Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 29

Twice we attempted to storm the ascent; but wearied by the labour of the mountain pass – worn out by fatigue – and, worse still, weak from actual starvation, our men faltered! It was not fear, nor was there anything akin to it; for even as they fell under the thick fire their shrill cheers breathed stern defiance. They were utterly exhausted, and failing strength could do no more! De Barre took the lead, sword in hand, and with one of those wild appeals that soldiers never hear in vain, addressed them; but the next moment his shattered corpse was carried to the rear. The scaling party, alike repulsed, had now defiled to our support; but the death-dealing artillery swept through us without ceasing. Never was there a spectacle so terrible as to see men, animated by courageous devotion, burning with glorious zeal, and yet powerless from very debility – actually dropping from the weakness of famine! The staggering step – the faint shout – the powerless charge – all showing the ravages of pestilence and want!

Some sentiment of compassion must have engaged our enemies’ sympathy, for twice they relaxed their fire, and only resumed it as we returned to the attack. One fearful discharge of grape, at pistol range, now seemed to have closed the struggle; and as the smoke cleared away, the earth was seen crowded with dead and dying. The broken ranks no longer showed discipline – men gathered in groups around their wounded comrades, and, to all seeming, indifferent to the death that menaced them. Scarcely an officer survived, and, among the dead beside me, I recognised Giorgio, who still knelt in the attitude in which he had received his death-wound.

I was like one in some terrible dream, powerless and terror-stricken, as I stood thus amid the slaughtered and the wounded.

‘You are my prisoner,’ said a gruff-looking old Groat grenadier, as he snatched my sword from my hand by a smart blow on the wrist; and I yielded without a word.

‘Is it over?’ said I; ‘is it over?’

‘Yes, parbleu! I think it is,’ said a comrade, whose cheek was hanging down from a bayonet wound. ‘There are not twenty of us remaining, and they will do very little for the service of the “Great Republic’”

CHAPTER XXXVIII. A ROYALIST ‘DE LA VIEILLE ROCHE’

On a hot and sultry day of June I found myself seated in a country cart, and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way towards Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress, to which I was sentenced as a prisoner. A weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts I had to contend against an attack of ague, which I had just caught, and which was then raging like a plague in the Austrian camp. One solitary reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period. We had halted on the outskirts of a little village called ‘Broletto,’ for the siesta, and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. The corporal who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and soon returned with the tidings that ‘a great victory had been gained over the French, commanded by Bonaparte in person; that the army was in full retreat; and this was the despatch an officer of Melas’ staff was now hastening to lay at the feet of the emperor.’

‘I thought several times this morning,’ said the corporal, ‘that I heard artillery; and so it seems I might, for we are not above twenty miles from where the battle was fought.’

‘And how is the place called?’ asked I, in a tone sceptical enough to be offensive.

‘Marengo,’ replied he; ‘mayhap, the name will not escape your memory.’

How true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he uttered it! But so it was; even as late as four o’clock the victory was with the Austrians. Three separate envoys had left the field with tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the general, exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to tell his master that ‘Italy was lost.’

I have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that I set down for myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet I have not wandered – I mean, not to dwell upon events wherein I was not myself an actor; but I am determined still to adhere to my rule, and, leaving that glorious event behind me, plod wearily along my journey.

Day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance: vast plains of corn and maize, olives and vines, everywhere – on the mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading their tangled networks over cottages; and yet everywhere poverty, misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a half-naked, starving populace, met the eye at every turn. There was the stamp of slavery on all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air of their rulers.

If any spot can impress the notion of impregnability it is Kuffstein. Situated on an eminence of rock over the Inn, three sides of the base are washed by that rapid river. A little village occupies the fourth; and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above by cranes and pulleys – the only approach being by a path wide enough for a single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his carrying any burthen, however light. All that science and skill could do is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every surface of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and mortars show resources of defence it would seem madness to attack.

Three thousand men, under the command of General Urleben, held this fortress at the time I speak of, and by their habits of discipline and vigilance showed that no over-security would make them neglect the charge of so important a trust. I was the first French prisoner that had ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform was I indebted for this distinction. I have mentioned that in Genoa they gave me a staff-officer’s dress and appointments, and from this casual circumstance it was supposed that I should know a great deal of Masséna’s movements and intentions, and that by judicious management I might be induced to reveal it.

General Urleben, who had been brought up in France, was admirably calculated to have promoted such an object were it practicable. He possessed the most winning address as well as great personal advantages, and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of the handsomest men in Austria. He at once invited me to his table, and having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the view extended for miles along the Inn, he sent me stores of books, journals, and newspapers, French, English, and German, showing by the very candour of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and trust.

If imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to have been so. My mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my after-life, than without such associations they would ever have been. Then I used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird’s-eye views, prisoner’s glimpses, of the glorious Tyrol scenery below us. Early in the afternoon came dinner; and then, with the general’s pleasant converse, a cigar, and a chess-board, the time wore smoothly on till nightfall.

An occasional thunderstorm, grander and more sublime than anything I have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm but not unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on the way to or from Vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac told me it was autumn, I could scarcely believe a single month had glided over. I will not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and vigour, and energy were highest within me, was a grievous privation; but, except in these regrets, I could almost call this time a happy one. The unfortunate position in which I started in life gave me little opportunity, or even inclination for learning. Except the little Père Michel had taught me, I knew nothing. I need not say that this was but a sorry stock of education, even at that period, when, I must say, the sabre was more in vogue than the grammar.

I now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. General Urleben lent me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and at times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and advice. To history generally, but particularly that of France, he made me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of France when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns.

I had told him all that I knew myself of my birth and family, and frequently would he allude to the subject of my reading, by saying, ‘The son of an old “Garde du Corps” needs no commentary when perusing such details as these. Your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants of a monarchy bore themselves – what chivalry lived at that time in men’s hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty.’

Such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time to time; nor was their impression the less deep when supported by the testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. Even in deeds of military glory the Monarchy could compete with the Republic, and Urleben took care to insist upon a fact I was never unwilling to concede – that the well born were ever foremost in danger, no matter whether the banner was a white one or a tricolour.

‘Le bon sang ne peut pas mentir’ was an adage I never disputed, although certainly I never expected to hear it employed to the disparagement of those to whom it did not apply.

As the winter set in I saw less of the general. He was usually much occupied in the mornings, and at evenings he was accustomed to go down to the village, where, of late, some French émigré families had settled – unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend against! Many such were scattered through the Tyrol at that period, both for the security and the cheapness it afforded. Of these, Urleben rarely spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them.

One morning, as I sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me and said, ‘Strange enough, Tiernay, last night I was looking at a view of this very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were correct, accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar – what a singular illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions! The sketch I speak of was made by a young countrywoman of yours – a highly gifted lady, who little thought that the accomplishments of her education were one day to be the resources of her livelihood. Even so,’ said he, sighing, ‘a marquise of the best blood of France is reduced to sell her drawings!’

As I expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered to make the request if I would send some of mine in return; and thus accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the strangers, which gradually extended to books and music, and, lastly, to civil messages and inquiries of which the general was ever the bearer.

What a boon was all this to me! What a sun-ray through the bars of a prisoner’s cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! The very similarity of our pursuits, too, had something inexpressibly pleasing in it, and I bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that I knew to whose eyes it would be submitted.

‘Do you know, Tiernay,’ said the general to me, one day, ‘I am about to incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf – I am going to contravene the strict orders of the War Office, and take you along with me this evening down to the village.’

I started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a word.

‘I know perfectly well,’ continued he, ‘that you will not abuse my confidence. I ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will not make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and I desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as a prisoner well may.’

I readily gave the pledge required, and he went on – ‘I have no cautions to give you, nor any counsels – Madame d’Aigreville is a Royalist.’

‘She is madame, then!’ said I, in a voice of some disappointment.

‘Yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried,’ said he, smiling at my eagerness. I affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a burning flush covered my cheek, and I felt as uncomfortable as possible.

I dined that day as usual with the general, adjourning after dinner to the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. Never did he appear to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in his digressions, as that evening. He halted at every move – he had some narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our game to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he fancied there was a thunderstorm brewing, and that we should do well to put off our visit to a more favourable opportunity.

‘It is little short of half a league,’ said he, ‘to the village, and in bad weather is worse than double the distance.’

I did not dare to controvert his opinion, but, fortunately, a gleam of sunshine shot, the same moment, through the window, and proclaimed a fair evening.

Heaven knows I had suffered little of a prisoner’s durance – my life had been one of comparative freedom and ease; and yet, I cannot tell the swelling emotion of my heart with which I emerged from the deep archway of the fortress, and heard the bang of the heavy gate as it closed behind me. Steep as was the path, I felt as if I could have bounded down it without a fear! The sudden sense of liberty was maddening in its excitement, and I half suspect that had I been on horseback in that moment of wild delight, I should have forgotten all my plighted word and parole, though I sincerely trust that the madness would not have endured beyond a few minutes. If there be among my readers one who has known imprisonment, he will forgive this confession of a weakness, which to others of less experience will seem unworthy, perhaps dishonourable.

Dorf Kuffstein was a fair specimen of the picturesque simplicity of a Tyrol village. There were the usual number of houses, with carved galleries and quaint images in wood, the shrines and altars, the little ‘platz,’ for Sunday recreation, and the shady alley for rifle practice.

There were also the trellised walks of vines, and the orchards; in the midst of one of which we now approached a long, low farmhouse, whose galleries projected over the river. This was the abode of Madame d’Aigreville.

A peasant was cleaning a little mountain pony, from which a side-saddle had just been removed as we came up, and he, leaving his work, proceeded to ask us into the house, informing us, as he went, that the ladies had just returned from a long ramble, and would be with us presently.

The drawing-room into which we were shown was a perfect picture of cottage elegance; all the furniture was of polished walnut-wood, and kept in the very best condition. It opened by three spacious windows upon the terrace above the river, and afforded a view of mountain and valley for miles on every side. An easel was placed on this gallery, and a small sketch in oils of Kuffstein was already nigh completed on it. There were books, too, in different languages, and, to my inexpressible delight, a piano!

The reader will smile, perhaps, at the degree of pleasure objects so familiar and everyday called forth; but let him remember how removed were all the passages of my life from such civilising influences – how little of the world had I seen beyond camps and barrack-rooms, and how ignorant I was of the charm which a female presence can diffuse over even the very humblest abode.

Before I had well ceased to wonder, and admire these objects, the marquise entered.

A tall and stately old lady, with an air at once haughty and gracious, received me with a profound curtsy, while she extended her hand to the salute of the general She was dressed in deep mourning, and wore her white hair in two braids along her face. The sound of my native language, with its native accent, made me forget the almost profound reserve of her manner, and I was fast recovering from the constraint her coldness imposed, when her niece entered the room. Mademoiselle, who was at that time about seventeen, but looked older by a year or two, was the very ideal of brunette beauty; she was dark-eyed and black-haired, with a mouth the most beautifully formed; her figure was light, and her foot a model of shape and symmetry. All this I saw in an instant, as she came, half-sliding, half-bounding, to meet the general; and then turning to me, welcomed me with a cordial warmth, very different from the reception of Madame la Marquise.

Whether it was the influence of her presence, whether it was a partial concession of the old lady’s own, or whether my own awkwardness was wearing off by time, I cannot say – but gradually the stiffness of the interview began to diminish. From the scenery around us we grew to talk of the Tyrol generally, then of Switzerland, and lastly of France. The marquise came from Auvergne, and was justly proud of the lovely scenery of her birthplace.

Calmly and tranquilly as the conversation had been carried on up to this period, the mention of France seemed to break down the barrier of reserve within the old lady’s mind, and she burst out in a wild flood of reminiscences of the last time she had seen her native village. ‘The Blues,’ as the revolutionary soldiers were called, had come down upon the quiet valley, carrying fire and carnage into a once peaceful district. The château of her family was razed to the ground; her husband was shot upon his own terrace; the whole village was put to the sword; her own escape was owing to the compassion of the gardener’s wife, who dressed her like a peasant boy, and employed her in a menial station, a condition she was forced to continue so long as the troops remained in the neighbourhood. ‘Yes,’ said she, drawing off her silk mittens, ‘these hands still witness the hardships I speak of. These are the marks of my servitude.’

It was in vain the general tried at first to sympathise, and then withdraw her from the theme; in vain her niece endeavoured to suggest another topic, or convey a hint that the subject might be unpleasing to me. It was the old lady’s one absorbing idea, and she could not relinquish it. Whole volumes of the atrocities perpetrated by the revolutionary soldiery came to her recollection; each moment as she talked, memory would recall this fact or the other, and so she continued rattling on with the fervour of a heated imagination, and the wild impetuosity of a half-crazed intellect. As for myself, I suffered far more from witnessing the pain others felt for me, than from any offence the topic occasioned me directly. These events were all ‘before my time.’ I was neither a Blue by birth nor by adoption; a child during the period of revolution, I had only taken a man’s part when the country, emerging from its term of anarchy and blood, stood at bay against the whole of Europe. These consolations were, however, not known to the others, and it was at last, in a moment of unendurable agony, that mademoiselle rose and left the room.

The general’s eyes followed her as she went, and then sought mine with an expression full of deep meaning. If I read his look aright, it spoke patience and submission; and the lesson was an easier one than he thought.

‘They talk of heroism,’ cried she frantically – ‘it was massacre! And when they speak of chivalry they mean the slaughter of women and children!’ She looked round, and seeing that her niece had left the room, suddenly dropped her voice to a whisper, and said, ‘Think of her mother’s fate, dragged from her home, her widowed, desolate home, and thrown into the Temple, outraged and insulted, condemned on a mock trial, and then carried away to the guillotine! Ay, and even then, on that spot which coming death might have sanctified, in that moment when even fiendish vengeance can turn away and leave its victim at liberty to utter a last prayer in peace, even then, these wretches devised an anguish greater than all death could compass. You will scarcely believe me,’ said she, drawing in her breath, and talking with an almost convulsive effort, ‘you will scarcely believe me in what I am now about to tell you, but it is the truth – the simple but horrible truth. When my sister mounted the scaffold there was no priest to administer the last rites. It was a time, indeed, when few were left; their hallowed heads had fallen in thousands before that. She waited for a few minutes, hoping that one would appear; and when the mob learned the meaning of her delay, they set up a cry of fiendish laughter, and with a blasphemy that makes one shudder to think of, they pushed forward a boy, one of those blood-stained gamins of the streets, and made him gabble a mock litany! Yes, it is true – a horrible mockery of our service, in the ears and before the eyes of that dying saint.’

‘When? in what year? in what place was that?’ cried I, in an agony of eagerness.

‘I can give you both time and place, sir,’ said the marquise, drawing herself proudly up, for she construed my question into a doubt of her veracity. ‘It was in the year 1703, in the month of August; and as for the place, it was one well seasoned to blood – the Place de Grève at Paris.’

A fainting sickness came over me as I heard these words; the dreadful truth flashed across me that the victim was the Marquise d’Estelles, and the boy on whose infamy she dwelt so strongly, no other than myself. For the moment, it was nothing to me that she had not identified me with this atrocity; I felt no consolation in the thought that I was unknown and unsuspected. The heavy weight of the indignant accusation almost crushed me. Its falsehood I knew, and yet could I dare to disprove it? Could I hazard the consequences of an avowal, which all my subsequent pleadings could never obliterate. Even were my innocence established in one point, what a position did it reduce me to in every other!

These struggles must have manifested themselves strongly in my looks, for the marquise, with all her self-occupation, remarked how ill I seemed. ‘I see sir,’ cried she, ‘that all the ravages of war have not steeled your heart against true piety; my tale has moved you strongly.’ I muttered something in concurrence, and she went on. ‘Happily for you, you were but a child when such scenes were happening. Not, indeed, that childhood was always unstained in those days of blood; but you were, as I understand, the son of a “Garde du Corps,” one of those loyal men who sealed their devotion with their life. Were you in Paris then?’

‘Yes, madam,’ said I briefly.

‘With your mother, perhaps?’

‘I was quite alone, madam – an orphan on both sides.’

‘What was your mother’s family name?’

Here was a puzzle; but at a hazard I resolved to claim her who should sound best to the ears of La Marquise. ‘La Lasterie, madam,’ said I.

‘La Lasterie de la Vignoble – a most distinguished house, sir. Provencal, and of the purest blood. Auguste de la Lasterie married the daughter of the Duke de Miriancourt, a cousin of my husband’s, and there was another of them who went as ambassador to Madrid.’

I knew none of them, and I suppose I looked as much.

‘Your mother was, probably, of the elder branch, sir?’ asked she.

I had to stammer out a most lamentable confession of my ignorance.

‘Not know your own kinsfolk, sir – not your nearest of blood!’ cried she, in amazement. ‘General, have you heard this strange avowal? or is it possible that my ears have deceived me?’

‘Please to remember, madam,’ said I submissively, ‘the circumstances in which I passed my infancy. My father fell by the guillotine.’

‘And his son wears the uniform of those who slew him!’

‘Of a French soldier, madam, proud of the service he belongs to; glorying to be one of the first army in Europe.’

‘An army without a cause is a banditti, sir. Your soldiers, without loyalty, are without a banner.’

‘We have a country, madam.’

‘I must protest against this discussion going further,’ said the general blandly, while in a lower tone he whispered something in her ear.

‘Very true, very true,’ said she; ‘I had forgotten all that. Monsieur de Tiernay, you will forgive me this warmth. An old woman, who has lost nearly everything in the world, may have the privilege of bad temper accorded her. We are friends now, I hope,’ added she, extending her hand, and, with a smile of most gracious meaning, beckoning to me to sit beside her on the sofa.

Once away from the terrible theme of the Revolution, she conversed with much agreeability; and her niece having reappeared, the conversation became animated and pleasing. Need I say with what interest I now regarded mademoiselle – the object of all my boyish devotion, the same whose pale features I had watched for many an hour in the dim half-light of the little chapel, her whose image was never absent from my thoughts waking or sleeping, and now again appearing before me in all the grace of coming womanhood!

Perhaps to obliterate any impression of her aunt’s severity – perhaps it was mere manner – but I thought there was a degree of anxiety to please in her bearing towards me. She spoke, too, as though our acquaintance was to be continued by frequent meetings, and dropped hints of plans that implied constant intercourse. Even excursions into the neighbourhood she spoke of; when, suddenly stopping, she said, ‘But these are for the season of spring, and before that time Monsieur de Tiernay will be far away.’

‘Who can tell that?’ said I. ‘I would seem to be forgotten by my comrades.’

‘Then you must take care to do that which may refresh their memory,’ said she pointedly; and before I could question her more closely as to her meaning, the general had risen to take his leave.

‘Madame la Marquise was somewhat more tart than usual,’ said he to me, as we ascended the cliff; ‘but you have passed the ordeal now, and the chances are, she will never offend you in the same way again. Great allowances must be made for those who have suffered as she has. Family – fortune – station – even country – all lost to her; and even hope now dashed by many a disappointment.’

Though puzzled by the last few words, I made no remark on them, and he resumed —

‘She has invited you to come and see her as often as you are at liberty; and, for my part, you shall not be restricted in that way. Go and come as you please, only do not infringe the hours of the fortress; and if you can concede a little now and then to the prejudices of the old lady, your intercourse will be all the more agreeable to both parties.’

‘I believe, general, that I have little of the Jacobin to recant,’ said I, laughing.

‘I should go further, my dear friend, and say, none,’ added he. ‘Your uniform is the only tint of “blue” about you.’ And thus chatting, we reached the fortress, and said good-night.

I have been particular, perhaps tiresomely so, in retelling these broken phrases and snatches of conversation; but they were the first matches applied to a train that was long and artfully laid.