The children were supposed to be in bed, as Gavin and St. Arnaud were giving some last messages and little presents for them, when a door opened, and Freda and Gretchen, with the two boys, all fully dressed, walked in.
“We knew you were going away,” cried Freda, trying not to cry; “so after we had been put to bed we agreed to get up and dress ourselves when you came home from the levee—and—and—”
Freda broke down, immediately followed by Gretchen and the two little boys, who considered it a mark of affection for Gavin and St. Arnaud to bawl at the top of their lungs. The two departing ones hastily kissed the children all around, and Gavin was forced to gently disentangle Freda’s arms from about his neck; and wringing Kalenga’s hand, they went to the door, accompanied by Lady Hamilton and Madame Ziska. Farewells, heartfelt, but silent and swift, were exchanged, and a moment after, when Gavin and St. Arnaud were clattering down the street, Gavin said in a low voice:
“The Prussians cannot make us suffer more than in parting from those we love. That last kiss of my mother’s—oh, St. Arnaud, I can never, never forget it!”
CHAPTER XI
At sunrise, on a beautiful April morning, the last detachment of General Loudon’s light troops, five thousand strong, took up their march to join the army of Marshal Daun.
Every officer and man wore in his helmet a sprig of green, according to an ancient custom of the Austrian army when beginning a campaign. Vast crowds assembled at every point of vantage along the highway to applaud these favourite troops; while, afar off, the steeples, towers, and belfries of Vienna were black with people watching as this splendid body of men unwound itself, like a great serpent, and turned its head toward the enemy.
Gavin felt triumphantly happy as his troop, well horsed and clad, fell in line. They were mostly new recruits, with a sprinkling of seasoned soldiers, but they had had several months of breaking in at the cantonments, and being originally of stout fibre—honest peasantry, used to an outdoor life of toil—they were already fair soldiers. If every one of them did not burn with enthusiasm, as Gavin did, to distinguish himself, they had a fine and noble esprit de corps, which rendered it certain that every man would do his duty to his sovereign and his country.
St. Arnaud, as captain, had more liberty in his movements on the march than Gavin; but Gavin, riding along contentedly at the head of his troop, was well entertained by his own thoughts.
“If I expect promotion,” he argued to himself, “I ought to show by the condition of the men under me how I could manage a larger body. Now, having been a private soldier myself, I know exactly what these fellows will do and will not do. They will not, at first, know how to make themselves comfortable; but I, who went through two campaigns, know a thing or two about that. Then, when a man is ill, if he is a brave fellow, he will make out that he is well, and won’t go to the hospital; but I will look sharp after him and see that he does. The faint-hearted ones will imagine they are ill every time things look a little blue. Aha! I shall catch those fellows. I will have my men so that St. Arnaud will say to the major: ‘Do you notice Lieutenant Hamilton’s troop? Always ninety-nine per cent. of them fit for duty.’ Then the major, reporting to the lieutenant-colonel, will say: ‘Do you observe Lieutenant Hamilton’s excellent report?’ And the lieutenant-colonel, talking with the colonel, will say: ‘Lieutenant Hamilton’s troop is the best in St. Arnaud’s command, and St. Arnaud’s command is the best in the regiment.’ And the colonel, one day, as we file past, will say to General Loudon: ‘Will your Excellency notice Captain St. Arnaud’s command, how well it looks and marches?’ And General Loudon will reply: ‘True; and Lieutenant Hamilton’s troop is the best of them.’ And so, when promotions are going, it will be said: ‘St. Arnaud and that young Hamilton must not be left out.’ Oh, what a stroke of good fortune it was that I got lost in the snow in Silesia!”