“Well, sister,” responded the doctor, laughing, “you are an old campaigner, and have been under fire oftener than I have—and for the honor of my profession I will not ask for a safer place.”
Scarcely had the bright lances of the June sunrise lit up the plain than thirty thousand Algerians were seen, formed in a long, crescent-shaped line, with the artillery in the middle, advancing. The red-legged French soldiers awaited the order to advance—in high spirits, laughing, singing, and indulging in that horse-play which French discipline allows until the actual moment of going into action. They were formed into three divisions, and Sister Claire had no trouble in picking out, among the brilliant staff that was assembled under the shade of an ilex grove, the figure of De Bourmont. The French paid no attention to the great bodies of Kabyle horsemen who, dashing up close to their lines, would fire a volley, then turn and fly. Their fire did little damage, and when they grew bolder, and came nearer, a volley from the French muskets scattered them. When, however, the Algerian centre advanced upon the plateau, then the French went to work in earnest. As the first line of the French moved forward, the infantry on the run, the artillery on the trot, and at the first dash gained a quarter of a mile, Sister Claire turned to the doctor, giving him back his field-glass, which she had been using. “We shall have work soon, monsieur,” she said, calmly.
And work they had. Outnumbered two to one, the disciplined troops of France had to defend themselves on all sides. The clouds of dust raised by the multitude of Arab horsemen obscured them so that they were upon the French bayonets before they knew it. The Arabs left scarcely any wounded. As long as an Arab breathes, he can sit in his queer, box-like saddle, and the trained horses knew well enough when to turn and gallop back to their own line. The French had established themselves on a ledge of rocks, just rising above the plateau; but they could not remain there,—they must retreat or advance. If they advanced, so small was their force, they were in danger of being surrounded and cut to pieces; and if they retreated—but they had no thought of retreat. Sister Claire, in the intervals of her work, saw De Bourmont’s figure plainly, when he dismounted and, drawing his sword, headed what the expressive French phrase calls “les enfants perdus” as they made a dash for the hill where the Algerian guns thundered. She did not stop for one moment from dressing the hideous wound of a vieille moustache, who had groaned and shrieked horribly until he recognized Sister Claire; but she kept on praying while she was talking.
“Come, now,” said she, “it is very bad indeed; but you will get well. I’ve seen worse ones than this. Did we not make the passage of the Beresina together?”
“True, sister,” answered the poor creature, “and the pain is not so bad after all.”
And meanwhile, on the abrupt slope of the hill, the Algerian guns were thundering, and the masses of French infantry, each regiment led by its colonel, were moving steadily toward the circle of guns, from which the red death poured in sheets of flame and smoke, making the June morning dark. And every step they advanced, they left behind them men writhing on the stony ground.
“We must go farther on,” cried Sister Claire, suddenly; “we cannot get those wounded men here; we must go to them. You stay here, sister,” she said to her companion. “Come, doctor; come, Pierre and Auguste, let us go!” and seizing a basket of lint and bandages, she started briskly up the hill, quickly followed by the doctor and two or three bearers; and then the men began to bring the wounded to her, and soon she and the doctor were surrounded by a circle of bleeding creatures. Never was she more active or more helpful, but in the fearful struggle going on before her eyes, scarcely half a mile’s distance, she could see, at intervals, De Bourmont’s martial figure on foot, and always heading the line. They had reached the Algerian batteries now, and there was hand-to-hand fighting, the Algerians being bayoneted at their guns, while another column of red legs moved steadily up the incline to support De Bourmont’s column.
In the midst of it all, the sharp screech of a shell was heard above the spot where the doctor and Sister Claire worked side by side among a crowd of wounded men, and the next moment it dropped among them. The doctor, the bearers, and even the sufferers themselves were paralyzed, for the fuse was still burning. Not so Sister Claire. She quickly picked up the shell and ran with the activity of a girl of twenty down the hillside. A cheer broke from the doctor and the bearers, and even the poor wounded men joined faintly in the cry. Sister Claire had gone nearly a hundred yards, when she laid the shell down carefully and turned to run back. She was just half a minute too late. A deafening report was heard, and she was seen to fall to the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds; and at the same moment a shout went up from thousands of throats as De Bourmont, mounting his horse, dashed forward in pursuit of the flying Algerians.
The hospital of the Sisters of Mercy at Algiers was a pleasant place; and when, many days after this, Sister Claire awoke to consciousness, there was rejoicing, not only in the hospital, but among the soldiers, too. Every day the gate had been besieged by men coming to inquire after her, and when at last it was known that she would recover, the joy of the Jean Baptistes was touching. Many officers had sent to ask after her, but they did not cry, as the soldiers did, when told at first that she could not get well, and laugh some days after, when told that she could.