The young officer who had rallied Tournier on the march, rose and, shrugging his shoulders, remarked, “I have read that when the Athenians of old had won some great victory, it was proposed that every general who had had a share in it, should at a public meeting deposit one after the other in an urn the written name of the general who he thought had proved himself the most conspicuous for bravery; and that when the urn was examined, it was found that, lo! each general had put down his own name. We will not do so”—with a sly glance
at the little man—“and, therefore, let me tell a story of one, here present, who will never utter a word in his own praise, but who richly deserves it. There is a brother sitting amongst us who commanded a troop in as fine a body of cavalry as ever drew sword, and I had the honour of being his subaltern. Thirteen hundred of us took part in the fatal fight of Vimiero, under the command of General Margaron. That fight, so fatal, ought to have been won by us, and would have been won but for the woods and hollows that covered so large a portion of the battle-field, so unfavourable to cavalry. But, nevertheless, from the first commencement of the fight we swept backwards and forwards, so far as the wretched nature of the ground would permit, between the two armies, and wherever we had a chance we struck hard. The English had but, as we say, a mere handful of cavalry, but, all honour to the brave, that handful fought like heroes, and its commander (his name was Taylor) was a
paladin among them; yet not more so than my captain. When one of our brigades, having been repulsed by the enemy, was being terribly cut up by their cavalry, a large body of our horse came suddenly up, and a mêlée ensued of great fierceness. Three of the enemy, one after another, did my captain slay with his own hand; and then came a single combat the like of which few have seen. Some of us left off fighting to witness it. The English commander, seeing half his men cut to pieces, rode furiously upon my captain, and tried to cut him down. It was a beautiful sight. Each was a master of fence, and the horsemanship was as perfect. But all at once the horse of Colonel Taylor reared violently and fell dead. A bullet had struck him, and his master was pitched on the ground under his adversary’s stirrup, completely at his mercy. The sword was lifted to strike, but instantly lowered. ‘Rise, brave friend!’ cried my captain, ‘I dare not touch thee!’ but as the Englishman rose from the ground, and
before he could frame a word of reply, a second bullet laid him prostrate again, never to rise. But we had delayed too long. The English came pouring upon us, and in spite of frantic efforts we were made prisoners.” Then pointing to his friend, who was fidgeting and frowning most portentously all the time, he said—“There is the man—my noble Captain Tournier!” And with such like tales the evening passed away.
The curfew bell rang at nine o’clock; the lights were put out; and all had betaken themselves to their hammocks. The sentries (not a few,) passed backwards and forwards outside, or stood at ease in their boxes. The picquets went the rounds every half-hour. Each soldier on guard was on the alert, and had need to be. Silence and slumber fell on all but the many watchers in that large assemblage of unhappy men.
There was, however, one prisoner who could not sleep that night. It was not the roughness
of his accommodation that kept him awake. Mere hardship would have been welcome to him, for he was a true soldier. It was the thoughts of his heart that troubled him; and alas! he knew not the soothing power of prayer. Not a thought of prayer, not one paternoster entered his mind. For he had lost his faith in God. We do not mean that faith which no one has till he asks the Spirit of God to give it him, and which then makes him love God in spite of all difficulties; but we mean faith in the existence of God, which all have by nature, and which sin alone can extinguish; not only grosser sin, but sinful vanity of mind.
He thought of his much-loved home, of the mother that was so dear to him, what agony of mind she must be undergoing; of his darling Elise, how her dear heart must be full of him. And then there pierced him, like the sting of an adder, the thought of separation, certainly for years, perhaps for ever, from all that happiness: the hopelessness of his condition as a prisoner
of war at a time when war seemed chronic in Europe, without prospect of cessation. And in the abject misery of his soul—misery all the more intense because of his peculiar sensitiveness of nature—he thus bewailed in secret and with rebellious will his fate.
“Cruel, cruel destiny! why did not an English bullet put an end to me at once, instead of my lingering on in this slow torture? Nothing to look forward to, nothing to be done to make one ray of hope possible! There is the horror, there is the cruelty! I would plunge with gaiety into dangers, and endure without a murmur the tortures of the Red Indian, if only there were hope at the end. But here I am—I, who looked forward greedily to a career of honour and distinction—caught like a rat in a trap, and not even dead! Oh, cursed was the day on which I was born!”