I accordingly began to read my narrative slowly and deliberately, thereby giving myself time to think what I should best do when I came to that part which became purely personal. To omit it altogether would have been dangerous, as the slightest glance at the mass of writing would have shown the deception. There was, then, nothing left, but to invent at the moment another version, in which Maurice Tiernay never occurred, and the incident of the Fels Insel should figure as unobtrusively as possible. I was always a better improvisatore than amanuensis; so that without a moment's loss of time I fashioned a new and very different narrative, and detailing the battle tolerably accurately, minus the share my own heroism had taken in it. The captain made a few, a very few corrections of my style, in which the “flourish” and “bom,” figured, perhaps, too conspicuously; and then told me frankly, that once upon a time he had been fool enough to give himself great trouble in framing these kind of reports, but that having served for a short period in the “bureau” of the minister of war, he had learned better. “In fact,” said he, “a district report is never read! Some hundreds of them reach the office of the minister every day, and are safely deposited in the ‘archives’ of the department. They have all, besides, such a family resemblance, that with a few changes in the name of the commanding officer, any battle in the Netherlands would do equally well for one fought beyond the Alps! Since I became acquainted with this fact, Tiernay, I have bestowed less pains upon the matter, and usually deputed the task to some smart orderly of the staff.”
So thought I, I have been writing history for nothing; and Maurice Tiernay, the real hero of the passage of the Rhine, will be unrecorded and unremembered, just for want of one honest and impartial scribe to transmit his name to posterity. The reflection was not a very encouraging one; nor did it serve to lighten the toil in which I passed many weary hours, copying out my own precious manuscript. Again and again during that night did I wonder at my own diffuseness—again and again did I curse the prolix accuracy of a description that cost such labor to reiterate. It was like a species of poetical justice on me for my own amplifications; and when the day broke, and I still sat at my table writing on, at the third copy of this precious document, I vowed a vow of brevity, should I ever survive to indite similar compositions.
Chapter XIII. A Farewell Letter.
It was in something less than a week after, that I entered upon my new career as orderly in the staff, when I began to believe myself the most miserable of all human beings. On the saddle at sunrise, I never dismounted, except to carry a measuring-chain, “to step distances,” mark out intrenchments, and then write away, for [pg 631] hours, long enormous reports, that were to be models of calligraphy, neatness, and elegance—and never to be read. Nothing could be less like soldiering than the life I led; and were it not for the clanking sabre I wore at my side, and the jingling spurs that decorated my heels, I might have fancied myself a notary's clerk. It was part of General Moreau's plan to strengthen the defenses of Kehl before he advanced further into Germany; and to this end repairs were begun upon a line of earth-works, about two leagues to the northward of the fortress, at a small village called “Ekheim.” In this miserable little hole, one of the dreariest spots imaginable, we were quartered, with two companies of “sapeurs” and some of the wagon-train, trenching, digging, carting earth, sinking wells, and in fact engaged in every kind of labor save that which seemed to be characteristic of a soldier.
I used to think that Nancy and the riding-school were the most dreary and tiresome of all destinies, but they were enjoyments and delight compared with this. Now it very often happens in life, that when a man grows discontented and dissatisfied with mere monotony, when he chafes at the sameness of a tiresome and unexciting existence, he is rapidly approaching to some critical or eventful point, where actual peril and real danger assail him, and from which he would willingly buy his escape by falling back upon that wearisome and plodding life he had so often deplored before. This case was my own. Just as I had convinced myself that I was exceedingly wretched and miserable, I was to know there are worse things in this world than a life of mere uniform stupidity. I was waiting outside my captain's door for orders one morning, when at the tinkle of his little hand-bell I entered the room where he sat at breakfast, with an open dispatch before him.
“Tiernay,” said he, in his usual quiet tone, “here is an order from the adjutant-general to send you back under an escort to head-quarters. Are you aware of any reason for it, or is there any charge against you which warrants this?”
“Not to my knowledge, mon capitaine,” said I, trembling with fright, for I well knew with what severity discipline was exercised in that army, and how any, even the slightest, infractions met the heaviest penalties.
“I have never known you to pillage,” continued he; “have never seen you drink, nor have you been disobedient while under my command; yet this order could not be issued on light grounds; there must be some grave accusation against you, and in any case you must go; therefore arrange all my papers, put every thing in due order, and be ready to return with the orderly.”
“You'll give me a good character, mon capitaine,” said I, trembling more than ever—“you'll say what you can for me, I'm sure.”
“Willingly, if the general or chief were here,” replied he; “but that's not so. General Moreau is at Strasbourg. It is General Regnier is in command of the army; and unless specially applied to, I could not venture upon the liberty of obtruding my opinion upon him.”