There are hollow, short reverberations in the air; it is the thunder of distant cannon. Listening crowds stand in the market-place, and at the gates; little is said, only half words in a subdued tone, as if the speaker feared to speak too loud. From the parapet of the towers, and the gables of the houses which look towards the field of battle, the eyes of the citizens strain anxiously to see into the distance. On the verge of the horizon there is a white cloud in the sunlight, occasionally a bright flash is perceptible and a dark shadow. But on the by-ways which lead from the nearest villages to the high road, dark crowds are moving. They are country people flying into the wood or to the mountains. Each carries on his shoulders what he has been able to scrape together, but few have been able to carry off their property, for carts and horses have for some weeks past been taken from them by the soldiers; lads and men drive their herds nervously, the women loudly wailing, carry their little ones. Again there is a rolling in the air, sharper and more distinct. A horseman races through the city gate at wild speed, then another. Our troops are retreating, the crowds of citizens separate, the people run in terrified anguish into their houses, and then again into the street; even in the city they prepare for flight. Loud are the cries and lamentations. He who still possessed a team of horses, dragged them to the pole, the clothmaker threw his bales, and the merchant his most valuable chests on the waggons, and over these their children and those of their neighbours. Waggons and crowds of flying men thronged to the distant gate. If there is a swampy marsh almost impassable, or a thick wood in the neighbourhood, they fly thither. Inaccessible hiding-places, still remembered from the time of the Swedes, are again sought out. Great troops collect there, closely packed; the citizens and countrymen conceal themselves with their cattle and horses for many days; sometimes still longer. After the battle of Bautzen the parishioners of Tillendorf near Bunzlau abode more than a week in the nearest wood, their faithful pastor Senftleben accompanied them, and kept order in that wild spot, he even baptised a child.[[56]]
But he who remains in the town with his property, or in the performance of his duty, is eager to conceal his family and goods. Long has the case been taken into consideration, and hiding-places ingeniously devised. If the city has more especially roused the fury of the enemy, it is threatened with fire, plunder, and the expulsion of the citizens. In such a case the people carry their money firmly sewed in their clothes.
One anxious hour passes in feverish hope. The first announcers of the retreat clatter through the streets, damaged guns escorted by Cossacks. Slowly they return, the number of their men incomplete, and blackened by powder, more than one tottering wounded. The infantry follow, and waggons overcrowded with wounded and dying men. The rear-guard take up their post at the gate and the corners of the streets, awaiting the enemy. Young lads run from the houses and carry to the soldiers what they have called for, a drink or a bit of bread; they hold the knapsacks for the wounded, or help them quickly to bandages.
There are clouds of dust on the high road. The first cavalry of the enemy approach the gate, cautiously looking out, the Carabiniers on the right flank. A shot falls from the rear-guard, the Chasseur also fires his carbine, turns his horse, and retires. Immediately the enemy's vanguard press on in quick trot, and the Prussian Tirailleurs withdraw from one position to another firing. Finally the last has abandoned the line of houses. Once more they collect outside the gate, in order to detain the enemy's cavalry, who have again formed into rank.
The streets are empty and shut. Even the boys who have accompanied the Prussian Tirailleurs have disappeared; the curtains of the windows are let down, and the doors closed; but behind curtain and door are anxious faces looking at the approaching enemy. Suddenly a cry bursts forth from a thousand rough voices—vive l'Empereur! and, like a flood, the French infantry rush into the town. Immediately they knock against the doors with the butt ends of their muskets, and if they are not opened quick enough they are broken in. Now follow desperate disputes between the defenceless citizen and the irritated enemy—exorbitant demands, threats, and frequently ill-usage and peril of death—everywhere clamour, lamentation, and violence. Cupboards and desks are broken open, and everything, both valuable and valueless, plundered, spoiled, or destroyed, especially in those houses whose inmates have fled; for the property of an uninhabited house, according to the custom of war, falls to the share of the soldier. The city authorities are dragged to the townhall, and difficult negotiations begin concerning the quartering of the troops, the delivery of provisions and forage, and impossible contributions.
If the enemy's General cannot be satisfied with gifts, or if the town is to be punished, the inhabitants of most consideration are collected, forcibly detained, threatened, and, perhaps at last, carried off as hostages. If a larger corps is encamped round the city, one battalion bivouacs in the market-place. The French are rapidly accommodated. They have fetched straw from the suburbs, they have robbed provisions on the road, and cut up the doors and furniture for fire-wood. Disagreeably sounds the crash of the axe on the beams and woodwork of the houses. Brightly blaze up the camp fires, and loud laughter, with French songs, sound about the flames.
When the enemy withdraws in the morning, after having remained one night through which the citizens have held anxious watch, they gaze with astonishment on the rapid devastation of their city, and on the sudden change in the country outside the gates. The boundless ocean of corn, which yesterday waved round their city walls, is vanished, rooted up, crushed and trampled by man and horse. The wooden fences of the gardens are broken, summer arbours and houses are torn away, and fruit-trees cut down. The fire-wood lies in heaps round the smouldering watch-fires, and the citizen may find there the planks of his waggon and the doors of his barn. He can scarcely recognise the place where his own garden was, for the site of it is covered with camp straw, confused rubbish, and the blood and entrails of slaughtered beasts. In the distance, where the houses of the nearest village project above the foliage of the trees, he perceives no longer the outline of the roofs, only the walls are standing, like a heap of ruins.
It was bitter to pass through such an hour, and many lost all heart. Even for people of property it was now difficult to support their families. All the provisions of the city and neighbourhood were consumed or destroyed, and no countryman brought even the necessaries of life to the market, it was needful therefore to send far into the country for the means to appease hunger. But from a rapid succession of great events men had become colder, more sturdy and hardier in themselves. The strong participation which every individual had taken in the fate of the State made them indifferent to their own hardships. After every danger, it was felt to be a comfort that the last thing, life, was saved. And there was hope.
Before long the devastating billow surged back. Again roared the thunder of guns, and the drums rattled. Our troops are advancing; wild struggle rages round the city. The Prussian battalions press forward through the streets into the market-place against the enemy, who still hold the western suburb. It is the young Landwehr who this day receive their baptism of blood. The balls whistle through the streets; they strike the tiles and plaster of the houses; the citizens have again concealed their wives and children in cellars and out-of-the-way places. The battalions halt in the market-place. The ammunition waggons are opened. The first companies press forward to the same gate through which, a few days before, the enemy had rushed into the city. The struggle rages fiercely. In the assault the enemy are thrown back; but fresh masses establish themselves in the houses of the suburb, and contend for the entrances to the streets. Mutilated and severely wounded men are carried back and laid down in the market-place, and more than once the combatants have to be relieved. When the inexperienced soldiers see their comrades borne back from the fight, their faces blackened with powder, and covered with sweat and blood, their courage sinks within them; but the officers, who are also for the first time in close combat, spring forward, and "Forward, children! the Fatherland calls!" sounds through the ranks. At one time the enemy succeeded in storming the upper gate, but scarcely have they forced their way into the first street leading to the market, when a company of Landwehr throw themselves upon them with loud hurrahs, and drive them out of the gate.[[57]]
The thunder roars; the fiery hail pierces through doors and windows; the dead lie on the pavement and thresholds of the houses. Then any citizen who has a manly heart can no longer bear the close air of his hiding place. He presses close behind his fighting countrymen near to the struggle. He raises the wounded from the pavement, and carries them on his back either to his house or the hospital. Again the boys are not among the last; they fetch water, and call at the houses for some drink for the wounded whom they support; they climb up the ammunition waggons and hand down the cartridges, proud of their work they are unconcerned about the whistling bullets. Even the women rush out of the houses, with bread in their aprons and full flasks in their hands; they may thus do something to help the Fatherland.