Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XV. SCRAPS OF HISTORY

Nothing displays more powerfully the force of egotism than the simple truth that, when any man sits himself down to write the events of his life, the really momentous occurrences in which he may have borne a part occupy a conspicuously small place, when each petty incident of a merely personal nature is dilated and extended beyond all bounds. In one sense, the reader benefits by this, since there are few impertinences less forgivable than the obtrusion of some insignificant name into the narrative of facts that are meet for history. I have made these remarks in a spirit of apology to my reader; not alone for the accuracy of my late detail, but also, if I should seem in future to dwell but passingly on the truly important facts of a great campaign, in which my own part was so humble.

I was a soldier in that glorious army which Moreau led into the heart of Germany, and whose victorious career would only have ceased when they entered the capital of the Empire, had it not been for the unhappy mistakes of Jourdan, who commanded the auxiliary forces in the north. For nigh three months we advanced steadily and successfully, superior in every engagement; we only waited for the moment of junction with Jourdan’s army, to declare the Empire our own; when at last came the terrible tidings that he had been beaten, and that Latour was advancing from Ulm to turn our left flank, and cut off our communications with France.

Two hundred miles from our own frontiers – separated from the Rhine by that terrible Black Forest whose defiles are mere gorges between vast mountains – with an army fifty thousand strong on one flank, and the Archduke Charles commanding a force of nigh thirty thousand on the other – such were the dreadful combinations which now threatened us with a defeat not less signal than Jourdan’s own. Our strength, however, lay in a superb army of seventy thousand unbeaten men, led on by one whose name alone was victory.

On the 24th of September the order for retreat was given; the army began to retire by slow marches, prepared to contest every inch of ground, and make every available spot a battlefield. The baggage and ammunition were sent on in front, and two days’ march in advance. Behind, a formidable rear-guard was ready to repulse every attack of the enemy. Before, however, entering those close défiles by which his retreat lay, Moreau determined to give one terrible lesson to his enemy, like the hunted tiger turning upon his pursuers, he suddenly halted at Biberach, and ere Latour, who commanded the Austrians, was aware of his purpose, assailed the Imperial forces with an attack on right, centre, and left together. Four thousand prisoners and eighteen pieces of cannon were the trophies of the victory.

The day after this decisive battle our march was resumed, and the advanced-guard entered that narrow and dismal defile which goes by the name of the ‘Valley of Hell,’ when our left and right flanks, stationed at the entrance of the pass, effectually secured the retreat against molestation. The voltigeurs of St. Cyr crowning the heights as we went, swept away the light troops which were scattered along the rocky eminences, and in less than a fortnight our army debouched by Fribourg and Oppenheim into the valley of the Rhine, not a gun having been lost, not a caisson deserted, during that perilous movement.

The Archduke, however, having ascertained the direction of Moreau’s retreat, advanced by a parallel pass through the Kinzigthal, and attacked St. Cyr at Nauen-dorf, and defeated him. Our right flank, severely handled at Emmendingen, the whole force was obliged to retreat on Hüningen, and once more we found ourselves upon the banks of the Rhine, no longer an advancing army, high in hope, and flushed with victory – but beaten, harassed, and retreating!

The last few days of that retreat presented a scene of disaster such as I can never forget. To avoid the furious charges of the Austrian cavalry, against which our own could no longer make resistance, we had fallen back upon a line of country cut up into rocky cliffs and precipices, and covered by a dense pine forest. Here, necessarily broken up into small parties, we were assailed by the light troops of the enemy, led on through the various passes by the peasantry, whose animosity our own severity had excited. It was, therefore, a continual hand-to-hand struggle, in which, opposed as we were to overpowering numbers acquainted with every advantage of the ground, our loss was terrific. It is said that nigh seven thousand men fell – an immense number, when no general action had occurred. Whatever the actual loss, such were the circumstances of our army, that Moreau hastened to propose an armistice, on the condition of the Rhine being the boundary between the two armies, while Kehl was still to be held by the French.

The proposal was rejected by the Austrians, who at once commenced preparations for a siege of the fortress with forty thousand troops, under Latour’s command. The earlier months of winter now passed in the labours of the siege, and on the morning of New-year’s Day the first attack was made; the second line was carried a few days after, and, after a glorious defence by Desaix, the garrison capitulated, and evacuated the fortress on the 9th of the month. Thus, in the space of six short months, had we advanced with a conquering army into the very heart of the Empire, and now we were back again within our own frontier, not one single trophy of all our victories remaining, two-thirds of our army dead or wounded – more than all, the prestige of our superiority fatally injured, and that of the enemy’s valour and prowess as signally elevated.

The short annals of a successful soldier are often comprised in the few words which state how he was made lieutenant at such a date, promoted to his company here, obtained his majority there, succeeded to the command of his regiment at such a place, and so on. Now my exploits may even be more briefly written as regards this campaign – for, whether at Kehl, at Nauendorf, on the Elz, or at Huningen, I ended as I began – a simple soldier of the ranks. A few slight wounds, a few still more insignificant words of praise, were all that I brought back with me; but if my trophies were small, I had gained considerably both in habits of discipline and obedience. I had learned to endure, ably and without complaining, the inevitable hardships of a campaign, and, better still, to see that the irrepressible impulses of the soldier, however prompted by zeal or heroism, may oftener mar than promote the more mature plans of his general. Scarcely had my feet once more touched French ground, than I was seized with the ague, then raging as an epidemic among the troops, and sent forward with a large detachment of sick to the Military Hospital of Strasbourg.

Here I bethought me of my patron, Colonel Mahon, and determined to write to him. For this purpose I addressed a question to the Adjutant-General’s office to ascertain the colonel’s address. The reply was a brief and stunning one – he had been dismissed the service. No personal calamity could have thrown me into deeper affliction; nor had I even the sad consolation of learning any of the circumstances of this misfortune. His death, even though thereby I should have lost my only friend, would have been a lighter evil than this disgrace; and coming as did the tidings when I was already broken by sickness and defeat, more than ever disgusted me with a soldier’s life. It was then with a feeling of total indifference that I heard a rumour which at another moment would have filled me with enthusiasm – the order for all invalids sufficiently well to be removed, to be drafted into regiments serving in Italy. The fame of Bonaparte, who commanded that army, had now surpassed that of all the other generals; his victories paled the glory of their successes, and it was already a mark of distinction to have served under his command.

The walls of the hospital were scrawled over with the names of his victories; rude sketches of Alpine passes, terrible ravines, or snow-clad peaks, met the eye everywhere; and the one magical name, ‘Bonaparte,’ written beneath, seemed the key to all their meaning. With him war seemed to assume all the charms of romance. Each action was illustrated by feats of valour or heroism, and a halo of glory seemed to shine over all the achievements of his genius.

It was a clear, bright morning of March, when a light frost sharpened the air, and a fair, blue sky overhead showed a cloudless elastic atmosphere, that the ‘invalides,’ as we were all called, were drawn up in the great square of the hospital for inspection. Two superior officers of the staff, attended by several surgeons and an adjutant, sat at a table in front of us, on which lay the regimental books and conduct-rolls of the different corps. Such of the sick as had received severe wounds, incapacitating them for further service, were presented with some slight reward – a few francs in money, a greatcoat, or a pair of shoes, and obtained their freedom. Others, whose injuries were less important, received their promotion, or some slight increase of pay, these favours being all measured by the character the individual bore in his regiment, and the opinion certified of him by his commanding officer. When my turn came, and I stood forward, I felt a kind of shame to think how little claim I could prefer either to honour or advancement.

‘Maurice Tiernay, slightly wounded by a sabre at Nauendorf – flesh-wound at Biberach – enterprising and active, but presumptuous and overbearing with his comrades,’ read out the adjutant, while he added a few words I could not hear, but at which the superior laughed heartily.

‘What says the doctor?’ asked he, after a pause.

‘This has been a bad case of ague, and I doubt if the young fellow will ever be fit for active service – certainly not at present.’

‘Is there a vacancy at Saumur?’ asked the general. ‘I see he has been employed in the school at Nancy.’

‘Tes, sir; for the third class there is one.’

‘Let him have it, then. Tiernay, you are appointed as aspirant of the third class at the College of Saumur. Take care that the report of your conduct be more creditable than what is written here. Your opportunities will now be considerable, and, if well employed, may lead to further honour and distinction; if neglected or abused, your chances are forfeited for ever.’

I bowed and retired, as little satisfied with the admonition as elated with a prospect which converted me from a soldier into a scholar, and, in the first verge of manhood, threw me back once more into the condition of a mere boy.

Eighteen months of my life – not the least happy, perhaps, since in the peaceful portion I can trace so little to be sorry for – glided over beside the banks of the beautiful Loire, the intervals in the hour of study being spent either in the riding-school, or the river, where, in addition to swimming and diving, we were instructed in pontooning and rafting, the modes of transporting ammunition and artillery, and the attacks of infantry by cavalry pickets.

I also learned to speak and write English and German with great ease and fluency, besides acquiring some skill in military drawing and engineering.

It is true that the imprisonment chafed sorely against us, as we read of the great achievements of our armies in various parts of the world – of the great battles of Cairo and the Pyramids, of Acre and Mount Thabor, and of which a holiday and a fête were to be our only share.

The terrible storms which shook Europe from end to end only reached us in the bulletins of new victories, and we panted for the time when we, too, should be actors in the glorious exploits of France.

It is already known to the reader that of the country from which my family came I myself knew nothing. The very little I had ever learned of it from my father was also a mere tradition; still was I known among my comrades only as ‘the Irishman,’ and by that name was I recognised, even in the record of the school, where I was inscribed thus – ‘Maurice Tiernay, dit l’Irlandais.’ It was on this very simple and seemingly unimportant fact my whole fate in life was to turn; and in this wise-But the explanation deserves a chapter of its own, and shall have it.

CHAPTER XVI. AN OLD GENERAL OF THE IRISH BRIGADE

In obedience to an order which arrived at Saumur one morning in the July of 1788,1 was summoned before the commandant of the school, when the following brief colloquy ensued: —

‘Maurice Tiernay,’ said he, reading from the record of the school, why are you called l’Irlandais?’

‘I am Irish by descent, sir.’

‘Ha! by descent. Your father was, then, an émigré?

‘No, sir – my great-grandfather.’

‘Parbleu! that is going very far back. Are you aware of the causes which induced him to leave his native country?’

‘They were connected with political trouble, I’ve heard, sir. He took part against the English, my father told me, and was obliged to make his escape to save his life.’ ‘You, then, hate the English, Maurice?’ ‘My ancestor certainly did not love them, sir.’

‘Nor can you, boy, ever forgive their having exiled your family from country and home; every man of honour retains the memory of such injuries.’

‘I can scarcely deem that an injury, sir, which has made me a French citizen,’ said I proudly.

‘True, boy – you say what is perfectly true and just; any sacrifice of fortune or patrimony is cheap at such a price; still you have suffered a wrong – a deep and irreparable wrong – and as a Frenchman you are ready to avenge it.’

Although I had no very precise notion, either as to the extent of the hardships done me, nor in what way I was to demand the reparation, I gave the assent he seemed to expect.

‘You are well acquainted with the language, I believe?’ continued he.

‘I can read and speak English tolerably well, sir.’

‘But I speak of Irish, boy – of the language which is spoken by your fellow-countrymen,’ said he rebukingly.

‘I have always heard, sir, that this has fallen into disuse, and is little known save among the peasantry in a few secluded districts.’

He seemed impatient as I said this, and referred once more to the paper before him, from whose minutes he appeared to have been speaking.

‘You must be in error, boy. I find here that the nation is devotedly attached to its traditions and literature, and feels no injury deeper than the insulting substitution of a foreign tongue for their own noble language.’

‘Of myself I know nothing, sir; the little I have learned was acquired when a mere child.’

‘Ah, then, you probably forget, or may never have heard the fact; but it is as I tell you. This, which I hold here, is the report of a highly distinguished and most influential personage, who lays great stress upon the circumstance. I am sorry, Tiernay, very sorry, that you are unacquainted with the language.’

He continued for some minutes to brood over this disappointment, and at last returned to the paper before him.

‘The geography of the country – what knowledge have you on that subject?’

‘No more, sir, than I may possess of other countries, and merely learned from maps.’

‘Bad again,’ muttered he to himself. ‘Madgett calls these “essentials”; but we shall see.’ Then addressing me, he said, ‘Tiernay, the object of my present interrogatory is to inform you that the Directory is about to send an expedition to Ireland to assist in the liberation of that enslaved people. It has been suggested that young officers and soldiers of Irish descent might render peculiar service to the cause, and I have selected you for an opportunity which will convert these worsted epaulettes into bullion.’

This at least was intelligible news, and now I began to listen with more attention.

‘There is a report,’ said he, laying down before me a very capacious manuscript, ‘which you will carefully peruse. Here are the latest pamphlets setting forth the state of public opinion in Ireland; and here are various maps of the coast, the harbours, and the strongholds of that country, with all of which you may employ yourself advantageously; and if, on considering the subject, you feel disposed to volunteer – for as a volunteer only could your services be accepted – I will willingly support your request by all the influence in my power.’

‘I am ready to do so at once, sir,’ said I eagerly; ‘I have no need to know any more than you have told me.’

‘Well said, boy; I like your ardour. Write your petition and it shall be forwarded to-day. I will also try and obtain for you the same regimental rank you hold in the school’ – I was a sergeant – ‘it will depend upon yourself afterwards to secure a further advancement. You are now free from duty; lose no time, therefore, in storing your mind with every possible information, and be ready to set out at a moment’s notice.’

‘Is the expedition so nearly ready, sir?’ asked I eagerly.

He nodded, and with a significant admonition as to secrecy, dismissed me, bursting with anxiety to examine the stores of knowledge before me, and prepare myself with all the details of a plan in which already I took the liveliest interest. Before the week expired, I received an answer from the Minister, accepting the offer of my services. The reply found me deep in those studies, which I scarcely could bear to quit even at meal-times. Never did I experience such an all-devouring passion for a theme as on that occasion. ‘Ireland’ never left my thoughts; her wrongs and sufferings were everlastingly before me; all the cruelties of centuries – all the hard tyranny of the penal laws – the dire injustice of caste oppression – filled me with indignation and anger; while, on the other hand, I conceived the highest admiration of a people who, undeterred by the might and power of England, resolved to strike a great blow for liberty.

The enthusiasm of the people – the ardent daring of a valour whose impetuosity was its greatest difficulty – their high romantic temperament – their devotion – their gratitude – the childlike trustfulness of their natures, were all traits, scattered through the various narratives, which invariably attracted me, and drew me more strongly to their cause – more from affection than reason.

Madgett’s memoir was filled with these; and he, I concluded, must know them well, being, as it was asserted, one of the ancient nobility of the land, and who now desired nothing better than to throw rank, privilege, and title into the scale, and do battle for the liberty and equality of his countrymen. How I longed to see this great man, whom my fancy arrayed in all the attributes he so lavished upon his countrymen, for they were not only, in his description, the boldest and the bravest, but the handsomest people of Europe.

As to the success of the enterprise, whatever doubts I had at first conceived, from an estimate of the immense resources of England, were speedily solved, as I read of the enormous preparations the Irish had made for the struggle. The Roman Catholics, Madgett said, were three millions, the Dissenters another million, all eager for freedom and French alliance, wanting nothing but the appearance of a small armed force to give them the necessary organisation and discipline. They were somewhat deficient, he acknowledged, in firearms – cannon they had none whatever; but the character of the country, which consisted of mountains, valleys, ravines and gorges, reduced war to the mere chivalrous features of personal encounter. What interminable descriptions did I wade through of clubs and associations, the very names of which were a puzzle to me – the great union of all appearing to be a society called ‘Defenders,’ whose oath bound them to ‘fidelity to the united nations of France and Ireland!’

So much for the one side. For the other, it was asserted that the English forces then in garrison in Ireland were beneath contempt; the militia, being principally Irish, might be relied on for taking the popular side; and as to the Regulars, they were either ‘old men or boys,’ incapable of active service; and several of the regiments being Scotch, greatly disaffected to the Government. Then, again, as to the navy, the sailors in the English fleet were more than two-thirds Irishmen, all Catholics, and all disaffected.

That the enterprise contained every element of success, then, who could doubt? The nation, in the proportion of ten to one, were for the movement. On their side lay not alone the wrongs to avenge, but the courage, the energy, and the daring. Their oppressors were as weak as tyrannical, their cause was a bad one, and their support of it a hollow semblance of superiority.

If I read these statements with ardour and avidity, one lurking sense of doubt alone obtruded itself on my reasonings. Why, with all these guarantees of victory, with everything that can hallow a cause, and give it stability and strength – why did the Irish ask for aid? If they were, as they alleged, an immense majority – if there was all the heroism and the daring – if the struggle was to be maintained against a miserably inferior force, weakened by age, incapacity, and disaffection – what need had they of Frenchmen on their side? The answer to all such doubts, however, was ‘the Irish were deficient in organisation.’

Not only was the explanation a very sufficient one, but it served in a high degree to flatter our vanity. We were, then, to be organisers of Ireland; from us were they to take the lessons of civilisation, which should prepare them for freedom – ours was the task to discipline their valour, and train their untaught intelligence. Once landed in the country, it was to our standard they were to rally; from us were to go forth the orders of every movement and measure; to us this new land was to be an El Dorado. Madgett significantly hinted everywhere at the unbounded gratitude of Irishmen, and more than hinted at the future fate of certain confiscated estates. One phrase, ostentatiously set forth in capitals, asserted that the best general of the French Republic could not be anywhere employed with so much reputation and profit. There was, then, everything to stimulate the soldier in such an enterprise – honour, fame, glory, and rich rewards were all among the prizes.

It was when deep in the midst of these studies, poring over maps and reports, taxing my memory with hard names, and getting off by heart dates, distances, and numbers, that the order came for me to repair at once to Paris, where the volunteers of the expedition were to assemble. My rank of sergeant had been confirmed, and in this capacity, as sous-officier, I was ordered to report myself to General Kilmaine, the adjutant-general of the expedition, then living in the Rue Ghantereine. I was also given the address of a certain Lestaing – Rue Tailbout – a tailor, from whom, on producing a certificate, I was to obtain my new uniform.

Full as I was of the whole theme, thinking of the expedition by day, and dreaming of it by night, I was still little prepared for the enthusiasm it was at that very moment exciting in every society of the capital. For some time previously a great number of Irish emigrants had made Paris their residence; some were men of good position and ample fortune; some were individuals of considerable ability and intelligence. All were enthusiastic, and ardent in temperament – devotedly attached to their country – hearty haters of England, and proportionally attached to all that was French. These sentiments, coupled with a certain ease of manner, and a faculty of adaptation, so peculiarly Irish, made them general favourites in society; and long before the Irish question had found any favour with the public, its national supporters had won over the hearts and good wishes of all Paris to the cause.

Well pleased, then, as I was with my handsome uniform of green and gold, my small chapeau, with its plume of cock’s feathers, and the embroidered shamrock on my collar, I was not a little struck by the excitement my first appearance in the street created. Accustomed to see a hundred strange military costumes – the greater number, I own, more singular than tasteful – the Parisians, I concluded, would scarcely notice mine in the crowd. Not so, however; the print-shops had already given the impulse to the admiration, and the ‘Irish Volunteer of the Guard’ was to be seen in every window, in all the ‘glory of his bravery.’ The heroic character of the expedition, too, was typified by a great variety of scenes, in which the artist’s imagination had all the credit. In one picture the jeune Irlandais was planting a national flag of very capacious dimensions on the summit of his native mountains; here he was storming Le Château de Dublin, a most formidable fortress, perched on a rock above the sea; here he was crowning the heights of La Citadelle de Cork, a very Gibraltar in strength; or he was haranguing the native chieftains, a highly picturesque group – a cross between a knight crusader and a South-sea islander.

My appearance, therefore, in the streets was the signal for general notice and admiration, and more than one compliment was uttered, purposely loud enough to reach me, on the elegance and style of my equipment. In the pleasant flurry of spirits excited by this flattery, I arrived at the general’s quarters in the Rue Chantereine. It was considerably before the time of his usual receptions, but the glitter of my epaulettes, and the air of assurance I had assumed, so far imposed upon the old servant who acted as valet, that he at once introduced me into a small saloon, and after a brief pause presented me to the general, who was reclining on a sofa at his breakfast. Although far advanced in years, and evidently broken by bad health, General Kilmaine still preserved traces of great personal advantages, while his manner exhibited all that polished ease and courtesy which was said to be peculiar to the Irish gentleman of the French Court. Addressing me in English, he invited me to join his meal, and on my declining, as having already breakfasted, he said, ‘I perceive, from your name, we are countrymen, and as your uniform tells me the service in which you are engaged, we may speak with entire confidence. Tell me then, frankly, all that you know of the actual condition of Ireland.’

Conceiving that this question applied to the result of my late studies, and was meant to elicit the amount of my information, I at once began a recital of what I had learned from the books and reports I had been reading, My statistics were perfect – they had been gotten off by heart; my sympathies were, for the same reason, most eloquent; my indignation was boundless on the wrongs I deplored, and in fact, in the fifteen minutes during which he permitted me to declaim without interruption, I had gone through the whole ‘cause of Ireland,’ from Henry n. to George n.

‘You have been reading Mr. Madgett, I perceive,’ said he, with a smile; ‘but I would rather hear something of your own actual experience. Tell me, therefore, in what condition are the people at this moment, as regards poverty?’

‘I have never been in Ireland, general,’ said I, not without some shame at the avowal coming so soon after my eloquent exhortation.

‘Ah, I perceive,’ said he blandly, ‘of Irish origin, and a relative probably of that very distinguished soldier, Count Maurice de Tiernay, who served in the Garde du Corps.’

‘His only son, general,’ said I, blushing with eagerness and pleasure at the praise of my father.

‘Indeed!’ said he, smiling courteously, and seeming to meditate on my words. ‘There was not a better nor a braver sabre in the corps than your father – a very few more of such men might have saved the monarchy – as it was, they dignified its fall. And to whose guidance and care did you owe your early training, for I see you have not been neglected?’

A few words told him the principal events of my early years, to which he listened with deep attention. At length he said, ‘And now you are about to devote your acquirements and energy to this new expedition?’

‘All, general! Everything that I have is too little for such a cause.’

‘You say truly, boy,’ said he warmly; ‘would that so good a cause had better leaders. I mean,’ added he hurriedly, ‘wiser ones. Men more conversant with the actual state of events, more fit to cope with the great difficulties before them, more ready to take advantage of circumstances, whose outward meaning will often prove deceptive. In fact, Irishmen of character and capacity, tried soldiers and good patriots. Well, well, let us hope the best. In whose division are you?’

‘I have not yet heard, sir. I have presented myself here to-day to receive your orders.’

‘There again is another instance of their incapacity,’ cried he passionately. ‘Why, boy, I have no command, nor any function. I did accept office under General Hoche, but he is not to lead the present expedition.’

‘And who is, sir?’

‘I cannot tell you. A week ago they talked of Grouchy, then of Hardy; yesterday it was Humbert; to-day it may be Bonaparte, and to-morrow yourself! Ay, Tiernay, this great and good cause has its national fatality attached to it, and is so wrapped up in low intrigue and falsehood, that every Minister becomes in turn disgusted with the treachery and mendacity he meets with, and bequeaths the question to some official underling, meet partisan for the mock patriot he treats with.’

‘But the expedition will sail, general?’ asked I, sadly discomfited by this tone of despondency.

He made me no answer, but sat for some time absorbed in his own thoughts. At last he looked up, and said, ‘You ought to be in the army of Italy, boy; the great teacher of war is there.’

‘I know it, sir, but my whole heart is in this struggle. I feel that Ireland has a claim on all who derived even a name from her soil. Do you not believe that the expedition will sail?’

Again he was silent and thoughtful.