Every one knows how rapidly acquaintance ripens into intimacy when mere
accident throws two persons together in situations where they have no
other occupation than each other’s society; days do the work of years,
confidences spring up where mere ceremonies would have been interchanged
before, and in fact a freedom of thought and speech as great as we enjoy
in our oldest friendships. Such in less than a fortnight was the
relation between the baron and myself. We breakfasted together every
morning, and usually sallied forth afterwards into the country,
generally on horseback, and only came back to dinner--a ramble in the
Park concluding our day.
I still look back to those days as amongst the pleasantest of my life;
for although the temper of my companion’s mind was melancholic, it
seemed rather the sadness induced by some event of his life than the
depression resulting from a desponding temperament--a great difference,
by the way; as great as between the shadow we see at noonday and the
uniform blackness of midnight. He had evidently seen much of the world,
and in the highest class; he spoke of Paris as he knew it in the
gorgeous time of the Empire--of the Tuileries, when the salons were
crowded with kings and sovereign princes; of Napoleon, too, as he saw
him, wet and cold, beside the bivouac fire, interchanging a rude jest
with some grognard of the Garde, or commanding, in tones of loud
superiority, the marshals who stood awaiting his orders. The Emperor, he
said, never liked the Germans; and although many evinced a warm
attachment to his person and his cause, they were not Frenchmen, and he
could not forgive it. The Alsatians he trusted, and was partial to; but
his sympathies stopped short at the Rhine; and he always felt that if
fortune turned, the wrongs of Germany must have their recompense.
While speaking freely on these matters, I remarked that he studiously
avoided all mention of his own services--a mere passing mention of ‘I
was there,’ or, ‘My regiment was engaged in it,’ being the extent of his
observations regarding himself. His age and rank, his wound itself,
showed that he must have seen service in its most active times; and my
curiosity was piqued to learn something of his own history, but which I
did not feel myself entitled to inquire.
We were returning one evening from a ramble in the country, when
stopping to ask a drink at a wayside inn, we found a party of soldiers
in possession of the only room, where they were regaling themselves with
wine; while a miserable-looking object, bound with his arms behind his
back, sat pale and woe-begone in one corner of the apartment, his eyes
fixed on the floor, and the tears slowly stealing along his cheeks.
‘What is it?’ asked I of the landlord, as I peeped in at the half-open
door.
‘A deserter, sir----‘’
The word was scarcely spoken when the colonel let fall the cup he held
in his hand, and leaned, almost fainting, against the wall.
‘Let us move on,’ said he, in a voice scarcely articulate, while the
sickness of death seemed to work in his features.
‘You are ill,’ said I; ‘we had better wait----’
‘No, not here--not here,’ repeated he anxiously; ‘in a moment I shall be
well again--lend me your arm.’
We walked on, at first slowly, for with each step he tottered like one
after weeks of illness; at last he rallied, and we reached Cassel in
about an hour’s time, during which he spoke but once or twice. ‘I must
bid you a good-night here,’ said he, as we entered the inn; ‘I feel but
poorly, and shall hasten to bed.’ So saying, and without waiting for a
word on my part, he squeezed my hand affectionately, and left me.
It was not in my power to dismiss from my mind a number of gloomy
suspicions regarding the baron, as I slowly wended my way to my room.
The uppermost thought I had was, that some act of his past life--some
piece of military severity, for which he now grieved deeply--had been
brought back to his memory by the sight of the poor deserter. It was
evident that the settled melancholy of his character referred to some
circumstance or event of his life; nothing confirmed this more than any
chance allusions he would drop concerning his youthful days, which
appeared to be marked by high daring and buoyant spirits.
While I pondered over these thoughts, a noise in the inn-yard beneath my
window attracted my attention. I leaned out, and heard the baron’s
servant giving orders for post-horses to be ready by daybreak to take
his master’s carriage to Meissner, while a courier was already preparing
to have horses in waiting at the stages along the road. Again my brain
was puzzled to account for this sudden departure, and I could not
repress a feeling of pique at his not having communicated his intention
of going, which, considering our late intimacy, had been only common
courtesy. This little slight--for such I felt it--did not put me in
better temper with my friend, nor more disposed to be lenient in judging
him; and I was already getting deeper and deeper in my suspicions, when
a gentle tap came to my door, and the baron’s servant entered, with a
request that I would kindly step over to his master, who desired to see
me particularly. I did not delay a moment, but followed the man along
the corridor, and entered the room, which I found in total darkness.
‘The baron is in bed, sir,’ said the servant; ‘but he wishes to see you
in his room.’
On a small camp-bed, which showed it to have been once a piece of
military equipment, the Baron was lying. He had not undressed, but
merely thrown on his _robe de chambre_ and removed his cravat from his
throat; his one hand was pressed closely on his face, and as he
stretched it out to grasp mine, I was horror-struck at the altered
expression of his countenance. The eyes, bloodshot and wild, glanced
about the room with a hurried and searching look, while his parched lips
muttered rapidly some indistinct sounds. I saw that he was very ill, and
asked him if it were not as well he should have some advice.
‘No, my friend, no,’ said he, with more composure in his manner; ‘the
attack is going off now. It rarely lasts so long as this. You have never
heard perhaps of that dreadful malady which physicians call “angina,”
the most agonising of all diseases, and I believe the least understood.
I have been subject to it for some years, and as there is no remedy, and
as any access of it may prove fatal, life is held on but poor
conditions----’
He paused for a second or two, then resumed, but with a manner of
increased excitement.
‘They will shoot him! Yes, I have heard it all. It’s the second time he
has deserted; there is not a chance left him. I must leave this by
daybreak--I must get me far away before to-morrow evening; there would
not come a stir, the slightest sound, but I should fancy I heard the
fusilade.’
I saw now clearly that the deserter’s fate had made the impression which
brought on the attack; and although my curiosity to learn the origin of
so powerful a sensibility was greater than ever, I would willingly have
sacrificed it to calming his mind, and inducing thoughts of less violent
excitement. But he continued, speaking with a thick and hurried
utterance--
‘I was senior lieutenant of the Carabiniers de la Garde at eighteen. We
were quartered at Strasbourg; more than half of the regiment were my
countrymen, some from the very village where I was born. One there was,
a lad of sixteen, my schoolfellow and companion when a boy; he was the
only child of a widow whose husband had fallen in the wars of the
Revolution. When he was drawn in the conscription, no less than seven
others presented themselves to go in his stead; but old Girardon, who
commanded the brigade, simply returned for answer, “Such brave men are
worthy to serve France; let them all be enrolled,” and they were so. A
week afterwards Louis my schoolfellow deserted. He swam the Rhine at
Kehl, and the same evening reached his mother’s cottage. He was scarcely
an hour at home when a party of his own regiment captured him; he was
brought back to Strasbourg, tried by torchlight, and condemned to death.
‘The officer who commanded the party for his execution fainted when the
prisoner was led out; the men, horror-struck at the circumstance,
grounded their arms and refused to fire. Girardon was on the ground in
an instant; he galloped up to the youth who knelt there with his arms
bound behind him, and drawing a pistol from his holster, placed the
muzzle on his forehead, and shot him dead! The men were sent back to the
barracks, and by a general order of the same day were drafted into
different regiments throughout the army; the officer was degraded to the
ranks--it was myself.’
It was with the greatest difficulty the colonel was enabled to conclude
this brief story; the sentences were uttered with short, almost
convulsive efforts, and when it was over he turned away his face, and
seemed buried in grief.
‘You think,’ said he, turning round and taking my hand in his--‘you
think that the sad scene has left me such as you see me now. Would to
Heaven my memory were charged with but that mournful event! Alas! it is
not so.’ He wiped a tear from his eye, and with a faltering voice
continued. ‘You shall hear my story. I never breathed it to one living,
nor do I think now that my time is to be long here.’
Having fortified his nerves with a powerful opiate, the only remedy in
his dreadful malady, he began:--
‘I was reduced to the ranks in Strasbourg; four years after, day for
day, I was named Chef de Bataillon on the field of Elchingen. Of twelve
hundred men our battalion came out of action with one hundred and
eighty; the report of the corps that night was made by myself as senior
officer, and I was but a captain.
‘“Who led the division of stormers along the covered way?” said the
Emperor, as I handed our list of killed and wounded to Duroc, who stood
beside him.
‘“It was I, sire.”
‘“You are major of the Seventh regiment,” said he. “Now, there is
another of yours I must ask for; how is he called that surprised the
Austrian battery on the Dorran Kopf?”
‘“Himself again, sire,” interrupted Duroc, who saw that I hesitated how
to answer him.
‘“Very well, very well indeed, Elgenheim; report him as Chef de
Bataillon, Duroc, and colonel of his regiment. There, sir, your
countrymen call me unjust and ungenerous. Show them your brevet to-
night, and do _you_, at least, be a witness in my favour.”
‘I bowed and uttered a few words of gratitude, and was about to
withdraw, when Duroc, who had been whispering something in the Emperor’s
ear, said aloud, “I’m certain he’s the man to do it. Elgenheim, his
Majesty has a most important despatch to forward to Innspruck to Marshal
Ney. It will require something more than mere bravery to effect this
object--it will demand no small share of address also. The passes above
Saltzbourg are in the possession of the Tyrolese sharpshooters; two
vedettes have been cut off within a week, and it will require at least
the force of a regiment to push through. Are you willing to take the
command of such a party?”
‘“If his Majesty will honour me with----”
‘“Enough, sir,” interrupted the Emperor; “we have no time to lose here.
Your orders shall be ready by daybreak; you shall have a squadron of
Chasseurs, as scouts, and be prepared to march to-morrow.”
‘The following day I left the camp with my party of eight hundred men,
and moved to the southward. It may seem strange to think of a simple
despatch of a few lines requiring such a force--indeed, I thought so at
the time; but I lived to see two thousand men employed on a similar
service in Spain, and, worse still, not always successfully. In less
than a week we approached Landherg, and entered the land of mountains.
The defiles, which at first were sufficiently open to afford space for
manouvres, gradually contracted; while the mountains at either side
became wilder and more lofty, a low brushwood of holly and white-oak
scarce hiding the dark granite rocks that seemed actually piled loosely
one above another, and ready to crash down at the least impulse. In the
valleys themselves the mountain rivulets were collected into a strong
current, which rattled along amid masses of huge rock, and swept in
broad flakes of foam sometimes across the narrow road beside it. Here,
frequently, not more than four men could march abreast; and as the
winding of the glens never permitted a view of much more than a mile in
advance, the position, in case of attack, was far from satisfactory.
‘For three entire days we continued our march, adopting, as we went,
every precaution against surprise I could think of; a portion of the
cavalry were always employed as _éclaireurs_ in advance, and the
remainder brought up the rear, following the main body at the distance
of a mile or two. The stupendous crags that frowned above, leaving us
but a narrow streak of blue sky visible; the mournful echoes of the deep
valleys; the hoarse roar of the waters or the wild notes of the black
eagle--all conspired to throw an impression of sadness over our party,
which each struggled against in vain. It was now the third morning since
we entered the Tyrol, and yet never had we seen one single inhabitant.
The few cottages along the roadside were empty, the herds had
disappeared from the hills, and a dreary waste, unrelieved by one living
object, stretched far away before us. My men felt the solitude far more
deeply than if every step had been contested with them. They were long
inured to danger, and would willingly have encountered an enemy of
mortal mould; but the gloomy images their minds conjured up were foes
they had never anticipated nor met before. For my own part, the
desolation brought but one thought before me; and as I looked upon the
wild wastes of mountain, where the chalet of the hunter or the cot of
the shepherd reared its humble head, the fearful injustice of invasive
war came fully to my mind. Again and again did I ask myself what
greatness and power could gain by conflict with poverty like this? How
could the humble dweller in these lonely regions become an object of
kingly vengeance, or his bleak hills a thing for kingly ambition? And,
more than all, what could the Tyrol peasant ever have done thus to bring
down upon his home the devastating tide of war? To think that but a few
days back the cheerful song of the hunter resounded through those glens,
and the laugh of children was heard in those cottages where now all was
still as death. We passed a small cluster of houses at the opening of a
glen--it could scarce be called a village--and here, so lately had they
been deserted, the embers were yet warm on the hearth, and in one hut
the table was spread and the little meal laid out, while they who were
to have partaken of it were perhaps miles away.
‘Plunged in these sad reflections, I sat on a little eminence of rock
behind the party, while they reposed themselves during the heat of noon.
The point I occupied afforded a view for some miles of the road we had
travelled, and I turned to see if our cavalry detachment was coming up;
when, as I strained my eyes in the direction, I thought I could perceive
an object moving along the road, and stooping from time to time. I
seized my glass, and now could distinctly perceive the figure of a man
coming slowly onwards. That we had not passed him on the way was quite
evident, and he must therefore have been on the mountain, or in
concealment beside the road. Either thought was sufficient to excite my
suspicion, and without a second’s delay I sprang into the saddle, and
putting my horse to his speed galloped back as fast as I could. As I
came nearer, I half fancied I saw the figure move to one side and then
back again, as though irresolute how to act; and fearing lest he should
escape me by taking to the mountain, I called to him aloud to halt. He
stood still as I spoke, and I now came up beside him. He was an old man,
seemingly over eighty years of age; his hair and beard were white as
snow, and he was bent almost double with time; his dress was the common
costume of a Tyrolese, except that he wore in addition a kind of cloak
with a loose hood, such as the pilgrims wear in Austria; and indeed his
staff and leathern bottle bespoke him such. To all my questions as to
the road and the villages he replied in a kind of patois I could make
nothing of, for although tolerably well versed in all the dialects of
Southern Germany, his was quite unintelligible to me. Still, the
question how he came there was one of great moment; if _he_ had been
concealed while we passed so near, why not others? His age and
decrepitude forbade the thought of his having descended the mountain,
and so I felt puzzled in no common degree. As these doubts passed
through my mind, the poor old man stood trembling at my side as though
fearing what fate might be in store for him. Anxious to recompense him
for the trouble I had caused him, I drew out my purse; but no sooner did
he see it than he motioned it away with his hand, and shook his head in
token of refusal.
‘“Come, then,” said I, “I never met a pilgrim who would refuse a cup of
wine;” and with that I unslung my canteen and handed it to him. This he
seized eagerly and drained it to the bottom, holding up both hands when
he had finished, and muttering something I conjectured to be a prayer.
He was the only living object belonging to the country that I had seen;
a sudden whim seized me, and I gave him back the flask, making a sign
that he should keep it. He clutched the gift with the avidity of old
age, and sitting down upon a stone began to admire it with eager eyes.
Despairing of making him understand a word, and remembering it was time
to move forward, I waved my hand in adieu and galloped back.
‘The cavalry detachment came up soon after; and guess my astonishment to
learn that they had not seen the old man on the road, nor, although they
narrowly watched the mountain, perceived any living thing near. I
confess I could not dismiss a feeling of uncomfortable suspicion from my
mind, and all the reflections I bestowed upon his age and decrepitude
were very far from reassuring me. More than once I regretted not having
brought him forward with us; but again the fact of having such a
prisoner would have exposed me to ridicule at headquarters, if not to a
heavy reprimand.
‘Full of these reflections, I gave the word to move forward. Our object
was, if possible, to reach the opening of the Mittenwald before night,
where I was informed that a small dismantled fort would afford a secure
position if attacked by any mountain party. On comparing the route of
the map, however, with the road, I discovered that the real distances
were in many cases considerably greater than they were set down, and
perceived that with all our efforts we could not hope to emerge from the
ravine of the Schwartz-thal before the following day. This fact gave me
much uneasiness; for I remembered having heard that as the glen
approaches the Mittenwald, the pass is narrowed to a mere path,
obstructed at every step by masses of fallen rock, while the mountains,
more thickly covered with underwood, afford shelter for any party lying
in ambush. Nothing could be more fatal than an attack in such a
position, where a few determined men in front could arrest the march of
a whole regiment; while from the close sides of the pass, a well-
directed fire must sweep the ranks of those below. This gorge, which,
narrowing to a mere portal, has been called the Mitten-Thor, was the
scene of some fearful struggles between the French troops and the
Tyrolese, and was always believed to be the most dangerous of all the
passes of the Tyrol--every despatch to the headquarters of the army
referring to the disasters that befell there, and suggesting plans for
the occupation of the blockhouse near it, as a means of defence.
‘By the advice of my officers, one of whom was already acquainted with
all the circumstances of the ground, I determined on halting at a part
of the glen about two miles from the Mitten-Thor, where a slight
widening of the valley afforded more space for movement if attacked; and
here we arrived as evening was beginning to fall. It was a small oval
spot between the mountains, through which a little stream ran, dividing
it almost into equal portions, and crossed by a bridge of rude planks,
to which a little path conducted, and led up the mountains. Scarcely
were our watch-fires lighted when the moon rose, and although herself
not visible to our eyes as we lay in the deep valley, a rich flood of
silver light fell on one range of the mountains, marking out every cliff
and crag with the distinctness of day. The opposite mountain, wrapped in
deepest shadow, was one mass of undistinguishable blackness, and seemed
to frown ominously and gloomily upon us. The men were wearied with a
long march, and soon lay down to rest beside their fires; and save the
low subdued hum of the little encampment, the valley was in perfect
silence. On the bridge, from which the pass was visible for a good
distance in both directions, I had placed a lookout sentry; and a chain
of patrols was established around the bivouac.
‘These arrangements, which occupied me some time, being completed, I
threw myself down beside my fire, and prepared for sleep. But somehow,
though I had passed a day of fatigue and exertion, I could not slumber;
every time I closed my eyes the vision of the old pilgrim was before me,
and a vague, undefined feeling of apprehension hung over me. I tried to
believe it was a mere fancy, attributable to the place, of whose terrors
I had heard so much; but my mind dwelt on all the disasters of the
Schwartz-thal, and banished every desire for repose.
As I lay there, thinking, my eyes were attracted by a little rocky
point, about thirty feet above me on the mountain, on which the full
splendour of the moonlight shone at intervals as the dark clouds drifted
from before her; and a notion took me--why and how I never could explain
to myself--to ascend the crag, and take a view down the valley. A few
minutes after, and I was seated on the rock, from which I could survey
the pass and the encampment stretched out beneath me. It was just such a
scene as Salvator used to paint--the wild fantastic mountains, bristling
with rude pines and fragments of granite; a rushing torrent, splashing
and boiling beneath; a blazing watch-fire, and the armed group around
it, their weapons glancing in the red light; while, to add to the mere
picture, there came the monotonous hum of the soldier’s song as he
walked to and fro upon his post.
‘I sat a long while gazing at this scene, many a pleasant thought of
that bandit life we Germans feel such interest in, from Schiller’s play,
passing through my mind, when I heard the rustling of leaves, and a
crackling sound as of broken branches, issue from the mountain almost
directly above me. There was not a breath of wind nor a leaf stirring,
save there. I listened eagerly, and was almost certain I could hear the
sound of voices talking in a low undertone. Cautiously stealing along, I
began to descend the mountain, when, as I turned a projecting angle of
the path, I saw the sentry on the bridge with his musket at his
shoulder, taking a steady and deliberate aim at some object in the
direction of the noise. While I looked, he fired; a crashing sound of
the branches followed the report, and something like a cry, and as the
echoes died away in the distance a heavy mass tumbled over the cliff,
and fell from ledge to ledge till it rolled into the deep grass below. I
had but time to perceive it was the corpse of a man fully armed, when
the quick roll of the drum beat to arms. In an instant the men were
formed; the cavalry standing beside their horses, and the officers
crowding around me for orders. It was the discharge of the sentry’s
musket had given the alarm; for, save himself, no one had seen anything.
‘Just then a wild unearthly cry of “Ha! ha!” rang out from one mountain
and was answered from the other; while the sounds, increasing and
multiplied by the echoes, floated hither and thither, as though ten
thousand voices were shouting there. They ceased; all was still for a
few seconds, and then a hailstorm of bullets tore through our ranks, and
the valley rang again with the roar of musketry. Every cliff and crag,
every tuft of brushwood, seemed to be occupied; while the incessant roll
of the fire showed that our assailants were in great numbers. Resistance
was vain; our enemy was unseen; our men were falling at each discharge;
what was to be done? Nothing remained but to push forward to the
Mittenwald, where, the valley opening into a plain, we should be able to
defend ourselves against any irregular troops that might be brought
against us. The order was given, and the men advanced in a run, the
cavalry leading the way. Meanwhile the fire of the Tyrolese increased,
and the fatal marksmen seldom missed a shot; two of our officers already
lay dead, and three others dangerously wounded could scarce keep up with
our party.
‘“The road is barricaded and intrenched,” cried the sergeant of the
dragoons, galloping back to the main body in dismay.
‘A cry broke from the soldiers as they heard the sad tidings, while some
springing from their ranks called out, “Forward, and to the storm!”
‘Rushing to the head of these brave fellows, I waved my cap, and cheered
them on; the others followed, and we soon came in sight of the barrier,
which was formed of large trees thrown crossways, and forming, by their
massive trunks and interwoven branches, an obstacle far beyond our power
to remove. To climb the stockade was our only chance, and on we rushed;
but scarcely were we within half-musket-shot, when a volley met us
directed point-blank. The leading files of the column went down like one
man, and though others rushed eagerly forward, despair and desperation
goading them, the murderous fire of the long rifles dealt death at every
discharge; and we stood among the cumbered corpses of our fellow
comrades. By this time we were attacked in rear as well as front; and
now, all hope gone, it only remained to sell life as dearly as we could.
One infuriated rush to break through the barricade had forced a kind of
passage, through which, followed by a dozen others, I leaped, shouting
to my men to follow. The cry of my triumph was, however, met by a wilder
still, for the same instant a party of Tyrolese, armed with the two-
handed sword of their country, came down upon us. The struggle was a
brief and bloody one; man for man fell at either side, but overcome by
numbers I saw my companions drop dead or wounded around me. As for
myself, I clove the leader through the skull with one stroke. It was the
last my arm ever dealt; the next instant it was severed from my body. I
fell covered with blood, and my assailant jumped upon my body, and
drawing a short knife from his belt was about to plunge it in my bosom,
when a shout from a wounded Tyrolese at my side arrested the stroke, and
I saw an uplifted arm stretched out as if to protect me. I have little
memory after this. I heard--I think I hear still--the wild shouts and
the death-cries of my comrades as they fell beneath the arm of their
enemies. The slaughter was a dreadful one; of eight hundred and forty
men, I alone survived that terrible night.
‘Towards daybreak I found myself lying in a cart upon some straw, beside
another wounded man dressed in the uniform of the Tyrolese Jagers. His
head was fearfully gashed by a sabre-cut, and a musket-ball had
shattered his forearm. As I looked at him, a grim smile of savage glee
lit up his pale features, and he looked from my wound to his own with a
horrid significance. All my efforts to learn the fate of my comrades
were fruitless; he could neither comprehend me nor I him, and it was
only by conjecturing from the tones and gestures of those who
occasionally came up to the cart to speak to him, that I could learn the
fearful reality.
‘That day and the following one we journeyed onwards, but I knew naught
of time. The fever of my wound, increased by some styptic they had used
to stop the bleeding, had brought on delirium, and I raved of the fight,
and strove to regain my legs and get free. To this paroxysm, which
lasted many days, a low lingering fever succeeded, in which all
consciousness was so slight that no memory has remained to tell of my
sensations.
‘My first vivid sensation--it is before me at this minute--was on
entering the little mountain village of the Marien Kreutz. I was borne
on a litter by four men, for the path was inaccessible except to foot
passengers. It was evening, and the long procession of the wounded men
wound its way up the mountain defile and along the little street of the
village, which now was crowded by the country-people, who with sad and
tearful faces stood looking on their sons and brothers, or asking for
those whom they were never to behold again. The little chapel of the
village was converted into a hospital, and here beds were brought from
every cabin, and all the preparations for tending the sick began with a
readiness that surprised me.
‘As they bore me up the aisle of the chapel, a voice called out some
words in Tyrolese; the men halted and turned round, and then carried me
back into a small chapelry, where a single sick man was lying, whom in
an instant I recognised as my wounded companion of the road. With a nod
of rude but friendly recognition, he welcomed me, and I was placed near
him on a straw mattress stretched beneath the altar.
‘Why I had been spared in the fearful carnage, and for what destiny I
was reserved, were thoughts which rapidly gave way to others of deep
despondency at my fortune--a despair that made me indifferent to life.
The dreadful issue of the expedition would, I well knew, have ruined
more prosperous careers than mine in that service, where want of success
was the greatest of all crimes. Careless of my fate, I lived on in
gloomy apathy, not one gleam of hope or comfort to shine upon the
darkness of my misery.
‘This brooding melancholy took entire possession of me, and I took no
note of the scenes around me. My ear was long since accustomed to the
sad sounds of the sickbeds; the cries of suffering, and the low moanings
of misery had ceased to move me; even the wild and frantic ravings of
the wounded man near broke not in upon my musings, and I lived like one
immured within a solitary dungeon.
‘I lay thus one night--my sadness and gloom weightier than ever on my
broken spirits--listening to the echoed sounds of suffering that rose
into the vaulted roof, and wishing for death to call me away from such a
scene of misery, when I heard the low chanting of a priest coming along
the aisle; and the moment after the footsteps of several persons came
near, and then two acolytes, carrying lighted tapers, appeared, followed
by a venerable man robed in white, and bearing in his hands a silver
chalice. Two other priests followed him, chanting the last service, and
behind all there came a female figure dressed in deep mourning; she was
tall and graceful-looking, and her step had the firm tread of youth, but
her head was bowed down with sorrow, and she held her veil pressed
closely over her face. They gathered round the bed of the wounded man,
and the priest took hold of his hand and lifted it slowly from the bed;
and letting it go, it fell heavily down again, with a dull sound. The
old man bent over the bed, touched the pale features, and gazed into the
eyes, and then with clasped hands he sank down on his knees and prayed
aloud; the others knelt beside him--all save one; she threw herself with
frantic grief upon the dead body (for he was dead) and wept
passionately. In vain they strove to calm her sorrow, or even withdraw
her from the spot. She clung madly to it, and would not be induced to
leave it.
‘I think I see her still before me--her long hair, black as night,
streaming back from her pale forehead, and hanging down her shoulders;
her eyes fixed on the dead man’s face, and her hands pressed hard upon
her heart, as if to lull its agony. In all the wild transport of her
grief she was beautiful; for although pale to sickness, and worn with
watching, her large and lustrous eyes, her nose straight and finely
chiselled like the features of an antique cameo, and her mouth, where
mingled pride and sorrow trembled, gave her an expression of loveliness
I cannot convey. Such was she, as she watched beside her brother’s
death-bed day and night, silent and motionless; for as the first burst
of grief was over she seemed to nerve her courage to the task; and even
when the hour came, and they bore the body away to its last resting-
place, not a sigh or sob escaped her.
‘The vacant spot--though it had been tenanted by suffering and misery--
brought gloom to my heart. I had been accustomed each day to look for
him at sunrise, and each evening to see him as the light of day
declined; and I sorrowed like one deserted and alone. Not all alone!
for, as if by force of habit, when evening came, _she_ was at her place
near the altar.
‘The fever, and my own anxious thoughts, preyed on my mind that night;
and as I lay awake I felt parched and hot, and wished to drink, and I
endeavoured with my only arm to reach the cup beside me. She saw the
effort, and sprang towards me at once; and as she held it to my lips, I
remembered then that often in the dreary nights of my sickness I had
seen her at my bedside, nursing me and tending me. I muttered a word of
gratitude in German, when she started suddenly, and stooping down, said
in a clear accent--
‘“Bist du ein Deutscher (Are you a German)?”
‘“Yes,” said I, mournfully, for I saw her meaning.
‘“Shame! shame!” cried she, holding up her hands in horror. “If the
wolves ravage the flocks it is but their nature; but that our own
kindred, our very flesh and blood, should do this----”
‘I turned my head away in very sorrow and self-abasement, and a
convulsive sob burst from my heart.
‘“Nay, nay, not so,” said she, “a poor peasant like me cannot judge what
motives may have influenced you and others like you; and after all,” and
she spoke the words in a trembling voice--“and after all, you succoured
_him_ when you believed him sick and weary.”
‘“I! how so? It never was in my power----”
‘“Yes, yes,” cried she, passionately; “it was you. This _gourde_ was
yours; he told me so; he spoke of you a hundred times.” And at the
instant, she held up the little flask I had given to the pilgrim in the
valley.
‘“And was the pilgrim then----”
‘“Yes,” said she, as a proud flash lit up her features, “he was my
brother; many a weary mile he wandered over mountain and moor to track
you; faint and hungry, he halted not, following your footsteps from the
first hour you entered our land. Think you but for him that you had been
spared that nights slaughter, or that for any cause but his a Tyrolese
girl had watched beside your sick-bed, and prayed for your recovery?”
‘The whole truth now flashed upon me; every circumstance doubtful before
became at once clear to my mind, and I eagerly asked the fate of my
comrades.
‘A gloomy shake of the head was the only reply.
‘“All?” said I, trembling at the word.
‘“All!” repeated she, in an accent whose pride seemed almost amounting
to ferocity.
‘“Would I had perished with them!” cried I, in the bitterness of my
heart, and I turned my face away and gave myself up to my grief.
‘As if sorry for the burst of feeling she had caused me, she sat down
beside my bed, took my hand in hers, and placed her cold lips upon it,
while she murmured some words of comfort. Like water to the seared,
parched lips of some traveller in the desert, the accents fell upon my
almost broken heart, suggesting a thought of hope where, all was
darkness and despair, I listened to each word with a tremulous fear lest
she should cease to speak, and dreading that my ecstasy were but a
dream. From that hour, I wished to live; a changed spirit came over me,
and I felt as though with higher and more ennobling thoughts I should
once more tread the earth. Yes, from the humble lips of a peasant girl I
learned to feel that the path I once deemed the only road to heroism and
high ambition could be but “the bandit’s trade,” who sells his blood for
gain. That war which animated by high-souled patriotism can call forth
every sentiment of a great and generous nature, becomes in an unjust
cause the lowest slavery and degradation. Lydchen seldom quitted my
bedside, for my malady took many turns, and it was long--many months--
after that I was enabled to leave my bed and move up and down the
chapel.
‘Meanwhile the successes of our army had gradually reduced the whole
country beneath French rule, and except in the very fastnesses of the
mountains the Tyrolese had nowhere they could call their own. Each day
some peasant would arrive from the valleys with information that fresh
troops were pouring in from Germany, and the hopes of the patriotic
party fell lower and lower. At last one evening as I sat on the steps of
the little altar, listening to Lydchen reading for me some Tyrol legend,
a wild shout in the street of the village attracted our notice, which
seemed to gain strength as it came nearer. She started up suddenly, and
throwing down her book rushed from the chapel. In another moment she was
back beside me, her face pale as a corpse, and her limbs trembling with
fear.
‘“What has happened? Speak, for God’s sake! what is it?” said I.
‘“The French have shot the prisoners in the Platz at Innspruck! twenty-
eight have fallen this morning,” cried she, “seven from this very
village; and now they cry aloud for your blood; hear them, there!”
‘And as she spoke a frightful yell hurst from the crowd without, and
already they stood at the entrance to the chapel, which even at such a
time they had not forgotten was a sanctuary. The very wounded men sat up
in their beds and joined their feeble cries to those without, and the
terrible shout of “blood for blood!” rang through the vaulted roof.
‘“I am ready,” said I, springing up from the low step of the altar.
“They must not desecrate this holy spot with such a crime. I am ready to
go where you will.”
‘“No, no,” cried Lydchen; “you are not like our enemies. You wish us
naught of evil; your heart is with the struggle of a brave people, who
fight but for their homes and Fatherland. Be of us, then; declare that
you are with us. Oh, do this, and these will be your brothers and I your
sister; ay, more than sister ever was.”
‘“It cannot be; no, never,” said I; “it is not when life is in the
balance that fealty can change.”
‘With difficulty I freed myself from the clasp of her arms, for in her
grief she had thrown herself at my feet, when suddenly we heard the deep
accents of the aged priest, as he stood upon the steps of the altar, and
commanded silence. His tones were those of severity and sternness, and I
could mark that not a murmur was raised as he continued.
‘“You are safe,” whispered Lydchen; “till to-morrow you are safe; before
that you must be far away.”
‘The respite of the priest was merely to give me time to prepare for
death, which it was decreed I should suffer the following morning in the
Platz of the village.
‘Scarcely had evening begun to fall when Lydchen approached my bed and
deposited a small bundle upon it, whispering gently, “Lose no time; put
on these clothes, and wait for my return.”
‘The little chapelry where I lay communicated by a small door with the
dwelling of the priest, and by her passing through this I saw that the
father was himself conniving at the plan of my escape. By the imperfect
glimmer of the fading day I could perceive that they were her brother’s
clothes she had brought me; the jacket was yet stained with his blood. I
was long in equipping myself, with my single arm, and I heard her voice
more than once calling to me to hasten, ere I was ready.
‘At length I arose, and passing through the door entered the priest’s
house, where Lydchen, dressed in hat and mantle, stood ready for the
road. As I endeavoured to remonstrate she pressed her hand on my mouth,
and walking on tiptoe led me forward; we emerged into a little garden,
crossing which she opened a wicket that led into the road. There a
peasant was in waiting, who carried a small bundle on his shoulder, and
was armed with the long staff used in mountain travelling. Again, making
a sign for me to be silent, she moved on before me, and soon turning off
the road entered a foot-track in the mountain. The fresh breeze of the
night and the sense of liberty nerved me to exertion, and I walked on
till day was breaking. Our path generally lay in a descending direction,
and I felt little fatigue, when at sunrise Lydchen told me that we might
rest for some hours, as our guide could now detect the approach of any
party for miles round, and provide for our concealment. No pursuit,
however, was undertaken in that direction, the peasants in all
likelihood deeming that I would turn my steps towards Lahn, where a
strong French garrison was stationed; whereas we were proceeding in the
direction of Saltzbourg, the very longest and therefore the least likely
route through the Tyrol.
‘Day succeeded day, and on we went. Not one living thing did we meet on
our lonely path. Already our little stock of provisions was falling low,
when we came in sight of the hamlet of Altendorf, only a single day’s
march from the lake of Saltzbourg. The village, though high in the
mountain, lay exactly beneath us as we went, and from the height we
stood on we could see the little streets of the town and its market-
place like a map below us. Scarcely had the guide thrown his eyes
downwards than he stopped short, and pointing to the town, cried out
“The French! the French!” and true enough, a large party of infantry
were bivouacked in the streets, and several horses were picketed in the
gardens about. While the peasant crept cautiously forward to inspect the
place nearer, I stood beside Lydchen, who, with her hands pressed
closely on her face, spoke not a word.
‘“We part here!” said she, with a strong, full accent, as though
determined to let no weakness appear in her words.
‘“Part, Lydchen!” cried I, in an agony; for up to that moment I believed
that she never intended returning to the Tyrol.
‘“Yes. Thinkest thou that I hold so light my home and country as thou
dost? Didst thou believe that a Tyrol girl would live ‘midst those who
laid waste her Fatherland, and left herself an orphan, without one of
her kindred remaining?”
‘“Are there no ties save those of blood, Lydchen? Is your heart so
steeled against the stranger that the devotion, the worship, of a life
long would not move you from your purpose?”
‘“Thou hast refused me once,” said she proudly; “I offered to be all
your own when thou couldst have made me so with honour. If thou wert the
Kaiser Franz, I would not have thee now.”
‘“Oh, speak not thus, Lydchen, to him whose life you saved, and made him
feel that life is a blessing! Remember that if _your_ heart be cold to
me, you have made _mine_ your own for ever. I will not leave you. No----
“
‘“Is it that thou mayst bring me yonder and show me amongst thy
comrades--the Tyrol maiden that thou hast captured, thy spoil of war?”
‘“Oh, Lydchen, dearest, why will you speak thus----”
‘“Never!” cried she, as her eyes flashed proudly, and her cheek flushed
red, “never! I have the blood of Hofer in my veins; and bethinkest thou
I would stoop to be a jest, a mockery, before thy high-born dames, who
would not deem me fit to be their waiting-woman? Farewell, sir. I hoped
to part with thee less in anger than in sorrow.”
‘“Then I will remain,” said I.
‘“Too late, too late!” cried she, waving her hand mournfully; “the hour
is past. See, there come your troops; a moment more, and I shall be
taken. You wish not this, at least----”
‘As she spoke, a cavalry detachment was seen coming up the valley at a
canter. A few minutes more and she would be discovered. I knew too well
the ruffian natures of the soldiery to hazard such a risk. I caught her
to my arms with one last embrace, and the next moment dashed down the
path towards the dragoons. I turned my head once, but she was gone; the
peasant guide had left the breach of the chasm, and they both were lost
to my view.
‘My story is now soon told. I was tried by a court-martial, honourably
acquitted, and restored to my grade--_en retraite_, however, for my
wound had disabled me from active service. For three years I lived in
retirement near Mayence, the sad memory of one unhappy event embittering
every hour of my life.
‘In the early part of 1809 a strong division of the French army,
commanded by my old friend and companion Lefebvre, entered Mayence, on
their way to Austria; and as my health was now restored, I yielded to
his persuasion to join his staff as first aide-de-camp. Indeed, a
carelessness and indifference to my fortune had made me submit to
anything, and I assented to every arrangement of the general, as if I
were totally unconcerned in it all. I need not trace the events of that
rapid and brilliant campaign. I will only remark that Eckmühl and
Ratisbon both brought back all the soldier’s ardour to my heart; and
once more the crash of battle, and the din of marching columns, aroused
my dormant enthusiasm.
‘In the month of April, a _corps d’armée_ of twenty thousand men entered
the Tyrol, and pushed forward to the Niederwald, where Lefebvre had his
headquarters. I cannot stay to speak of the terrible scenes of that
period, the most fearful in the spirit of resistance that ever our arms
encountered. Detachments were cut off every day; whole columns
disappeared, and never again were heard of; no bivouac was safe from a
nightly attack, and even the sentinels at the gates of Innspruck were
repeatedly found dead on their posts. But, worse than all, daily
instances occurred of assassination by peasants, who sometimes dressed
as sutlers entered the camp, and took the opportunity to stab or shoot
our officers, caring nothing, as it seemed, for the certain death that
awaited them. These became of such frequent occurrence that scarce a
report did not contain one or two such casualties, and consequently
every precaution that could be thought of was adopted; and every peasant
taken with arms--in a country, too, where none are unarmed--was shot
without trial of any kind whatever. That little mercy, or indeed
justice, was meted out to the people, I need only say that Girardon was
commandant of the garrison, and daily inspected the executions on
parade.
‘It happened that one morning this savage old officer was stabbed by an
Austrian peasant, who had long been employed as a camp servant and
trusted in situations of considerable confidence. The man was
immediately led out for execution to the Platz, where was another
prisoner,--a poor boy found rambling within the lines, and unable to
give any account of his presence there. Girardon, however, was only
slightly wounded, and countermanded the the execution of his assassin,
not from motives of forgiveness, but in order to defer it till he was
himself able to be present and witness it. And upon me, as next in
command, devolved the melancholy duty of being present on the parade.
The brief note I received from Girardon, reminded me of a former
instance of weakness on my part, and contained a sneering hope that I
‘had learned some portion of a soldier’s duty, since I was reduced to
the ranks at Strasbourg.’
“When I reached the Platz, I found the officers of the Staff in the
middle of the square, where a table was placed, on which the order for
the execution was lying, awaiting my signature.
“‘The prisoner begs a word with the officer in command,’ said the
orderly serjeant.
“‘I cannot accede to his request.’ said I, trembling from head to foot,
and knowing how totally such an interview would unman me.
“‘He implores it, sir, with the utmost earnestness, and says he has some
important secret to reveal before his death.’
“‘The old story--anything for five minutes more of life and sun-shine,’
said an officer beside me.
“‘I must refuse.’ said I, ‘and desire that these requests may not be
brought before me.’
“‘It is the only way, Colonel.’ said another; ‘and indeed such intervals
have little mercy in them; both parties suffer the more from them.’
“This speech seemed to warrant my selfish determination, and I seized
the pen, and wrote my name to the order; and then handing it to the
officer, covered my face with my hands, and sat with my head leaning on
the table.
“A bustle in front, and a wild cry of agony, told me that the
preparations were begun, and quick as lightning, the roar of a platoon
fire followed. A shriek, shrill and piercing, mingled with the crash,
and then came a cry from the soldiers, ‘It is a woman!’
“‘With madness in my brain, and a vague dread--I know not of what--I
dashed forward through the crowd, and there, on the pavement, weltering
in her blood, lay the body of Lydchen: she was stone dead, her bosom
shattered by a dozen bullets.
“I fell upon the corpse, the blood poured from my mouth in torrents; and
when I arose, it was with a broken heart, whose sufferings are bringing
me to the grave.”
This sad story I have related without any endeavour to convey to my
reader, either the tone of him who told it, or the dreadful conflict of
feeling, which at many times prevented his continuing. In some few
places the very words he made use of were those I have employed, since
they have remained fast rooted in my memory, and were associated with
the facts themselves. Except in these slight particulars, I have told
the tale as it lives in my recollection, coupled with one of the saddest
nights I ever remember.
It was near morning when he concluded, tired and exhausted, yet to all
appearance calmer and more tranquil from the free current of that sorrow
he could not longer control.
“Leave me now,” said he, “for a few hours; my servant shall call you
before I go.”
It was to no purpose that I offered to accompany him, alleging--as with
an easy conscience I could do--that no one was less bound by any ties of
place or time. He refused my offer of companionship, by saying, that
strict solitude alone restored him after one of his attacks, and that
the least excitement invariably brought on a relapse. “We shall soon
meet again, I hope,” was the extent of promise I could obtain from him;
and I saw that to press the matter further was both unfair and
indelicate.
Though I lay down in bed I could not sleep; a strange feeling of dread,
an anxious fear of something undefined, was over me; and at every noise
I arose and looked out of the window, and down the streets, which were
all still and silent. The terrible events of the tale were like a
nightmare on my mind, and I could not dismiss them. At last I fell into
a half slumber, from which I was awakened by the Baron’s servant. His
master was dangerously ill; another attack had seized him, and he was
lying senseless. I hastened to the room, where I found the sick man
stretched half dressed upon the bed, his face purple, and his eyeballs
strained to bursting; his breathing was heavy, and broken by a low,
tremulous quaver, that made each respiration like a half-suppressed
sigh. While I opened the window to give him air, and bathed his forehead
with cold water, I dispatched a servant for a doctor.
The physician was soon beside me; but I quickly saw that the case was
almost hopeless. His former disease had developed a new and, if
possible, worse one--aneurism of the heart.
I will not speak of the hourly vacillations of hope and fear in which I
passed that day and the following one. He had never regained
consciousness; but the most threatening symptoms had considerably
abated, and, in the physician’s eyes, he was better. On the afternoon of
the third day, as I sat beside his bed, sleep overtook me in my
watching, and I awoke feeling a hand within my own: it was Elgenheim’s.
Overjoyed at this sign of returning health, I asked him how he felt. A
faint sigh, and a motion of his hand towards his side, was all his
reply. Not daring to speak more, I drew the curtain, and sat still and
silent at his side. The window, by the physician’s order, was left open,
and a gentle breeze stirred the curtains lightly, and gave a refreshing
air within the apartment. A noise of feet, and a hurried movement in the
street, induced me to look out, and I now saw the head of an infantry
battalion turning into the Platz. They marched in slow time, and with
arms reversed. With a throb of horror, I remembered the deserter! Yes,
there he was! He marched between two dismounted gendarmes, without coat
or cap; a broad placard fixed on his breast, inscribed with his name and
his crime. I turned instantly towards the bed, dreading lest already the
tramp of the marching men had reached the sick man’s ear, but he was
sleeping calmly, and breathing without effort of any kind.
The thought seized me, to speak to the officer in command of the party,
and I rushed down, and making my way through the crowd, approached the
staff, as they were standing in the middle of the Platz. But my excited
manner, my look of wild anxiety, and my little knowledge of the
language, combined to make my appeal of little moment.
“If it be true, sir,” said a gruff old veteran, with a grisly beard,
“that he was an Officer of the Empire, the fire of a platoon can
scarcely hurt his nerves.”
“Yes, but,” said I, “there is a circumstance of his life which makes
this ten-fold more dangerous--I cannot explain it--I am not at liberty--
“
“I do not desire to learn your secrets, sir,” replied the old man
rudely; “stand back, and suffer me to do my duty.”
I turned to the others, but they could give me neither advice nor
assistance, and already the square was lined with soldiers, and the men
of the “death party” were ordered to stand out.
“Give me at least time enough to move my friend to a distant chamber, if
you will not do more,” said I, driven to madness; but no attention was
paid to my words, and the muster roll continued to be read out.
I rushed back to the inn, and up the stairs; but what was my horror to
hear the sound of voices, and the tramp of feet, in the sick room I had
left in silence. As I entered, I saw the landlord and the servant,
assisted by the doctor, endeavouring to hold down the Baron on his bed,
who with almost superhuman strength, pushed them from him in his efforts
to rise. His features were wild to insanity, and the restless darting of
his glistening eye, showed that he was under the excitement of delirium.
“The effort may kill him,” whispered the doctor in my ear; “this
struggle may be his death.”
“Leave me free, sir!” shouted the sick man. “Who dares to lay hands on
me--stand aside there--the peloton will take ground to the right,”
continued he, raising his voice as if commanding on parade; “Ground
arms!”
Just at this instant, the heavy clank of the firelocks was heard
without, as though in obedience to his word. “Hark!” said he, raising
his hand--“Not a word--silence in the ranks.” And in the deadly
stillness we could now hear the sentence of death, as it was read aloud
by the Adjutant. A hoarse roll of the drum followed, and then, the tramp
of the party as they led forward the prisoner, to every step of which
the sick man kept time with his hand.
We did not dare to move--we knew not at what instant our resistance
might be his death.
“Shoulder arms!” shouted out the officer from the Platz.
“Take the orders from _me_,” cried Elgenheim wildly. “This duty is mine-
-no man shall say I shrunk from it.”
“Present arms--Fire----”
“Fire!” shouted Elgenheim, with a yell that rose above the roll of
musketry; and then with a groan of agony, he cried out, “There--there--
it’s over now!” and fell back, dead, into our arms.
***** *****
Thus died the leader of the stormers at Elchingen,--the man who carried
the Hill of Asperne against an Austrian battery. He sleeps now in the
little churchyard of the “Marien Hülfe” at Cassel.