are now rightfully ours."
"Doubtless," answered the Anabaptist; "but it is written, Thou shalt not kill! Thou shalt not spill thy brother's blood!"
Catherine Lefevre, whom this view of matters annoyed, turned suddenly from her work, saying:
"Then if we believed as you do, we would let the Germans and Russians drive us from house and home. Your religion is a famous one for thieves! The Allies ask nothing better, I am sure. I do not wish to insult you, Pelsly; you have been brought up in these notions; but we will defend you despite yourself. I love to hear of peace, but not when the enemy is at our doors."
Pelsly remained mute from astonishment, and Doctor Lorquin could not repress a smile.
At the same moment the door opened, and a sentry entered, crying:
"Master Jean-Claude, come! I believe they are advancing."
"I am coming, Simon," answered Hullin, rising. "Embrace me, Louise. Courage, my child; fear not, all will go well."
He clasped her to his bosom and his eyes filled with tears. She seemed more dead than living.
"Be sure," said he to Catherine, "to let no one go out or approach the windows."
He rushed from the house to the edge of the plateau, and cast his eyes toward Grandfontaine and Framont, thousands of feet below him.
The Germans had arrived the evening before, a few hours after the Cossacks. They had passed the night, to the number of five or six thousand, in barns, stables, or under sheds, and were now clustering like ants, pouring from every door in tens and twenties, and hurrying to buckle on knapsacks, fasten sabres, or fix bayonets.
Others—cavalry—Uhlans, Cossacks, hussars, in green, gray, and blue uniforms, faced with red or yellow, with caps of waxed cloth or lamb-skin, were hastily saddling their horses or rolling their blankets.
Trumpets were sounding at every street-corner, and drummers were tightening their drum-cords. Every phase of military life seemed there.
A few peasants, stretching their heads out of their windows, gazed at all this; women crowded at the garret-windows, and innkeepers filled flasks.
Nothing escaped Hullin, and such scenes were not new to him, but Lagarmitte was petrified with wonder.
"How many they are!" he cried.
"Bah!" returned Hullin; "what does that matter? In my time, we annihilated three armies of fifty thousand each of that same race in six months, and we were not one to four. Rest easy, however; we shall not have to kill all these; they will fly like hares. You will see."
These judicious reflections uttered, he turned back to the abatis, and the two followed a path which had been made in the snow a couple of days before. The snow, hardened by the frost, had become ice, and the trees formed an impassable barrier. Below lay the ruined road.
As he appeared, Jean-Claude saw the mountaineers from Dagsberg in groups, twenty paces distant from each other, in round holes like nests which they had dug for themselves. These brave fellows were seated on their haversacks, their fox-skin caps pulled down over their heads and their muskets between their knees. They had only to rise to view the road fifty yards beneath them at the foot of a very slippery slope.
"Ha, Master Jean-Claude! When is the work to begin?"
"Easy, my boys; do not be impatient; in an hour you will have enough to do."
"So much the better."
"Aim well at the height of the breast, and don't expose yourselves more than you can help."
"Never fear for us, Master Jean-Claude."
"Do not forget to cease firing when Lagarmitte winds his horn; we cannot afford to lose powder."
He found Materne at his post, lighting his pipe; the old man's beard was frozen almost solid.
"They seem to be in no hurry to attack," said Jean-Claude. "Can it be that they will take another route through the mountains?"
"Never fear it," answered the old man. "They need the road for their artillery and baggage. Listen! The bugles are sounding, 'Boots and saddles.' But do you know, Hullin," asked the hunter with a low chuckle, "what I saw a while ago in Grandfontaine? I saw four Austrians knock old Dubreuil, the friend of the Allies, down and thrash him well with sticks, the old wretch! It did my heart good. I suppose he refused some of his wine to his good friends."
Hullin listened to no more; for, happening to cast his eyes to the valley, he saw a regiment of infantry debouching on the road. Beyond, in the street, cavalry were advancing, five or six officers galloping in front.
"At last!" cried the old soldier, his face lighting up with a look of fierce determination—"at last!"
And dashing along the line, he cried:
"Attention, men of the Vosges!"
Lagarmitte followed with his bugle. Ten minutes after, when the two, all breathless, had reached the pinnacle of the rock, they saw the enemy's column fifteen hundred feet beneath them, about three thousand strong, with their long white coats, canvas-gaiters, bear-skin shakos, and red mustaches, their young officers, sword in hand, curveting in the intervals between the companies, and from time to time turning round and shouting hoarsely, "Forvertz! forvertz!" while above the line the bayonets flashed and glittered in the sun.
They were pressing on to the abatis at the pas de charge.
Old Materne, too, saw the Germans advancing, and his keen eyes could even note the individuals of the mass. In a moment he had chosen his quarry.
In the middle of the column, on a tall bay horse, rode an old officer, wearing a white peruke, a three-cornered hat heavily laced with gold, and a yellow sash. His breast was covered with ribbons, and his thick black plumes danced merrily as he cantered on.
"There is my man!" muttered the hunter, as he slowly brought his piece to his shoulder.
A report, a wreath of white smoke, and the old officer had disappeared. In a moment the whole line of intrenchments rattled with musketry; but the Austrians, without replying, pressed steadily upward, their ranks as regular and well aligned as if they were on parade; and to speak truth, many a brave mountaineer, mayhap the father of a family, as he saw that forest of bayonets come on, thought that perhaps he might better have remained at home in his village than have shouldered his rifle for its defence. But as the proverb says, the wine was drawn, naught but to drink remained!
When two hundred paces from the abatis, the enemy halted, and began a rolling fire, such as the mountain echoes had never before replied to. Bullets hailed on every side, cutting the branches, scattering the icicles, and flattening themselves on the rocks; their continued hiss was like the humming of a swarm of bees. All this did not arrest the fire of the mountaineers, and soon both sides were buried in thick gray smoke; but at the end of ten minutes more, the drums beat out the charge, and again the mass of bayonets dashed toward the abatis; and again the cry of "Forvertz! forvertz!" rang out, but now nearer and nearer, until the firm earth trembled beneath the tramp of thousands of feet.
Materne, rising to his full height, with quivering cheeks and flashing eyes, shouted, "Up! up!"
It was time. Many of the Austrians, almost all of them students of philosophy, or law, or medicine, gathered from the breweries of Munich, Jena, and other towns—men who fought against us because they believed that Napoleon's fall would alone give them freedom—many of these intrepid fellows had clambered on all-fours over the frozen snow and hurled themselves upon the works. But each who climbed the abatis was met by a blow from a clubbed musket, and flung back among his comrades.
Then did the strength and bravery of old Rochart the wood-cutter show themselves. Man after man of these children of the Vaterland did he stretch upon the whitened earth. Old Materne's bayonet ran with blood. The little tailor, Riffi, loaded and fired into the mass with the cool courage of a veteran, and Joseph Larnette, Hans Baumgarten, whose shoulder was pierced by a ball, Daniel Spitz, who lost two fingers by a sabre stroke, and a host of others, will be for ever honored by their countrymen for their deeds that day. For more than a quarter of an hour the fight was hand to hand. Nearly all the students had fallen, and the others, veterans accustomed to retiring honorably, turned to retrace their steps. At first they retreated slowly; then faster and faster. Their officers urged them to the attack once more, and seconded their words with blows from the flat of their swords, but in vain; bullets poured among them from the abatis, and soon all order was lost; the retreat was a wild rout.
Materne laughed grimly as he gazed after the flying foe, lately advancing in such proud array, and shook his rifle above his head in joy.
At the bottom of the slope lay hundreds of wounded. The snow was red with blood, and in the midst of heaps of slain were two young officers yet living, but crushed beneath the weight of their dead horses.
It was horrible! But men are oftentimes savage as the beasts of the forests. Not a man among the flushed mountaineers seemed to have a thought for all the misery he saw before him; it even seemed to rejoice many.
Little Riffi, carried away by a sublime ardor for plunder, glided down the steep. He had caught a glimpse of a splendid horse, that of the colonel whom Materne had shot, which, protected by a corner of the rock, stood safe and sound.
"You are mine!" cried the tailor, as he seized the bridle. "How astonished my wife Sapience will be!"
All the others envied him as he mounted his prize; but their envy was soon checked when they saw the noble animal dash at full speed toward the Austrians. The little tailor tugged at the bridle, and shouted, and cursed, and prayed, but all to no purpose. Materne would have fired, but he feared that in that wild gallop he might kill the man, and soon Riffi disappeared among the enemy's bayonets.
All thought he would be massacred at once, but an hour later they saw him pass through the street of Grandfontaine, his hands bound behind his back, and a corporal following with uplifted cane.
Poor Riffi! He did not long enjoy his triumph, and his comrades at length laughed at his sad fate as merrily as if he had been a Kaiserlik. Such is the nature of man; as long as he feels no ill himself, the troubles of others affect him little.
Chapter XV.
The mountaineers were wild with exultation; their triumph knew no bounds, and they looked upon each other as so many heroes.
Catherine, Louise, Doctor Larquin, all who had remained at the farm, rushed out to greet the victors. They scanned the marks of bullets, gazed at the blood-stained slope; then the Doctor ordered Baumgarten and Spitz to the hospital, although the latter insisted on still remaining at his post.
Louise distributed brandy among the men, and Catherine Lefevre, standing on the edge of the slope, gazed at the dead and wounded. There lay old and young, their faces white as wax, their eyes wide and staring, their arms outstretched. Some had fallen in attempting to rise, and the faces of some wore a look of fear as if they yet dreaded these terrible blows which the clubbed rifles had dealt. Others had dragged themselves out of the range of fire, and their route was marked by tracks of blood.
Many of the wounded seemed resigned to their lot, and only seeking a place to die; others gazed wistfully after their regiment, which they could discern on its way to Framont—that regiment with which they had quitted their native village, with which they had till then safely braved the toils and dangers of a long campaign, but which now abandoned them to die, far from friends and home, surrounded by an infuriated foe. And they thought how a trembling mother or sister would ask their captain or their sergeant, "Did you know Hans, or Kasper, or Nickel, of the first or second company?" And how coldly would come the reply: "Let me see; it is very likely. Had he not brown hair and blue eyes? Yes, I knew him; we left him in France near a little village, the name of which I forget. He was killed by the mountaineers the same day as the stout major, Yeri-Peter. A brave fellow! Good evening."
Perhaps, too, some among them thought of a pretty Gretchen or Lotchen, who had given them a ribbon, and wept hot tears at their departure, and sobbed, "I will wait for you, Kasper. I will marry no one but you!" Thou wilt wait long, poor girl!
All this was not very pleasant, and Mother Lefevre's thoughts, as she gazed, wandered to Gaspard. Hullin, however, soon came with Lagarmitte to where she stood, and cried exultantly:
"Hurrah, boys! you have seen fire, and those Germans yonder will not boast much of this day's work."
He ran to embrace Louise, and then ran back to Catherine.
"Are you satisfied, Mother Lefevre? Fortune smiles; but what is the matter?"
"Yes, Jean-Claude, I am satisfied; all goes well; but look yonder upon the road; what a massacre!"
"War is war," replied Hullin gravely.
"Is there no way of helping that poor fellow there—the one looking up at us with his large blue eyes? O heaven! they pierce my very heart! Or that tall, brown-haired one binding his arm with his handkerchief?"
"Impossible, Catherine! I am sorry; but we should have to cut steps in the ice to descend; and the Austrians, who will be back in an hour or two, would make use of them in their next attack. But we must go and announce our victory through the villages, and to Labarbe, and Jerome, and Piarette. Holla! Simon, Niklo, Marchal! carry the news to our comrades. Materne, see that you look sharp, and report the least movement."
They went together to the farmhouse, and Jean-Claude met the reserve as he passed, and Marc-Dives on horseback in the midst of his men. The smuggler complained bitterly of having had no part in the fight; he felt disgraced, dishonored.
"Bah!" said Hullin, "so much the better. Watch on our right; if we are attacked there, you will have enough to do."
Dives said nothing; his good humor could not so easily be restored; nor that of his men—smugglers like himself—who, wrapped in their mantles, and with their long rapiers dangling from their sides, seemed meditating vengeance for what they deemed a slight.
Hullin, unable to pacify them, entered the farm-house. Doctor Lorquin was extracting the ball from the wound of Baumgarten, who uttered terrible shrieks.
Pelsly, standing at the threshold, trembled in every limb. Jean-Claude demanded paper and ink to send his orders to the posts, and the poor Anabaptist had scarcely strength to go for them. The messengers departed, proud enough to be the bearers of the tidings of the first battle and victory.
A few mountaineers in the great hall were warming themselves at the stove, and discussing the details of the fight in animated tones. Daniel Spitz had his two fingers amputated, and sat behind the stove, his hand wrapped in lint.
The men who had been posted behind the abatis before daybreak, not having yet breakfasted, were—each with a huge piece of bread and a glass of wine—making up for lost time, all the time shouting, gesticulating, and boasting as much as their full mouths would allow them to, and every now and then, when some one would speak of poor Riffi and his misfortunes, they were ready to burst their sides laughing.
It was eleven o'clock, when Marc-Dives rushed into the hall, crying:
"Hullin! Hullin! Where is Hullin?"
"Here!"
"Follow me—quick!"
The smuggler spoke in a strange tone. A few moments before, he was furious at not having taken part in the battle; now he seemed triumphant. Jean-Claude followed, sorely disquieted, and the hall was cleared in a minute, all feeling that Marc's hurry was of grave portent.
To the right of Donon stretches the ravine of Minières, through which roars a torrent which rushes from the mountain-side to the depths of the valley.
Opposite the plateau defended by the partisans, and on the other side of the ravine, five or six hundred feet distant, rose a sort of terrace with very steep sides, which Hullin had not deemed it necessary to occupy, as he was unwilling to divide his forces, and saw also that the position could be easily turned under cover of the fir forest, if the enemy should occupy it.
Imagine the brave old man's dismay when, from the farm-house door, he saw two companies' of Austrians climbing up the side with two field-pieces, which, dragged up by strong ropes, seemed to hang over the precipice. They were pushing at the wheels, too, and in a few moments the guns would be on the flat top. He stood for an instant as if struck by lightning, and then turned fiercely on Dives.
"Could you not tell me of this before?" he cried. "Was it for this I ordered you to watch the ravine? Our position is turned! Our retreat is cut off! You have lost all!"
All present, even old Materne, shrank from the flashing eyes bent upon the smuggler, and he, notwithstanding his usual cool audacity, could not for some moments reply.
"Be calm, Jean-Claude," said he at last; "it is not so bad as you think. My fellows have yet done nothing, and as we want cannon, those shall be ours."
"Fool! Has your vanity brought us to this? You must needs fight, boast—and for this you sacrifice us all! Look! they are coming from Framont, too!"
Even as he spoke, the head of a new column, much stronger than the first, appeared, advancing from Framont toward the abatis at the double-quick. Dives said not a word. Hullin, conquering his rage in the face of danger, shouted:
"To your posts, all! Attention, Materne!"
The old hunter bent his head, listening.
Marc-Dives had recovered all his coolness.
"Instead of scolding like a woman," said he, "you had better give me the order to attack those yonder from the cover of the woods."
"Do so, in heaven's name," cried Hullin. "Listen, Marc! We were victorious, and your fault has risked all the fruits of our victory. Your life shall answer for our success."
"I accept the terms."
The smuggler, springing upon his horse, threw his cloak proudly over his shoulder, and drew his long, straight blade. His men followed the example. Then, turning to the fifty mountaineers who composed his troop, Dives pointed with his sword to the enemy, and cried:
"We must have yon height, boys. The men of Dagsberg shall never be called braver than those of the Sarre. Forward!"
The troops dashed on, and Hullin, still pale from the effects of his anger, shouted after:
"Give them the steel!"
The tall smuggler, on his huge and strong steed, turned his head, and a laugh broke from his lips. He shook his sword expressively, and the troops disappeared in the wood.
At the same moment the Austrians, with their two guns—eight-pounders—reached the level top, while the Framont column still pressed up the slope. Everything was as before the battle, save that now the mountaineers were between two fires.
They saw the two guns with their rammers and caissons distinctly. A tall, lean officer, with broad shoulders and long, flaxen mustaches, commanded. In the clear mountain air they seemed almost within reach, but Hullin and Materne knew better; they were a good six hundred yards away, further than any rifle could carry.
Nevertheless, the old hunter wished to return to the abatis with a clear conscience. He advanced as near as possible to the ravine, followed by his son Kasper and a few partisans, and, steadying his piece against a tree, slowly covered the tall officer with the light mustaches.
All held their breath lest the aim might be disturbed.
The report rang out, but when Materne placed the butt of his rifle again on the ground, to see the effect of his shot, all was as before.
"It is strange how age affects the sight," said he.
"Affects your sight!" cried Kasper. "Not a man from the Vosges to Switzerland can place a ball at two hundred yards as true as you."
The old forester knew it well, but he did not wish to discourage the others.
"Well, well," he replied, "we have no time to dispute about it. The enemy is coming. Let every man do his duty."
Despite these words, so calm and simple, Materne too was sorely troubled. As he entered the trench, the air seemed full of sounds of dire foreboding, the rattling of arms, the steady tramp of a trained multitude. He looked down the steep and saw the Austrians pressing on, but this time with long ladders, to the ends of which great iron hooks were fastened.
"Kasper," he whispered, "things look ill—ill indeed. Give me your hand. I would like to have you and Frantz near me! Remember to do your part like a man."
As he spoke, a heavy shock shook the defences to their foundations, and a hoarse voice cried, "O my God!"
Then a fir-tree, a hundred paces off, bent slowly and thundered into the abyss. It was the first cannon-shot, and it had carried off both old Rochart's legs. Another and another followed, and soon the air was thick with crushed and flying ice, while the shrieking of the balls struck terror to the stoutest hearts. Even old Materne trembled for a moment; but his brave heart was soon itself again, and he cried:
"Vengeance! vengeance! Victory or death!"
Happily, the terror of the mountaineers was of short duration. All knew that they must conquer or die. Two ladders were already fixed, despite the hail of bullets, and the combat was once more foot to foot and hand to hand, fiercer and bloodier than before.
Hullin had seen the ladders before Materne, and once more his wrath against Dives arose; but he knew that anger then availed naught, and he sent Lagarmitte to order Frantz, who was posted on the other side of Donon, to hasten to the farm with half his men. The brave boy, warned of his father's danger, lost not a moment, and already the black slouched hats were seen climbing the mountain-side. Jean-Claude, breathless, the sweat pouring from his brow, ran to meet them, crying:
"Quick, quick! or all is lost!" He trembled once more with rage, attributing all their misfortunes to the smuggler.
But where was Marc-Dives? In half an hour he had made his way around the ravine, and from his steed saw the two companies of Austrians drawn up at ordered arms, two hundred paces behind the guns, which still kept up their fire upon the intrenchments. He turned to the mountaineers, and in a low voice, while the thunder of the cannon echoed peal upon peal from the valley, and the shouts and shrieks and clatter of the assault rose beyond it, said:
"Comrades, you will fall upon the infantry with the bayonet. I and my men will do the rest. Forward!"
The whole troop advanced in good order to the edge of the wood, tall Piercy of Soldatenthal at their head.
They heard the Werda [Footnote 157] of a sentinel. Two shots replied; then the shout of "Vive la France!" rang to heaven, and the brave mountaineers rushed upon the foe like famished wolves upon their prey.
[Footnote 157: "Who goes there?">[
Dives, erect in his stirrups, looked on and laughed.
"Well done!" he said. "Charge!" The earth shook beneath the shock. Neither Austrians nor partisans fired; for a while nothing was heard but the clash of bayonets or the dull thud of the clubbed muskets as they fell; then shrieks and groans and cries of rage arose, and from time to time a shot rang out. Friend and foe were mixed and mingled in the savage fray.
The band of smugglers, sabre in hand, sat all this while gazing at the fight, awaiting their leader's signal to engage.
It came at last.
"Now is our time," cried Marc. "One brave blow, and the guns are ours."
And forth from the cover of the wood, their long mantles floating behind in the wind, every man, in his fiery impatience, bending over his saddle-bow, and pointing his long, straight rapier straight forward, broke the bold riders.
"The point, my lads! the point! never mind the edge!" shouted Dives.
In a moment they were on the pieces. Among Marc's troop were four old dragoons who had seen the Spanish wars through, and two veteran cuirassiers of the guard, whom love of danger had attached to the smuggler. The rammers and short sabres of the artillerymen could avail but little against their well-aimed thrusts, each one of which brought a man to the earth.
Marc's cheek was blackened with the powder of a pistol fired within six inches of his head; a bullet passed through his hat; but his course was not staid until his sword pierced the old officer with the light mustache through and through, at one of the cannons. Then, rising slowly in his saddle until his tall form sat erect, he gazed around, and said sententiously:
"The guns are ours!"
But the scene was terrible; the mêlée on the high plateau; the shrieks, the neighing of horses, or their cries of agony; the shouts of rage; men casting away their arms in a wild flight for life, an inexorable foe pursuing; beyond the ravine, ladders crowded with white uniforms and bristling with bayonets; mountaineers defending themselves with the fierce courage of despair; the sides of the slope, the road, and the foot of the abatis heaped with dead, or wounded writhing in anguish; still further away, the masses of the enemy advancing, with musket on shoulder, and officers in the midst urging them on; old Materne, on the crest of the steep, swinging his clubbed rifle with deadly effect, and shouting for his son Frantz, who was rushing at full speed with his command to the fight; Jean-Claude directing the defence; the deafening musketry, now in volleys, now rattling like some terrible hailstorm; and, rolling above all, the vague, weird echoes of mountain and valley. All this was pressed into that one moment.
Marc-Dives was not of a contemplative or poetic turn of mind, however, and wasted no time in useless reflections upon the horrors of war. A glance showed him the position of affairs, and, springing from his horse, he seized one of the levers of the guns, and in a moment had aimed the yet loaded piece at the foot of the ladders. Then he seized a match and fired.
Strange cries arose from afar off, and the smuggler, gazing through the smoke, saw a bloody lane in the enemy's ranks. He shook both his hands above his head exultingly, and a shout of triumph arose from the breastworks.
"Dismount!" he cried to his men. "Now is our time for action! Bring cartridges and balls from your caissons. Load! We will sweep the road! Ready! Fire!"
The smugglers applied themselves to the work, and shot after shot tore through the white masses. The fire enfiladed the ranks, and the tenth discharge was at a flying foe.
"Fire! fire!" shouted Marc. And the partisans, re-enforced by Frantz, regained the position they had for a moment lost.
And now the mountain-side was covered only with dead, wounded, and flying. It was four o'clock in the evening, and night was falling fast. The last cannon-shot fell in the street of Grandfontaine, and, rebounding, overturned the chimney of the "Red Ox."
Six hundred men had perished. Many of the mountaineers had fallen, but many more of the Kaiserliks. Dives's cannonade had saved all; for the partisans were not even one against ten, and the enemy had almost made himself master of their works.
Chapter XVI.
The Austrians, crowded in Grandfontaine, fled toward Framont, on foot and on horseback, flinging their knapsacks away, and looking behind as if they feared the mountaineers were in hot pursuit.
In Grandfontaine, in a sort of spirit of revenge, they broke whatever they could lay hands on, tore out windows, crushed in doors, demanded food and drink, and insulted the people by way of payment. Their imprecations and cries, the commands of their officers, the complaints of the inhabitants, the heavy tramp of feet across the bridge of Framont, and the agonized neigh of wounded horses, all rose in a confused murmur to the abatis.
On the side of the mountain, arms, shakos, knapsacks, dead—all the signs of a rout—were alone seen. Opposite appeared Marc-Dives's guns, ready to open fire anew in case of a new attack.
The partisans had gained the day; but no shout of triumph rose from their intrenchments. Their losses had been too cruel. Silence had succeeded the tumult of battle—silence, deep and solemn—and those who had escaped the carnage gazed earnestly at their fellows, as if wondering to see them yet alive. A few called aloud for friends, some for brothers, who replied not. Then search began throughout the length of the works for Jacob, or Philippe, or Antoine.
And the gray shades of night were falling fast over mountain and valley, and lending a strange mystery to the horrid picture; and men came and went without knowing one another.
Materne wiped his bloody bayonet, and called his boys in hoarse tones:
"Kasper! Frantz!"
And seeing them approach in the half-darkness, he asked:
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
The voice of the old hunter, harsh as it was, trembled.
"We are all three again together; God's mercy be thanked!" he murmured.
And he, who was never known to weep, embraced his boys, while the tears rained down his cheeks, and they, no less moved, sobbed like little children.
But the old man soon recovered himself and cried with a forced gayety:
"We have had a rough day, lads; let us take a cup of wine—I am thirsty."
Throwing a last glance at the bloody slope, and seeing that the sentries whom Hullin had stationed at intervals of thirty paces were all at their posts, the old man led the way to the farm-house.
They were passing carefully through the corpse-piled trench, when a feeble voice exclaimed:
"Is that you, Materne?"
"Ah poor Rochart! Pardon! forgive me if I hurt you," said the old hunter, bending over the wounded man; "how comes it that you are still here?"
"Because I cannot move hence; inasmuch as I have no legs," answered the other with a mournful sort of merriment.
The three hunters stood silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter continued:
"Tell my wife, Materne, that behind the cupboard, in a stocking, she will find six crowns. I saved them in case either of us should fall sick; but I have no further need—"
"Perhaps—perhaps—you may live yet, old friend," interrupted Materne. "We will carry you from here, at all events."
"It is not worth while," returned the wounded man. "An hour more, and you can carry me to my grave."
Materne, without replying, signed to Frantz to help him, and together they raised the old wood-cutter from the ground, despite his wish to be left alone. Thus they arrived at the farm-house.
All the wounded who had strength enough to drag themselves to the hospital were there. Doctor Lorquin and a fellow-surgeon, named Despois, who had come during the day to his assistance, had work enough on hand; and as Materne and his sons with their piteous load traversed the dimly-lighted hall, they heard cries which froze the blood in their veins, and the dying wood-cutter almost shrieked:
"Why do you bring me here! Let me die in peace. They shall not touch me!"
"Open the door Frantz," said Materne, his forehead covered with a cold sweat, "open quick!"
And as Frantz pushed open the door, they saw, on a large kitchen-table in the middle of the low room, with its heavy brown rafters, Colard, the younger, stretched at full length, six candles around him, a man holding each arm, and a bucket beneath. Doctor Lorquin, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a short wide saw in his hand, was about cutting off the poor fellow's leg, while Desbois stood by with a sponge. Blood dripped into the bucket, and Colard was pale as death. Catherine Lefevre was near, with a roll of lint, and seemed firm; but the furrows in her cheeks were deeper than usual, and her teeth were tightly set. She gazed on the ground so as not to see the misery around.
"It is over!" said the doctor at length, turning round.
And casting a glance at the new-comers he added:
"Ah! you here, Father Rochart?"
"Yes; but you must not touch me. I am done for; let me die in peace."
The doctor took up a candle, looked for a moment at the old man's wounds, and said with a grimace:
"It was time, my poor Rochart; you have lost a great deal of blood, and if we wait any longer, it will be too late."
"Do not touch me!" shrieked the old man. "I have suffered enough!"
"As you wish. We will pass to another."
He looked at the long line of mattresses. The two last were empty, although deluged with blood. Materne and Kasper placed their charge upon the last, while Despois went to another of the wounded men, saying:
"It is your turn, Nicholas."
Then they saw tall Nicholas Cerf lift a pale face and eyes glittering with fear.
"Give him a glass of brandy," said the doctor.
"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."
"Where is your pipe?"
"In my vest."
"Good; and your tobacco?"
"In my pantaloons pocket."
"Fill his pipe, Despois. This man is a brave fellow—I like to see such. We will take off your arm in two times and three motions."
"Is there no way of preserving it, Monsieur Lorquin—for my poor children's sake? It is their only support."
"No, the bone is fractured and will not reunite. Light his pipe, Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man, smoke, smoke."
The poor fellow seemed after all to have little wish to do so.
"Are you ready?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," answered the sufferer in a choking voice.
"Good! Attention, Despois; sponge!"
Then with a long knife he cut rapidly around the arm. Nicholas ground his teeth. The blood spirted; Despois tied something. The saw ground for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the floor.
"That is what I call a well-performed operation," observed Lorquin.
Nicholas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. They bound round what remained of his arm with lint, and replaced him on his mattress.
"Another finished! Sponge the table well, Despois, and then for the next," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large basin.
Each time he said, "Now for the next," the wounded men groaned with fear. The shrieks they heard and the glittering knives they saw were enough to strike a chill to their hearts; but what could be done? All the rooms of the farm-house and of the barn were crowded. Only the large hall remained clear, and so the Doctor could not help operating under the eyes of those who must a little later take their turn.
Materne could see no more. Even the dog, Pluto, who stood behind the doctor, seemed to tremble at the horrible sight. The old hunter hastened to breathe the cold air without, and cried:
"And to think, my boys, that this might have happened to us!"
"God is good," said Frantz, "and why should we let sights even like these affright us from our duty? We are in his hands."
A murmur of voices arose to their right.
"It is Marc-Dives and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.
"Yes, they have just come from the breastwork they made behind the fir-wood for the cannon," added Frantz.
They listened again. Footsteps approached.
"You are embarrassed with your three prisoners," said Hullin, in short tones. "You return to Falkenstein to-night; why can you not take them with you?"
"But where shall I put them?"
"Parbleu! In the prison of Abreschwiller; we cannot keep them here."
"I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they attempt to escape on the way, I will plant my rapier between their shoulders."
"You must!"
They reached the door, and Hullin, seeing Materne, cried joyously:
"You here, old friend? I have been seeking you for an hour. Where were you?"
"We were carrying old Rochart to the hospital."
Jean-Claude dropped his head sadly; but his joy at the result of the day's battle soon gained the upper hand, and he said:
"Yes, it is mournful, indeed. But such is the fortune of war. Are you or your sons hurt?"
"Not a scratch."
"Thank Heaven! Materne, those who passed through this day's work may well rejoice."
"Yes," cried Marc-Dives, laughing, "I saw old Materne ready to beat a retreat; without those little cannon-shots, things would have had a different ending."
Materne reddened and glanced angrily at the smuggler.
"It is very possible," he answered; "but without the cannon-shots at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end, and old Rochart and fifty brave fellows would yet have legs and arms—a thing which would not have hurt our victory."
"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, who saw a dispute likely to arise. "Quit this discussion. Every man has done his duty."
Then addressing Materne, he added:
"I have sent a flag of truce to Framont, to tell the enemy to remove their wounded. They will arrive in about an hour, doubtless, and you must order our outposts to let them advance; but without arms, and with torches. If they come otherwise, fire on them."
"I will go at once," replied the old hunter.
"Return with your sons, and have supper with us at the farm-house, when you have carried out your orders."
"Very well, Jean-Claude."
Hullin ordered Frantz and Kasper to have large bivouac-fires lighted for the night, and Marc to have his horses fed and to go at once for more ammunition, and, seeing them depart on their way, he entered the farm-house.
Translated From The French.