Kitabı oku: «The Romance of Modern Sieges», sayfa 14

Ever the victorious South were riding in upon them and making havoc. On one of these charges General Butterfield, seeing the utter misery and downheartedness of the men, gathered together all the regimental bands and placed them at the head of a brigade. In one great burst of sound, which rose above the clamour of the battle, they started “The Star-spangled Banner.” With the first few notes the men’s spirits rose and a new energy came to them. They stepped out and sang lustily, and other regiments caught the brave infection and cheered in chorus.

Such are the uses of music in war. In our own regiments in the Boer War, when the men got weary with the long march, a Colonel would shout to his sergeants: “Have you any men who can sing? Put them in front.” Then the regiment would step out and forget their weariness.

The Richmond Dispatch describes the battle-field thus: “Money was found abundantly among the slain. One man found not less than 150 dollars in gold. One lucky finder had no less than six chronometers ticking in his pocket at the same time. Our men seemed to take great delight in assuming Federal officers’ uniforms, and strutted about serio-comically, much to the amusement of powder-begrimed youths who sat lolling and smoking in the shade. The cannon and arms captured in this battle were numerous and of very superior workmanship. The twenty-six pieces were the most beautiful we have ever seen, while immense piles of guns could be seen on every hand, many even hardly tarnished.”

The road to James River was strewn with stragglers, tired to death. Hospitals were filled to overflowing. When they came to White Oak Swamp Bridge there was a block of waggons, cannon, ambulances, etc. Twenty rows of waggons stood side by side; teamsters swore, and horses gibbed, and officers shouted.

A Confederate officer, writing of the battle of Malvern Hill, describes how the gunboats on the James River helped the Federal retreat, how shot from rifled guns came hurtling through the woods, tearing down the largest trees. “We passed over four lines of our own men who lay close to the ground and dare not rise to face the grape and canister. Our men trampled them into the mud like logs. One man in his haste to get out of danger shoved me on one side, and just at that instant a canister-shot tore his head off. As you may suppose, I was not much vexed at his want of politeness. Early next morning I rode over the battle-ground. I came upon numbers of dead and dying horses – and the wounded! One, a fair-haired Yankee boy of sixteen, was lying with both legs broken, half of his body submerged in water, his teeth clenched, his finger-nails buried in the flesh, his whole body quivering with agony and benumbed with cold. In this case my pity got the better of my resentment, and I dismounted, pulled him out of the water and wrapped him in my blanket, for which he seemed very grateful. One of the most touching things I saw was a couple of brothers, both wounded, who had crawled together, and one of them, in the act of arranging a pillow for the other with a blanket, had fallen. They had died with their arms around one another, and their cheeks together. But your heart will sicken at these details, as mine did at seeing them, and I will cease.”

The word “resentment” in this letter reveals the bitter feeling that springs up when men of the same nation are at war. The battle of Malvern Hill was the fiercest of the seven days’ battles, and the loss on both sides was terrible. When the troops came in sight of James River, muddy current and low banks, they rushed down with mad impetuosity. Many plunged into the stream in a very frenzy of delight. Those who for hours had suffered agonies from thirst now stood knee-deep in the water and drank like fish. The horses were as delighted as the men, and neighed to their friends. Here the troops rested and enjoyed the supplies sent up from White House. But a storm came on the 2nd of July and changed all to mud and sticky surfaces; but the sound gave up their tents to the wounded, and soon many steamers took the poor victims of the fight to a more comfortable abode.

McClellan had lost 15,000 men in the awful struggle of the last seven days, but the South had suffered more heavily, and Richmond was crowded with the wounded and dying. The President thanked the General in a letter, saying: “I am satisfied that yourself, officers, and men have done the best you could.”

It was not until three years after this – in April, 1865 – that Richmond was evacuated by General Lee before Generals Grant and Sheridan. President Davis was in church when an orderly, splashed with mud, walked up the aisle and handed him a paper. In the first glance he saw that all was over, and a few hours after he was in full flight. On Monday morning Weitzel with his army, composed partly of coloured troops, marched into Richmond with bands playing. The city had been fired and the stores plundered. Main Street was in ruins, and the bridges over the river were broken. A thousand prisoners were taken and 500 pieces of artillery.

It is said that the coloured troops entered Richmond with proud gait and shouts of ecstasy, welcomed enthusiastically by their dusky brethren who thronged the streets. They laughed and shouted, prayed and wept, and kissed one another in a delirium of happiness. They thought that now at last the white races would acknowledge their equality; but the world has not yet got rid of its old prejudices, and their sun of happiness was doomed to suffer an eclipse. In a few days Lee surrendered. The Federals first heard the news from the cheers of the poor famished army of the South. Twenty-two thousand – all that was left of them – stacked their arms and filed past in a great and solemn silence. The cruel, devastating war was over. Now was seen the strange spectacle of the enemy sharing their rations with a conquered foe. They were no longer North and South now: they were all Americans – citizens once more of the United States, destined, perhaps, in a not distant future to teach Europe that peace is better than war, love is stronger than hate, God’s kingdom supreme over the transient empires of this little world.

CHAPTER XVII
THE SIEGE OF PARIS (1870-1871)WITH THE GERMANS OUTSIDE

The Germans invest Paris – Trochu’s sortie fails – The English ambulance welcomed – A Prince’s visit to the wounded – In the snow – Madame Simon – A brave Lieutenant – Piano and jam – The big guns begin – St. Denis – Old Jacob writes to the Crown Prince – A dramatic telegram – Spy fever – Journalists mobbed.

After the French Emperor was defeated and taken prisoner at Sedan a revolution broke out in Paris, and the terms of peace which had been agreed upon were refused by the Parisians. So the Germans marched on Paris, arriving on the 18th of September. By the end of October 240,000 men began to encircle the ring of fifteen outer forts which guarded Paris.

Trochu was the Governor of Paris. On the 30th of September he made a vigorous sortie across the Marne, to the south-east, where he hoped to join the French army of the Loire, and also at the same time to relieve Paris of some hungry mouths.

But the grip of the Germans was too strong. They had been allowed time to strengthen their positions, and the sortie failed, though the great guns of the forts had boomed and crashed until they were glowing hot.

An English ambulance under Mr. Young and Captain Furley was received by the German doctor with great enthusiasm, for medical comforts were growing scarce in the field hospital.

The stores were carried into the doctor’s own room, and as the box of sundries was unpacked it was splendid to see the delight of the good man.

“Porter,” he cried – “ganz gut! Ale – ganz gut! Chloroform – ach Gott! Twelve hundred cigars – du lieber Gott!” and his hands and eyes went up in delight and gratitude.

The woollen clothing alone must have saved many lives. After supper that evening the German doctor got up and made a little speech.

“Gentlemen, some people go about and make large promises which are never fulfilled. What an example of the contrary we have now before us! Mr. Young and Captain Furley heard of our state; they let no red tape stand in their way, and now this afternoon there comes jogging up our avenue a waggon bringing what is health – nay, what is life – to our poor sick and wounded. Here is the Englander all over, gentlemen – the bulldog that has no wind to spare in superfluous barking.”

The officers present raised their glasses and shouted “Hochs!” for the English ambulance. It is pleasant to hear of such comradeship between men of different nations.

The next day we are told that, after desperate fighting, the Head-quarters Staff of the German 12th Army Corps sat down to a very sombre dinner-table and spoke to one another in hushed voices, for many chairs were empty this dinner-time that had been occupied at breakfast. Not a man in the room but had lost dear friends, and many had lost kinsmen, and some had brothers lying out on the snow. On the forenoon of the fourth day there were found eight poor wretches who had survived the inclemency of two nights’ hard frost. Frostbitten, they lived two days after they were found.

The Germans, after two days’ hard fighting, drove the French back into Paris, with the loss of 6,000 men; but they themselves were very disheartened.

Their loss in officers was very large. The 108th Regiment lost thirty-six officers out of forty-five. In the knapsacks of the French soldiers were found provisions for six days, showing that they had hoped to co-operate with the Southern Army of the Loire.

One day the Prince of Saxe-Weimar went to visit the wounded Würtembergers, a big man and a kindly heart. He went round with a box of cigars under his arm, asking each patient, “Can you smoke?” It was pitiful to see how they all tried to smoke, though some were too weak to enjoy their weed. Now the Prince comes upon a stalwart under officer.

“Are you married?”

“No, Highness; but my mother – she has three sons down, all wounded, and it might be bad for her.”

The Prince took out a gold piece.

“Here, my man, send that to the mother, and let her know it comes from your Queen.”

It seems that the Germans had quite mistaken the amount of provisions existing in Paris. According to their calculations by the middle of December Paris ought to be feeling very hungry, on salt rations at the very best. They had not yet prepared for a bombardment with siege guns, hoping that Lady Famine would drive the Parisians to surrender. But they made no sign.

Down at Argenteuil, on the north-west of Paris, there was the crackling of the chasse-pot from over the river, and yet most of the population had come back to their shops. They gossiped in the streets with French gaiety and unconcern, while the bullets sang overhead pretty freely. The steeple of their beautiful church made a good observatory, though its sides were riddled with holes made by shells. The French peasants drove their carts into the market-place below the church and sold eggs and butter full merrily; yet somehow, if a German stood at a window to gaze out, the French sharpshooters would aim at him. At Lagny there were generally 1,000 prisoners a day passing through to Germany. Some were so ravenous with hunger that they stooped to pick up turnip-tops and bones from the gutter, until the British Society organized a relief with stores of preserved meat and bread. And there was no hospital for the wounded! the poor creatures were dumped down in sheds, vans, the station-rooms, the church, the mairie. In one day there arrived 1,800 wounded. They were bestowed – frozen, hungry, hopeless – in the cold comfort of the church. Madame Simon, the lady superintendent of the Saxon ambulance, did noble things day and night – a most devoted woman. There were feats of quiet bravery done every day. There was a colporteur of the English Bible Society who used to drive his waggon on a road between Gonesse and Aulnay, a road exposed to shell-fire more than most.

“Yes,” he said, “it is a good time for the men to read good words when they are standing with the shadow of death hanging over them.”

There is a story of a boy Lieutenant, von Schramm, who found himself suddenly in a crowd of Frenchmen. He leapt from his horse and hid in a house, in the hope of escaping by the back-door; but his pursuers caught him, and were taking him towards St. Denis, which lies to the north of Paris. In going through the park of Le Bourget the officer who carried von Schramm’s sword was shot and fell. The boy made a dash for his own sword, grasped the hilt and cut down the man on his other side, rushed for the small lake, dived to avoid pursuing bullets, and swam safely across to rejoin his regiment. The strange thing was that he had been on the sick-list before his winter ducking, but now he was blessed with a boy’s appetite.

It spoke well for the German besiegers that they got on so cordially with the villagers round Paris. These were mostly of the humbler sort; or servants left behind to take care of their master’s house. There were lovely country houses inhabited by a few German officers, and, were it not for the rents made by shot and shell, the owners would not have grumbled much at their condition when they returned to them, though, of course, there were cases where the boisterous fun of German Lieutenants played havoc with ormolu and gilding. I remember hearing¹ of a grand piano which gave forth reluctant sounds when the notes were pressed down. It was discovered that the strings had been plentifully smeared with jams and sweetmeats! But these jests were the exception.

The bombardment by the big guns had begun late in December with much excited wonder on the part of the Germans. Surely in a few days the Parisians will have had enough of exploding shells! Now here was almost the middle of January, and no effect visible. But the forts round Paris had no living population: no houses to be burnt, no women and children to mutilate. They had to be battered to bits, if possible; and Paris was behaving very heroically now. By the middle of January she was living very poorly indeed, but she endured yet another fifteen days longer.

As for the German soldiers, they began now to feel bored to death, as so often happens in a long siege. The first excitement evaporates; each day’s unlovely duties recur with abominable sameness – and the Germans could find no beer to drink. A German is used to drink plenty of beer, and can carry it without ill effects; but when Fritz took to drinking rum, schnapps, or arrack, he began to reel about the village streets and look rather disreputable.

It was a strange sight to mount some hill and get a view of Paris surrounded by its fifteen forts, and in a yet wider circle by the German lines. The foam of white smoke surged up all round; the thundering roar of cannon, the dull echo of distant guns made dismal music to the ear. The air of Paris is so clear compared to our English cities that all was quite visible; and now that wood was scarce and fires few, it was easy to mark the outlines of the larger buildings, though above them hung a brown pall of smoke, caused by exploding shells or houses that had caught fire.

Day after day there were rumours of this or that fort having been silenced. Now it was St. Denis, on the north side; now Valérien, on the west; now Vincennes, on the east; but the respite was only given to cool the guns or renew the emplacements, and all was as it had been. Besides this there was the daily fear of a new sortie, as Issy or Ivry broke out into fierce clamour on the south-west and south-east. Then troops would be hurriedly transferred along frozen or sometimes muddy roads, while splinters of shell were whizzing about rather too familiarly.

It was calculated that on a fierce day of firing the Germans shot away 10 tons of powder, and nearly 200 tons of heavy matter – iron and steel – were hurled upon the forts and city in twenty-four hours.

There is a story of the Crown Prince of Prussia which illustrates his kindness of heart. In the 3rd Würtemberg Dragoons was a certain Jacob, who had an aged and anxious father. This father had not heard from his son Jacob for so long a time that the old man, in his rustic simplicity, sat down and laboriously wrote a letter to the Crown Prince, asking, “Can Your Highness find out anything about my son?” The old man knew his son had fought at Wörth and at Sedan, but nothing later than Sedan. The Crown Prince did not throw this letter into the waste-paper basket, but sent it to the officer commanding the 3rd Würtembergers, requesting that the old man’s mind should be set at ease. Jacob was sent for by his commanding officer and asked why he had not written home.

“Do you know that His Royal Highness the Crown Prince wants to know why you have not written home for many weeks?”

The man saluted. His purple face was a study.

“Go and write instantly, and bring the envelope to me, sirrah.”

How that story got about among the men! How often has the same experience come to house-masters, when some loving mother appeals for help: “Please make Harry write home.” Both Harry and Fritz need a touch of the spur at times, but how promptly the letter is written when they feel that touch!

The town of St. Denis suffered terribly. The front of the theatre was in ruins. The cathedral, being banked up high with sand-bags, had not suffered so much. The tombs of the kings had all been thus protected, so had the statues, and not even a nose had been knocked off. But the bombardment had shattered many houses and churches, and the shells had ploughed up the streets, or rather hoed them into holes. It was only in the cold and dark cellars that safety could be found. Even there people were not always safe, and when they were pressed to take refuge in Paris they peeped forth shuddering, and swore they would rather die in their own cellars than sally forth through a tempest of shell-fire.

“At nine o’clock on the evening of the 28th of January, 1871, while the Head-quarters Staff of the Maes Army were assembled in the drawing-rooms of the Crown Prince’s château after dinner, an orderly brought in a telegram to the Crown Prince. His Royal Highness, having read it, handed it to General von Schlottheim, the Chief of the Staff. That officer perused it in his turn, and then rising, walked to the door communicating between the billiard-room and the saloon, and there read the telegram aloud. It was from the Emperor, and it announced that, two hours before, Count Bismarck and M. Jules Favre had set their hands to a convention, in terms of which an armistice to last for twenty-one days had already come into effect.”

This startling news meant that Paris was ready to surrender. How many hearts were lighter in both camps next day! War is not all glory and heroic achievement. Those who know what war is pray to God that statesmen and nations may think twice before they rush into so terrible a calamity. In this war of 180 days the Germans had won fifteen great victories, captured twenty-six fortresses, and made 363,000 prisoners.

“Paris is utterly cowed, fairly beaten” – so they said who came from Paris to the German lines, and a few non-combatants, journalists, and philanthropists, ventured to enter the city before the German troops passed in on the 1st of March. They found the streets crowded with men in uniform. The food shops had nothing to sell. There were a few sickly preserves, nothing solid worth eating – some horses’ fat for a delicacy to help down the stuff they called bread. A fowl was priced at forty-five francs; stickleback were fourteen francs a pound; butter, forty francs a pound. Outside the bakers’ shops stood a shivering line of ladies and women, waiting their turn for loaves that tasted like putty, and pulled to pieces like chopped straw.

But there were in side streets many of the roughest, the most cowardly and cruel ruffians of the worst parts of Paris. They were on the prowl, waiting for their prey; so no wonder that Mr. Archibald Forbes, journalist, and several others in divers parts of the city had unpleasant experiences.

Forbes tells us he was walking down the Champs Elysées when he met the Crown Prince of Saxony with his staff riding by. Forbes raised his hat; the Prince returned the salute and passed on. But the dirty gamins of Paris had been looking on. They hustled the Englishman, called him mouchard (spy), sacré Prussien, cochon, tripped him up, hit him on the back of the head with a stick; then, when he was down, they jumped on his stomach with their sabots or wooden shoes. He struggled, as a Scotsman can, got up, hit out right and left; but numbers prevailed, and he was dragged by the legs on his back, with many bumps and bruises, to the police-station. There he showed his papers, and the Prefect released him in a humour that said, “I am mighty glad you Parisians have had a good thrashing.”

Another journalist – so he told me in London a few weeks later – also had ventured to stray away from the German sentries in order to see what Paris thought of a siege. He soon found himself the centre of an angry throng.

Some cried: “He is a sacré Prussien! See his yellow hair!”

“No; I am an English artist,” shouted my friend, still smiling.

“He is a confounded spy! Take him to the Seine! duck him in the river!”

They dragged him towards the river-bank. Out of his eye corners my friend saw several boys pick up stones to help him to sink. He thought his last hour was come. They were close to the river: the water looked very cold. Then there came to his ears the “tuck” of a drum. A company of French soldiers was marching by; a Colonel on horseback rode beside them.

The artist recognized him, for they had once chummed together near Metz. He called to him by name, and the Colonel cried “Halt!”

He spurred his horse through the evil-smelling crowd, and seeing who it was whom the rascals were going to plunge into the Seine, held up his hand and cried:

“Let that English gentleman go. He is no Prussian, but an artist who has drawn my portrait – mine, I tell you – for the London journals. He is my friend – an English friend, like Mr. Wallace.”

This testimony was enough for them. The excitable crowd flew to the opposite extreme. Those who had made ready to stone him like a water-rat now dropped those stones, and rushing up with remorse and even affection in their changed looks, threw fusty arms round his neck, kissed him on both cheeks, sobbed and cried for forgiveness for their little mistake.

Indeed it is not safe to enter too soon into a conquered city.

From “My Experiences of the War,” by Archibald Forbes. With the kind permission of Messrs. Hurst and Blackett.