Clash of Arms: A Romance

by John Bloundelle-Burton

"THE LITTLE WOOD AT ENTZHEIM."

The summer had almost passed and the early autumn come ere that other battle which had been so long impending between the French and the Imperialists seemed at last about to take place. For the Duke de Bournonville had crossed the Rhine once more and was known to be meditating the siege of Philipsburg, while Turenne, who had been watching every movement of the enemy, at last made up his mind that he would try conclusions with him, although the other was twenty thousand men stronger than he. For he knew that, while this enemy was thus double his own force of about twenty-two thousand men, it must soon be treble, since now the Elector of Brandenburg was marching to join the Austrian general with still another twenty thousand men.

The time had come! He must prevent that coalition or see Franche-Comté and Lorraine torn away from Louis' grasp almost ere it had tightened on them; Champagne devastated, even as he himself had devastated the Palatinate; see Philipsburg lost. For if Brandenburg joined De Bournonville all this and worse would happen, while the Electress and other princesses who accompanied the Elector--saying in their bitterness that they did so with a view to making the acquaintance of the French aristocracy, and thereby acquiring their good breeding--would, without doubt, have good opportunity for gratifying their desire.

But it was October now, and at last--for Brandenburg was perilously near with his twenty thousand men and his Electress and princesses--on the second of the month the French army advanced. The night march which was to bring the contending forces face to face had begun; through a stormy, rainy night, over roads deep with pools of rain and mud, the departure was made.

Ahead of the Marshal there marched the "King's" and "Queen's" dragoons and those of Listenai, with, riding by the side of the third troop of these, Debrasques, his corselet on now, and, above his fair but troubled face, his helmet; behind Turenne came the infantry commanded by Mont-Georges, with, amongst it, Churchill's regiment, which had just joined from Rhinzabern, then the artillery under St. Hilaire--all marching in three columns. And, riding near Turenne ahead of the man who had sworn to kill him, was De Bois-Vallée, with his left arm in a sling, but not otherwise much incommoded by the sword-thrust he had received six weeks before.

Of those three men round whom this narrative revolves, perhaps Debrasques was the most unhappy; unhappy because, turn his eyes which way he might, he saw nothing but misery ahead. It was borne in on him that his cousin would inevitably fall by Andrew's hand unless the impending battle removed him from the other's path--which, in truth, would not grieve him much!--he was doubly unhappy because of those last words which Andrew had uttered ere he set out for the defile of Rhinzabern; the words: "Afterwards--the woman."

For he knew what Andrew had not the least thought of, namely, that, base as had been De Bois-Vallée's treachery to Philip Vause, it was nothing to the treachery which he had practised towards the woman Philip had loved, towards Marion Wyatt.

Yet, knowing what Debrasques did, he himself did not know all.

* * * * * *

Splashing through the miry roads, the rain beating down upon their cloaks, their horses stumbling into ruts a foot deep, wheels of gun carriages getting stuck fast in the mud and shoes being torn from of the feet of the infantry, that night-march was continued until at last a river called the Breusch was reached at four on the next afternoon, and there, on the other side of it, in a half-moon position, the Imperial army was seen. And all through that night-march one question had troubled the lad far more than any inconvenience which he shared with thousands of others, the question: "Shall I tell him all I know? To-morrow, when the battle is over and if we three are all left alive, or to-day, ere the fight begins and while there is still time?" And he decided that it should be to-day; to-morrow might be too late. He himself might be dead, and then the light he could throw on all that had happened--a light which, at least, might shield Marion Wyatt from Andrew Vause's vengeance--would never be cast. Yes, he must reach Andrew somehow before the conflict began, if possible; must say one word to him that would save the woman. As for his cousin, he was a villain; he must take his chance. He had done his best for him because his own mother's blood ran in his veins, had tried to frighten him away from the neighbourhood of Andrew, and the other had refused to go. Nay, had he not threatened to expose him to the King so as to drive him away? but even as he made the threat he knew he would never carry it out. Base as De Bois-Vallée was, he was a soldier; it was his career, and he had won golden opinions from Turenne by his conduct in this campaign and others. He could not be equally base and shut that career against him. In spite of all, he was his kinsman.