CHAPTER XXX. THE RESCUE.
“A kinsman is part of a man’s body, of his heart, but a foster-brother is a piece of his heart.” Waverley.
Those who have been familiarized with warfare, know well, from personal experience, how callous it renders the heart to human suffering. To me these scenes were new—and to witness my fellow-men coolly hurried to eternity, without even the mockery of a trial, had occasioned a sensation too painful and powerful to be overcome. When, therefore, Colonel La Coste and his officers sate down to breakfast, I felt mine, indeed, to be a sorry appetite. The dead guerillas in the courtyard were still before my eyes, and men with whom, in the full pride of youth and health, I had taken my evening meal last night, were now “stark and stiff;” and my morning repast was to be shared with their executioners. I could not forget them; they rose to my imagination like Banquo’s ghost, and completely marred my appetite.
Colonel La Coste, who in his own rough way had played the part of a kindly host, guessed the cause of my depression, and endeavoured to remove it. He had been three years a prisoner in England, and spoke our language tolerably.
“Come, my young friend,” he said, “courage!—‘Tis but the chance of war, and thy thraldom may be short. Think not that Frenchmen do not respect those to whom they are opposed; and while a stern necessity renders example indispensable, they know how to distinguish between the brigand and the soldier. Eat, and muster thy philosophy. When but a little older than thyself, I underwent a protracted captivity—Did I sink into despair? No, faith! A sous-lieutenant, without friends or money, I taxed my wits to make a stand against misfortune—ay, and I succeeded, too. There is in England many a tooth-pick case, the handywork of Colonel La Coste, to which tooth-picks and their cases, the said colonel has been often indebted for a dinner. Think not, that because I inflict just punishment upon brigands, I cannot pay due respect to a fellow-soldier in misfortune. Give me your parole—and, while with us, you shall be a captive but in name.”
“I thank you, sir,” I answered, “but when a hope of deliverance remains, I never will, by a solemn promise, rivet the chain that binds me. I know all chances of escape are desperate, and, without even having seen an army in the field, that I shall be transferred to the hopeless bondage of some inland fortress. I will give no parole, and if fortune favour me, I will be free, or——”
“So—I understand you! Well, try your chances, and let me take care to mar them. Your parole once given, Mr. O’Halloran, no officer of this detachment should have been more at liberty than yourself; but as it is refused, you will excuse me in treating you as I should the commonest prisoner.—No matter, we understand each other perfectly. You have been candid, and I forewarned. Have I your parole while we continue here—here, in this posada?”
“Certainly.”
“And you will not attempt escape?”
“No; even though my good friend, the Empecinado, beat up your quarters, my dear colonel.”
“Well, to breakfast now. Durimel?” he said, turning to his aide-de-camp, “this gentleman is under no restraint; and while we remain in the village, the gates are open to him.”
I bowed. “I am now upon parole, colonel—I feel flattered with this mark of confidence; and lest I might be run away with by these wild partidas, I shall wail myself of the protection of your voltigeurs, and confine myself within the enclosure of the posada.”
Colonel La Coste appeared pleased at the frankness with which I addressed him, and nothing could surpass the civility of his officers. Perfectly acquainted with the accidental circumstances which introduced me to the Empecinado and involved me in the melee of the morning, I was complimented on my first essay; and more than one of the gallant Frenchmen, expressed a sincere regret that my effort at escape had not proved more successful. The colonel washed down his breakfast with a hearty stoup, while, with the loquacity of an old soldier, he favoured us with military reminiscences.
“Would you believe it, Mr. O’Halloran, that your name is perfectly familiar to me? 1 am a soldier of the old school, and commenced my career at thirty. My first campaign was in the Low Countries, opposed to your present commander-in-chief, the Duke of York; and, at his retreat, I was in the advanced guard of the Republican army. On both sides, supplies were scanty, and as our discipline was not then particularly strict, men wandered here and there to make out a supper, if they could. Though in years a man, I was a raw soldier in experience; and one foggy evening I straggled from the outposts, and, at last, totally missed my way. The accursed dykes of that most beastly country confused me, and the further I went, the more I got confounded. I tumbled into two or three of their dirty canals, and escaped, half smothered, between mud and water, until, after an hour’s wandering, I at last found myself within the British outposts and regularly at my wit’s end.
“A light was burning from a casement; I crept on, evaded the sentry in front, and peeped through the window. Within, one man was seated, and the epaulets on his shoulder told me that he was a field officer. My case was hopeless. In a Dutch fog, within the lines of the enemy, the bridges guarded, the boors unfriendly—how, in the devil’s name, had I a chance of escape!—and, adopting a desperate resolution, I determined to trust to the generosity of an enemy. I tapped lightly on the casement, and the English officer rose, and opened it. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked. ‘A poor hungry devil that has lost his way!’ said I. He told me to proceed; and I honestly informed him that I had been four-and-twenty hours without food, and that, in seeking some. I had got out of my own lines, and into sundry canals—was half drowned, half frozen, and half starved—and, to sum the story up, regularly perplexed, and bedeviled. He laughed—told me to come in—gave me a draught of genuine Schiedam—pointed to a table, where the remnant of a capital supper was unremoved—and told me to eat heartily; (‘gad, he had no occasion to repeat the invitation;) I did so—again drank heartily from the long-necked bottle, and then modestly inquired whether I was a prisoner, or not?
“‘Heaven forbid, pauvre diable!’ he answered with a laugh—‘No, no—Wert thou a spy—three dips in a Dutch canal, with the mercury below the freezing point, would be punishment enough. I have tonight the outpost duty—I’ll pass you—and should you encounter some wandering Englishman, repay the debt!’ He then left the room; I followed—he saw me across a bridge where the outlying picket lay—and in an hour, I found myself once more with my regiment. Is it not singular that his name was similar to yours?—and that, three days afterwards, I met him in the streets of Tyle, bayonet to bayonet? The headlong charge of the British grenadiers overpowered us; but I heard, with unfeigned regret, that my gallant friend and host had been severely wounded, and lost an arm.
“Well, my son, when fortune turned against your countrymen, often and fervently I prayed, that should more misfortunes overtake Colonel O’Halloran, some good chance might place him in the hands of his grateful enemy, Corporal La Coste.—have you ever heard of such a person—a man of my own time of life, ay—old enough to be your father?”
“In the latter observation, my dear Colonel, you are perfectly correct, as the gentleman in question stands precisely in that relation to me. Well—it is strange enough, that you were indebted for a supper to the parent, and repaid it with a breakfast to the son!”
In a moment the old republican folded me in his arms.
“Welcome,” he said, “son of a brave and generous enemy! May your career, my child, be as gallant but more fortunate than your father’s; and may you return to your native land with a well-won reputation, to cheer the winter of the old man’s age—I once hoped the same from thee, Henri!”
He looked for a moment to the corner of the chamber where the dead chasseur was laid—a tear trickled down his cheek—he brushed it hastily away—then rose and crossed over to the casement, to conceal emotions of a softer nature, which, in his stern estimate of a soldier’s character, he considered unworthy of its dignity. In a few minutes he recovered his composure, and was ready to receive the report of Captain St. Pierre—who had just returned to the village, after an unsuccessful effort to discover the retreat of the dreaded guerilla.
The captain of the chasseurs announced the failure of the expedition in terms that showed how deeply its want of success had mortified him.
“We scoured the woods,” he said; “we searched every hovel for a league around us; questioned every peasant that we met, and used threats and promises in vain: and we are back, Colonel La Coste—the men worn out, the horses wearied—and we could neither find a trace, nor glean the slightest intelligence of the murdering brigand, who, for this time, has unfortunately eluded detection.”
Rest was absolutely necessary before the cavalry could resume their march; and, as a mountain-pass crowned the Toledo road at a league’s distance from the village, and rendered the route particularly dangerous, it was determined that the party should remain at the posada for the night, and march at sun-rise. The dead chasseurs were honourably committed to the grave—the soldiers ordered to refresh themselves—the day passed over—night came—and, after every precaution had been taken to secure the party against surprise, I found myself once more in undisputed possession of the hard mattress on which I had rested the preceding night. War, like misfortune, introduces people to strange bed-fellows, and I never saw that adage so strikingly confirmed. Colonel La Coste slept on the Empecinado’s bed. Where were the wild and Swarthy partisans whom I had seen stretched on those couches now occupied by gaily-dressed chasseurs? Cold and lifeless in the court-yard;—all suffering at an end—life’s fever over!
At dawn of day the trumpet sounded; and as I had never undressed, I quitted the crowded gallery to enjoy the morning air. I found the court-yard in strange confusion, and the spot where the dead guerillas lay, encircled by a number of the soldiery. I stepped forward; the men made way for me; and one of them pointed out a paper affixed to the Student’s breast. It was a placard, couched in Spanish, the words being, “Meuran los Franceses!”
When the occurrence was reported to Colonel La Coste, nothing could exceed his rage at the insult, excepting his astonishment at the audacity of venturing on an attempt, that if discovered, involved the certain death of him who tried this dangerous experiment. All connected with the posada were subjected to a rigorous examination; but nothing was elicited that could attach suspicion to any particular individual. I knew not wherefore, but the occurrence raised some hopes of a speedy deliverance; and I felt a strong conviction that our march on Toledo would not be effected without interruption; and the event proved that my conclusions were correct.
We marched at six o’clock; and what a scene of melancholy loneliness the deserted posada must have presented after our departure! The crowd of glittering soldiers gone—the only occupants, the affrighted inmates, and the dead guerillas. We rode slowly through the hamlet; I, mounted on a horse that two days before had carried an enemy’s chasseur. It might have been fancy—I thought the faces of the villagers had a sinister expression as they looked after the French soldiers, while in more than one hurried glance, I saw sympathy evinced for me.
When we cleared the village, Colonel La Coste rode up, and signalled that two chasseurs, who rode on either side of me with unslung carbines, should fall back.
“Mr. O’Halloran,” he said, “your parole is ended—are you willing to renew it? If so, ride in any part of the column you think fit, and consider yourself at perfect freedom.”
“Colonel,” I replied, “to do so would be to abandon my last hope of liberty. Treat me as a close prisoner; I will not give the pledge you ask from me.”
He looked at me suspiciously.
“Is there any secret understanding with the enemy? have you received any private information? What hope of escape can you have? The escort is strong—our soldiers vigilant.”
“Still—hopeless as they may be, 1 will not throw chances away. I tell you honestly, Colonel La Coste, that I will use every means of effecting an escape—”
“Which I shall take precautions to render impracticable,” he added. “I have a stern duty to perform; and even though it cost mine ancient friend a son, La Coste shall not be wanting.”
He waived his hand—the chasseurs resumed a place at either side—and one took my bridle in his hand. The commandant addressed them—
“Should this gentleman endeavour to get away, or should an attempt be made to rescue him that seems likely to succeed, shoot him on the spot. We lost one that we should have captured; we must not lose another. Look first, to this gentleman’s security; and secondly, to his comfort. Impose no unnecessary restraint—but deliver him safely at Toledo, or, mark the consequences!—your lives shall be the forfeit of his liberty,” he said—spurred his horse forward, and took his place at the head of the column, which had now left Casa Mora in its rear.
The line of march ran through a country, wild, picturesque, and difficult. A sierra of steep ascent was immediately in our front—the summit crowned with broken crags—and the sides clothed thickly with ilex, cork, and olive trees. As we advanced, the woods grew thicker, and the road was surmounted by rocks on either hand. It seemed as if it had been originally a great water-course, which human labour had converted into a passage through the mountain. We approached the gorge of the pass with military caution. Videttes preceded the advanced guard; and, on either side, voltigeurs were thrown out in extended order, to feel the woods, and keep the flanks secure. Colonel La Coste, after making every disposition against surprise, joined the centre of the column, where I was riding with my friends the chasseurs, who had been so particularly entrusted with the pleasant duty of dispatching me on the first alarm. The Colonel ordered them to fall back once more; and, satisfied that we were secure from any molestation, he indulged again in fresh details of some of the many scenes and services which he had passed through during his adventurous career. Still, evidently he was not at ease; and as we entered the defile, he could not repress feelings of apprehension.
“What an infernal guerilla-pass it is!” he half spoke, half-muttered to himself: “The country and the men seem formed for each other, and designed for cut-throat warfare. And the manner the road winds, too,—you cannot see fifty yards in front for rocks and thickets. We’re near the summit. Heaven be praised!—for, sooth to say, Mr. O’Halloran, this is not exactly the place where I should wish to have the honour of trying conclusions with your esteemed friend, the Empecinado.”
The road made here a wide and sudden sweep, dipping into a hollow in the mountain-ridge. Right in front, a pinnacle of rock appeared to bar all farther passage, and the path was scarped from its side. The hollow way on either side was bordered by thick underwood—and nothing eould be more suspicious-looking than this wild and difficult gorge. Again Colonel La Coste rode forward to the front, to restore the order of the column, which had become crowded and disordered, from the narrowness and ruggedness of the path.
Before, however, the commandant could reach his advanced guard, a vidette galloped hastily back, and announced that the road in front was entirely blocked up with trees, formed into a strong abatis, impassable to cavalry. The chasseurs were halted, and the light infantry ordered forward to remove the barrier by which the further-progress of the column had been thus arrested. Nearly at the same moment, the rear-guard were suddenly fired on from thickets on either side, while a number of partidas rushed from their previous concealments, and, in a few minutes, effectually closed up the narrow road which the detachment had already passed, by throwing trees and rocks across it. That the French party were completely surprised, was now but too apparent. The voltigeurs, in attempting to force the abatis, had been shot down by dozens; and every knoll, or rock, which overlooked the pass, swarmed with guerillas, who commenced a murderous fire from their long-barrelled fowling-pieces, and that, too, upon the close ranks of an enemy where every bullet told.
The old republican had ridden forward to encourage the voltigeurs to force the abatis, that the column might fight its way through the gorge in which it had been entangled—but he was shot through the heart, and dropped dead from his charger. The suddenness of the attack—the fall of their leader—the appearance of countless enemies on every side, completed the panic, and paralysed exertions which, under ordinary circumstances, the enemy would have made. To a stern demand to surrender, the voltigeurs replied by throwing down their arms, while the chasseurs hastily dismounted, and endeavoured to obtain protection behind their horses, from a constant and deadly fusilade. Some had endeavoured to escape through the underwood—and a few succeeded in the attempt—but the greater number were cut down; and presently resistance ceased.
The suddenness of the surprise—and the rapidity with which the affair had terminated in the destruction or capture of the French detachment, seemed magical.—No attempt had been made to carry the orders of Colonel La Coste into execution, and my danger was confined to the ordinary chances of receiving a flying bullet by mistake.—From the moment a shot was heard, my captors lost all heart, and appeared to consider their situation desperate: generally mercy was extended—and in a time inconceivably short, the prisoners were secured, and stripped of every thing that was deemed worthy of notice by the guerillas.
From the neat and uniform appointments of the French soldiers, the eye turned in surprise on the strange and motley appearance the guerilla band presented. Every individual was dressed and armed after his especial fancy. All were differently equipped; and had not sad realities presented themselves, the whole might have been imagined a military masquerade. The costumes of several countries were united in a single dress. The flaring scarlet and light blue jacket of an Estremaduran hussar—the shaco of a French chasseur—pistols and saddle of English manufacture—the long straight sword of the cuirassier—the brown Spanish sash, and leathern cartouch-box, with an Arragonese or Catalan escopeta, were not unfrequent equipments of the same brigand, as the French invariably entitled them. *
* Leith Hay.
Although none of the captives escaped plunder, and many were cruelly insulted in the operation, it was singular that all the partidas treated me with respect, and left me unscathed in person or effects. Presently a buzz around me attracted my attention. A man was forcing a passage through the crowd, and the guerillas civilly made way for him. He was dressed and armed in the same wild and incongruous style which marked the costume of these irregular partisans; and he looked as much the brigand as if he had served a regular apprenticeship to the profession. Great, therefore, was my astonishment when I heard him pronounce my name; but greater still, when he seized both my hands in his, and half said, half sobbed—“Hector, avourneeine!—Have I found my foster-brother once more?” It was, indeed, the lost Mark Antony; and, as far as one could judge by appearances, the fosterer had neither received damage in the late affray, nor in his morning swim over the Sedana.
“Holy Mary!” he exclaimed. “Is this yourself, Master Hector? Well, I never expected to see you alive; though that black gentleman, with the long name, strove all he could to give me comfort. May the Lord reward him for the same!—and upon my soul, for a perfect stranger, he showed the greatest affection for us both After we were safe out of fire, and taking breath for a minute in the cork-wood, I asked him, fair and easy, what he thought had become of ye? ‘’Gad,’ says he, ‘I think its a toss-up between shooting and hanging. The chances are, that your master was finished in the affray; but if he escaped that, he is sure to be throttled in the morning. Don’t be cast down,’ says he, ‘if they string up our absent friend, I’ll hang twelve Frenchmen in his place, and you shall keep the reckonin’.’ It was very civil on the gentleman’s part, but, ‘faith, I was better pleased, an hour afterwards, when a goatherd brought us intelligence that you were safe and sound, and the other poor devils dead as a door-nail. But here he comes—a mighty pleasant sort of friend, but sorra worse enemy one would meet in a month of Sundays. Indeed, I have no reason to complain of him; a better comrade I never travelled with—I have lived like a fighting-cock since we came together; and as my clothes were made ribbons of in the skrimmage, here I am rigged out anew from top to toe.”
As he spoke, the partida leader approached, wrung my hand ardently with his, and warmly congratulated me on my safe deliverance from French bondage, and in having escaped any material injury in our outbreak from the posada, and the more recent attack. Confiding the duty of removing the prisoners, horses, and plunder to Villa Toro, he requested me to walk with him to the head of the pass. As we proceeded along the scene of action—if such an affair might so be termed, where the loss was entirely on one side, and no resistance had been offered—I was struck with the strange alteration the appearance of the road had undergone. Ten minutes since it had been strewn with dead chasseurs and sharpshooters, dressed in their showy uniforms, and fully and effectively equipped. Not a soldier could be discovered now; but in their places numerous corpses might be seen stripped of every covering, and in a state of nudity, that almost rendered identity impossible. One body, however, I distinctly recognised:—the white hair, and stern expression of countenance, even after death, could not be mistaken:—the dead soldier was the old Republican—Colonel La Coste.