IN FRONT OF METZ.
And now to relate that catastrophe which caused such grief and horror
to the hearts of all in that hitherto peaceful German home.
We have said that on the 13th of August the Prussian advanced guard
was at Pont-à-Mousson. The following day saw them defiling, with
drums beating, colours flying, and bayonets flashing in the sun,
across the great bridge which there spans the Moselle, and gives its
name to the town. This was on a Sunday morning, after the Herr
Pastor of the 95th had preached on the text of 'Peace on earth and
goodwill to all men'--French excepted, apparently--as the Colonel,
while the regiment was yet in a hollow square, issued special orders
as to the cleaning of the needle-guns and mode of carrying the
ammunition in the pouches.
General Steinmetz having orders to make a demonstration against the
French troops lying between him and the great fortress of Metz, at
two o'clock on the afternoon of Sunday ordered his seventh corps,
including the Thuringians and Westphalians, under General Von
Zastrow, to proceed to the attack.
As if inspired by one of those presentiments of coming evil that come
unbidden to many, and at times to the bravest of soldiers, on this
day Charlie Pierrepont was unusually taciturn, thoughtful, and sunk
in reverie. 'Rouse yourself, Carl, rouse!' Heinrich said to him,
cheerfully; 'you have had a little romance that is not yet ended.
The enemy is before us, and war brings promotion and glory.'
'To some.'
'And to others, Carl?'
'Death, perhaps.'
'Why so gloomy in an hour like this?' asked his friend.
'Life, Heinrich, is, alas! so full of the unforeseen!'
'Of course; but life has pleasant things in store for you yet. You
have been having some gloomy dream of our Ernestine again.'
'I have not,' replied Charlie, with a sad smile.
'All will yet be well and happy for you both. _My_ sister does not
require to look for wealth or position. These she had already, and
the Baron of Grünthal is lower in rank than a Grafine of the family
of Frankenburg,' he added so proudly, that there was much in his tone
and bearing which reminded Charlie of the Countess, his mother.
'This brigade will deploy into line, and throw forward skirmishers
from the flank of each regiment,' were now the orders of General Von
Zastrow; 'the other brigades will deploy in succession.'
And, on the spur, his aides-de-camp went skurrying hither and thither
to the commanders of battalions to have the requisite formation
completed with as little delay as possible.
'Take courage, Carl,' said Heinrich; 'my dear sister shall yet be
your wife--or the wife of no one else.'
'You forget that, save my pay, I am all but penniless. A terrible
crime in the eyes of the Grafine Adelaide.'
'Penniless girls are often married for their beauty,' said young
Frankenburg, laughing; 'why should not a penniless man be married for
his talents or bravery?'
And, as the subdivisions were somewhat apart, those two brothers in
heart shook hands, saluted each other with their swords, and took
their places in the new _alignement_.
The day was a bright and beautiful one. Over all Lorraine the green
woods and vineyards seemed to be sleeping in the glowing summer
sunshine, and the scared peasant near Courcelles Chaussy paused in
his work with the sweat on his brow, and spoke with bated breath, as
the marching troops went past to death and slaughter, and his honest
sunburnt face grew pale, perhaps at the thought of what might be.
Around Ars and Grigy, Borny and Colombey, and many other hamlets and
picturesque chateaux, the cattle, rich in colour and sleek in hide,
were chewing the cud among the knee-deep pastures; the fresh blue
streams ran on their course as if rejoicing to escape the scenes of
blood that were about to ensue; the blue kingfishers flitted about,
and the sparrows twittered in the green hedge-rows, the branches of
which were matted and intertwined with gorgeous wild flowers. The
corn was waving in the ripening fields, the swallows skimmed in the
air, and from their cottage doors the buxom peasant girls, their
cheeks dusky with southern blood and their black eyes sparkling with
tears and terror, stood by their mother's side and watched in sorrow
and terror the forward march of the Prussian troops to conquest and
carnage, and the village bells, from more than one Gothic spire, rang
out the hour that was to be the death-knell of thousands closing in
the shock of steel.
The moment the formation of the infantry in line was complete, the
cavalry scouts went galloping to the front, and in a few minutes a
green ridge in front of the Prussian infantry was studded by Uhlans,
with their figures and tall lances clearly defined against the pure
blue of the sky. Anon, these weapons were slung, and pistols were
resorted to, and a sharp cracking of these announced that the enemy
was in sight.
In a cloud of dust, a body of dragoons in close column of troops now
poured along the broad highway, with swords and helmets flashing in
the sun. There were the escort of the artillery, which came rumbling
along, with rammers and sponges ready for use, the limber-boxes
unlocked, the gunners ready to leap down, and wheel their muzzles to
the enemy.
When deploying from close column into line, the companies marched
over everything, treading to mud and mire the golden grain--the hope
of the husbandman and farmer; while the horses of the cavalry ate it
standing in their ranks.
Resolutely marched on the Prussian infantry, each man with his blue
greatcoat rolled over his right shoulder, the deadly zundnadelgewehr
with bayonet fixed, sloped on his left shoulder, the chain of his
helmet down, lest it should fall off in the mêlée. The Uhlans fell
back round the flanks, and then the French were seen lurking in
rifle-pits, which on one hand afforded them protection, and, on the
other, enabled them over the little earthen banks to take sure aim at
the invaders.
These rifle-pits and other defences extended over a considerable
space of ground, from Colombey, with its fields of scarlet poppies,
to Ars-sur-Moselle (so famous for its red wines), including
Laguenxey, Grigy, and Borny, all pretty little hamlets. The firing
first began at the village of Ste. Barbe, within seven miles from the
walls of Metz, in front of which were the principal corps of the
French army under Marshal Bazaine, according to the Prussian account.
The fire from the chassepots was deadly, and in their eagerness to
come to close quarters, the Prussian officers were seen brandishing
their straight-cutting swords and heard crying--
'Vorwarts! vorwarts! Hoch Germania!'
On the other hand the French were not slow in crying--
'En avant! en avant! à bas la Prusse, et vive la France.' For they
were ceasing to shout the Emperor's name now.
The whole of the villages had to be stormed by the Prussians in
succession. The French resisted nobly; hence the slaughter was
terrible. In one rifle-pit alone there lay seven hundred and
eighty-one corpses; the chateau of Colombey was taken and recaptured
three times at the point of the bayonet.
The livelong day the battle lasted over all the ground before Metz,
seven and a half miles in length. The air was loaded with the smoke
of cannon and musketry, enveloping alike the dead and wounded, who
lay everywhere, in fields and gardens, under hedgerows and hayricks,
in vineyards and rifle-pits.
The Prussians were every moment receiving fresh reinforcements, and
the troops of Bazaine, unable to check their advance, fell slowly
back upon Metz, but fighting every foot of the way.
The 95th were at the third capture of the Chateau of Colombey, out of
which the French Voltigeurs were driven in a fair hand-to-hand
conflict, leaving behind them a vast number of wounded and slain.
Among the former, supporting himself against a fragment of the
shot-shattered wall, was a French captain bleeding profusely from a
wound in the breast.
The fähnrich of Charlie's company, young Donnersberg, approached and
offered him his handkerchief to staunch the bleeding, when the
Frenchman, inspired by some sudden gust of national hate and rancour,
uttered 'a good garrison oath,' and with all the strength that yet
remained in his arm, ran his sword through the body of the German,
and killed him on the spot.
Both fell nearly at the same time, as two or three bayonets clashed
in the body of the Frenchman, who lay over a pile of dead, bleeding
from several wounds. A few minutes after, Charlie chanced to pass
where he still lay in the courtyard of the chateau, to all appearance
dead. On his breast was the handsome white enamelled Grand Cross of
the Legion of Honour, conspicuous among his Crimean medals.
'A present for my Ernestine!' thought he; 'and it is no use now to
this treacherous fellow.'
'Not yet, not yet,' muttered the Frenchman, while his white lips
quivered and his blood-shot glazing eyes turned slowly on Charlie;
'accursed Prussian, I am not yet done with it.'
Charlie drew back. He would have taken it from the dead man without
compunction, but shrank from touching the living.
'A little time--a little time,' moaned the Frenchman, 'and I shall
indeed be done with it, and all--earthly things.'
'Pardon me,' said Charlie, and was about to pass on, when the
Frenchman spoke again.
'Water,' said he, in a low piteous voice, like a sigh; 'one drop of
water on my lips, for the love of God!'
Charlie glanced for a moment at the body of young Donnersberg that
lay close by, with the Voltigeur's sword nearly up to the hilt in his
breast; and then, inspired by pity, placed his water-bottle to the
lips of his slayer, whose face was ghastly now and covered with the
dew of death.
'_Merci! Merci!_ I am dying!' said he. 'Take my cross, or less
worthy hands will soon do so,' he added, trying with a feeble and
fatuous hand to detach the ornament from his breast; 'but what will
you do with it?'
'Hang it round the neck of her I love,' replied Charlie, who spoke
French fluently, and hoping its destination might please a
Frenchman's love of gallantry.
'Take it, then. Take it,' replied the latter, as he rent the cross
from his breast by a last effort; 'take it, accursed Prussian!' he
hissed, through his clenched teeth, 'and when you hang it round the
neck of her you love, may she be like--like me!'
'What mean you?'
'_A corpse!_'
With this dreadful and inhuman wish, the vindictive Gaul sank back; a
deadlier pallor overspread his features--there was a terrible sound
in his throat, and all was over. For a moment Charlie stood
bewildered, with the cross in his hand, and half-tempted to cast it
from him. But he changed his mind, and carefully placed it in his
breast-pocket as a _souvenir_ for Ernestine of the battles before
Metz, and hurried to join the shattered remnant of his regiment, now
hurrying with others, double-quick, to take part in the attack of the
orchards of the farm of Bellecroix, where two batteries of
mitrailleuses made dreadful havoc among the assailants, sweeping
whole ranks away.
By the time the batteries were taken, the French, after losing
_nineteen_ thousand men (and the Prussians fully an equal number),
were in rapid retreat for Metz. Charlie Pierrepont's work was over
for the day, and like his friend Heinrich, he still found himself
untouched.
The sun was setting, and the shadows were darkening in the orchards
of Bellecroix, when the 95th were ordered to pile arms and take a
little rest; and a singular scene--singular by way of contrast, and
yet terrible--did these orchards present. The trees were still in
full foliage and bearing, and thickly among the green leaves the
apples, golden and red, the yellow pears, the downy peaches, and the
purple plums were all mingling on the branches above; below lay the
dead and the dying, some of whom in their agony had burrowed their
faces into the very earth; others had torn it up in handfuls. A few,
who had been wounded early in the day, lay dead now, with their hairy
knapsacks under their heads, and many with sweet smiles on their
waxen faces, as if their last thoughts had been of home, and those
who loved them there.
Some had died with their fingers clasped in prayer, others with their
hands clenched, as if in rage or pain, and with their faces terribly
contorted. Everywhere lay knapsacks, shakos, kepis, helmets, arms,
and water-bottles. Pierrepont gladly quitted these dreadful orchards
of Bellecroix, and retired to a grassy bank by the side of the
highway to Metz, where a few of his brother officers, apart from the
rest, were sharing the contents of their havresacks and comparing
notes on the dire events of the day.
There he found young Frankenburg mounted on the horse of the
adjutant, who had fallen in the attack on Bellecroix, and whose duty
he had been ordered to take in the interim, an office that was nearly
costing him very dear soon after.
As the troops were to halt on the field pending those operations
which led to the battle of Gravelotte, a chain of out-pickets was
detailed for the night, and Charlie Pierrepont, as many of his
seniors had been killed off or wounded in that day's strife, had
command of one of these, consisting of two non-commissioned officers
and thirty men, with whom he was ordered to take possession of a
little chateau nearer Metz than Bellecroix, to use it as his
picket-house, and post his sentinels as to him seemed best.
He accordingly marched for this place, the Chateau de Caillé,
belonging to a French gentleman of that name. It was a
quaint-looking little place, with latticed windows of iron, two or
three little stone _tourelles_, with conical roofs and vanes, and it
was quite buried among masses of ivy, jasmine, and clematis, and
embosomed, among rich fruit-trees.
Having posted ten sentinels, equidistant and in communication with
those of the adjacent pickets, with orders to stand on their posts
and keep their faces steadily turned in the direction of Metz, the
dark mass of the citadel which, together with the spires of the
churches, could be traced against the now moonlit sky, he approached
the chateau with the main body of his picket, never doubting that
they would find it deserted, and that the family of M. de Caillé had
fled.
Passing down the little avenue which led to the front door, brilliant
lights were visible in the lower rooms; loud and noisy voices were
heard. Charlie ordered his men to look to their cartridges. As for
the bayonets, they were never unfixed now; but a loud, hoarse German
chorus that rang out upon the night showed that the place was already
in possession of friends, and on entering the dining-room of the
chateau, a curious scene presented itself.
It was a handsome apartment, with an elaborately polished floor, and
modern furniture in the fashion of the time of Louis XIV. Wax
candles in great profusion were burning on the elaborately inlaid
table, on which were spread in great confusion dishes, plates,
glasses, and bottles with viands and fruit of every kind. M. de
Caillé, as he proved to be, a fine-looking old French gentleman, with
hair and moustache white as the thistle-down, was there tied hand and
foot with a rope, the end of which was secured to the knob of a
shutter, compelling him to look helplessly on at the desolation of
his dwelling, into which a dozen or so of stragglers from some
Bavarian regiment, as they appeared to be, as their helmets were
crested with black bearskin and not spikes, had broken, and were now
making merry, eating, drinking, singing, and roughly pulling about
Mademoiselle de Caillé, her terrified _bonne_, and other female
servants; and it was only too evident that but for the timely arrival
of Charlie and his picket, something very disastrous must have
ensued, as these fellows were fast maddening themselves by drinking
all kinds of wines and spirits in succession.
On Charlie's entrance, sword in hand, such is the influence of the
epaulette, that they all started to their feet; their noise died away
instantly, and every man raised his right hand to the peak of his
helmet. Believing they were utterly lost now on the appearance of
this fresh arrival, the young lady uttered a cry of despair, and
shrank to the side of her father, who was unable to put forth even a
hand to shield her, and who eyed Charlie Pierrepont with a
half-piteous, half-defiant expression.
He was considerably reassured, however, when he heard the latter
announce the duty which brought him there, and ordered the Bavarians,
on pain of being treated as mutineers or deserters, at once to return
to their quarters. They hurried to obey with more alacrity than
goodwill, one alone venturing to explain that they had been fighting
all day without food or drink, and were in an enemy's country. By a
wave of his sword, Charlie cut him short, and ere he had shot it into
the sheath, the chateau was empty of all but his own men, who crowded
into the kitchen, and there certainly made free with all that the
cook's pantry contained.
Charlie now apologized to M. de Caillé for the conduct of the
Bavarians, and hastened to cut the cord that bound him. He was so
weak and faint from all he had undergone, that he could only stagger
into an arm-chair, when his daughter caressed him and chafed his
hands, and while the _bonne_ poured out some wine for him and
Charlie, to whom she curtseyed, and tendered her thanks again and
again.
After a time all became more composed, and the conversation naturally
ran on the events of the day, and the dreadful din of cannon and
musketry which had been ringing for miles around the little chateau;
and somehow, while chatting over their wine, and Charlie received
again and again the heartfelt thanks of the old Frenchman, the
latter, by some word or exclamation that escaped him, discovered the
nationality of the former.
'Thank God, monsieur is an Englishman!' he exclaimed.
'Yes,' said Charlie, with one of his pleasant smiles.
'And yet you fight for those horrible barbarians, the Prussians?'
exclaimed the young lady.
'I am a soldier of fortune, my dear child,' said Charlie, laughing,
for the girl was only in her fifteenth year, apparently, and he could
not but remember that Ernestine was one of those 'horrible
barbarians.'
'I could have guessed as much,' said the girl.
'How, Mademoiselle?
'By a certain boldness in your bearing, and by something in your eyes
that tells of----' she paused shyly and coloured at her own
impetuosity.
'An expression that tells of what?' asked Charlie.
'I don't know, unless it is of--sorrow.'
'You are an acute observer, Mademoiselle,' said Charlie, bowing. 'I
have indeed undergone much sorrow but lately.'
The girl had a pretty, innocent, and most lovable little face. She
was, probably, half German in blood; her eyes were bright blue; her
cheeks delicate and peach-like; her lips a ruddy red, though cheek
and lips were ashy white with terror when Charlie first saw her,
being pulled about roughly by the Bavarians, who had boisterously
dragged her from one another, under the eyes of her helpless and
agonized father.
She nestled up to Charlie's side, and shaking the masses of her rich
brown hair--hair that in its tint reminded him of Herminia--she put a
pretty hand on each of his epaulettes, and looking into his face with
pure childish confidence, said--
'I shall like you. I am sure I shall. I am so happy you are not one
of those barbarians, though you do wear a spike-helmet!'
'Why? How should you like me?'
'Can you ask me _why_, Monsieur, after saving our lives? In
gratitude, I can love you and pray for you.'
Charlie laughed, and said--
'_Ma belle_, I am, indeed, thankful that we were in time to turn
these marauders out of doors.'
And then he thought of his three sisters at home, and what his
emotions would be if such a scene, as he had just interrupted, had
taken place in his father's quiet house in Warwickshire.
'What is your name, Monsieur?' she asked, 'as I must never forget it.'
'Carl--Charles Pierrepont.'
She repeated it two or three times, and laughing, said:
'It sounds very droll!'
Charlie could not help laughing at the girl's _naïve_ manner, and
thought that the old Warwickshire squire, who was fond of deducing
his descent from Robert, who received the manor of Hurstpierpoint, in
Sussex, from the Conqueror, would have found nothing 'droll' in it.
'And what is yours, Mademoiselle?'
'Célandine--Célandine de Caillé.'
'Well, I cannot say it is _droll_. I think it very pretty.'
'Your little rebuke is a just one, Monsieur,' said the smiling old
gentleman, who, had Charlie been a genuine Prussian, would little
have relished all this conversation between him and his daughter.
'We shall be very good friends, I doubt not, for to-night, at least,
Monsieur.'
'Only for to-night?'
'To-morrow shall relieve you of our hateful presence, as we shall
probably move against Metz.'
'Don't say "hateful," Monsieur, when we owe you so much, and esteem
you so much,' urged Célandine.
'Ernestine will never have a rival, even here,' thought Charlie, as
he begged them to excuse him, as he had to go his rounds, and, with
his sergeant, post fresh sentinels.
That duty done, he undid his belt, but without undressing, threw
himself on a sofa, and, utterly exhausted and worn out by the whole
events of the day, oblivious of the presence of Mademoiselle de
Caillé and her father in the dining-room, he slept as soundly as
Hood's old woman,
'Who might have worn a percussion cap,
And been knocked on the head without hearing it snap.'