The Germans, driven back in multitudes upon Grandfontaine, fled in
bands in the direction of Framont, on foot and on horseback, hurrying
along, dragging with them their baggage, throwing their knapsacks
across the road, and then looking behind them as if they feared to see
the mountaineers at their heels.
In Grandfontaine they destroyed everything they could lay their hands
on, out of a spirit of revenge; they smashed the windows and doors,
insulted the inhabitants, demanded to be supplied with food and drink
on the spot, and outraged the women. Their shouts, their imprecations,
the authoritative commands of their leaders, the complaints of the
citizens, the heavy, incessant tread of footsteps on the bridge of
Framont, the shrill neighings of the wounded horses, all reached the
barricades in one confused, mingled sound.
On the mountain-side nothing was to be seen but arms, shakos, and dead
bodies; in short, all the signs of a great defeat. Opposite appeared
the cannons taken by Marc Divès, pointed over the valley, and ready to
fire in case of a fresh attack.
All was then over--quite over. And yet not a single cry of triumph rose
from the entrenchments. The losses the mountaineers had sustained in
this last assault had been too severe and cruel. There was something
solemn in this deep silence succeeding to the tumult; and all those
men who had escaped the carnage looked at one another with grave faces
as if they were surprised at seeing each other. Some called to a
friend, others to a brother, who did not answer. They would then begin
to search in the trench, along the barricades, or on the ascent, crying
as they did it, "Ho! Jacob, Philip!--is it you?"
And then night came, and its grey shadows spread over entrenchments and
abyss, adding the horror of mystery to scenes already terrible enough.
Materne, after having wiped his bayonet, called his sons to him in
hoarse accents:
"Ho! Kasper! Frantz!"
And seeing forms approaching in the darkness, he began to ask:
"Is it you?"
"Yes, it is us."
"Nothing wrong with you?"
"No."
The old huntsman's voice, usually so rough, trembled like a woman's.
"Here we are all three, then, together again!" said he, in a low tone.
And he, whom no one had ever accused of being softhearted, bestowed
a hearty embrace upon his sons, who were greatly surprised by his
emotion. They heard a sound in his breast as of inward sobbing; they
were much moved by it, and said to themselves: "How he loves us! We
should never have believed this!"
They themselves felt touched to the very quick.
But in a short time, the old man, recovering himself, exclaimed:
"All the same, this has been a tough day's work, boys. Let us go and
have a cup of wine, for I'm thirsty."
Then casting a last look on the gloomy scene, and seeing the sentinels
which Hullin, as he went by, had just posted at every thirty paces,
they proceeded together towards the old farm.
They were crossing the trench, where the dead lay in heaps, lifting
their feet whenever they felt them come in contact with anything soft,
when they heard a stifled voice say:
"Is that you, Materne?"
"Ah, my poor old Rochart!--pardon, pardon!" replied the old huntsman,
stooping down. "I touched you. What! are you there still?"
"Yes, I cannot move, for I have lost my legs."
They were all three silent for a moment, and then the old wood-cutter
resumed:
"Tell my wife that she will find behind the wardrobe my little savings,
put away in a stocking. I hoarded it up in case we should either of us
fall ill. For me, I have no more need of it."
"That we shall see, we shall see;--you may recover yet--poor old
fellow! We will carry you away."
"No; it's not worth the trouble; I've only an hour longer to live; it
would only put me to pain."
Materne, without answering, made a sign to Kasper to form a litter with
his carbine and his own, and Frantz to place the old wood-cutter upon
it, in spite of his remonstrances. Which was immediately done. And in
this manner they all arrived at the farm together.
All the wounded who, during the combat, had had strength to drag
themselves to the hospital, had repaired thither. Doctor Lorquin and
his assistant, Despois, who had arrived during the day, were up to
their ears in work, and still all was not nearly finished, so much was
there to do.
As Materne, with his sons and old Rochart, were crossing the dark
alley by the light of the lantern, they heard on their left a groan
which froze the very marrow in their hones, and the old wood-cutter,
half-dead as he was, exclaimed:
"Oh! why do you bring me here? I will not--no, I won't! I would rather
die at once!"
"Open the door, Frantz," said Materne, while a cold sweat stood upon
his face--"open, make haste!"
And Frantz having pushed the door, they saw on a long kitchen table
in the centre of the low apartment, with heavy brown rafters, young
Colard, stretched at full length, three candles on each side of him,
a man at each arm, and a bucket just under him. Doctor Lorquin, his
shirt-sleeves turned up to his elbows, a short saw about three fingers
broad in his hand, was just preparing to cut off the poor devil's leg,
while Despois was holding a large sponge. The blood was splashing
down into the bucket. Colard was as pale as death. Catherine Lefévre,
standing beside him with a roll of lint over her arm, was striving to
be firm, but two deep wrinkles that furrowed her cheeks by the side of
her hooked nose showed how she was clenching her teeth. She was looking
down on the ground without seeing anything.
"It's all over!" said the doctor, turning round.
And casting a glance at the new comers, he said:
"Ah! is that you, old Rochart?"
"Yes, that's me; but I don't want any one to meddle with me; I'd rather
stay as I am."
The doctor, taking up a candle, looked at him, and made a wry face.
"It's time you were seen to, my poor old fellow; you've lost a deal of
blood already, and if we wait much longer it will be too late."
"So much the better; I've suffered enough in my time."
"Just as you will: let's go to the next." He looked down a long row of
mattrasses at the bottom of the room; the two last were empty, though
soaked in blood. Materne and Kasper laid the old wood-cutter on one,
whilst Despois approached another of the wounded, saying:
"Nicolas, it's your turn now."
They then saw the tall form of Nicolas Cerf raise itself up, with a
face deadly pale, and eyes glistening with fear.
"Give him a glass of brandy," said the doctor.
"No, I would like my pipe better."
"Where is your pipe?"
"In my waistcoat."
"All right; here it is. And the tobacco?"
"In my trousers' pocket."
"I've got it. Fill his pipe, Despois. He has courage, has this one:
that's right! It does one good to see a man with a stout heart. We will
have your arm off in double-quick time."
"Is there no way of saving it, Doctor Lorquin, for the sake of my poor
children? It's their only living."
"No, the bone is crushed; it will never be any good to you again.
Light the pipe, Despois. Now then, Nicolas, smoke away."
The poor fellow began to smoke, without having a great desire for it.
"Are you all right?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," replied Nicolas, in a stifled voice.
"Good. Now then, Despois, attention!--the sponge!"
Then, with a large knife, he described a rapid circle through the
flesh, while Nicolas ground his teeth with the agony.
The blood spurted out. Despois put a bandage tight round. The grinding
of the saw was heard for a few seconds, and the arm fell heavily to the
ground.
"That's what I call an operation well got through with," said Lorquin.
Nicolas was not smoking now: his pipe had fallen from his lips. David
Schlosser de Walsch, who had held him, let him go. They bandaged the
stump, and then Nicolas went without any assistance and laid himself
down again on the mattrass.
"There's one more despatched. Sponge the table, Despois, and let's get
on to another," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large bowl.
Every time he said "Let's go to another," all the wounded were struck
with fear on account of the groans they heard, and the sharp knives
they caught sight of now and then; but what was to be done? Every
room in the farm, the barn, the attics, all were filled with the
wounded. There was nothing but the large room on the ground-floor left
at liberty for the people belonging to the place; so the doctor was
obliged to operate under the very eyes of those whose turn must come
sooner or later.
All this had passed in a few moments. Materne and his sons had stood
looking on, as people do look on at anything horrible to know what it
is. Then they had seen in a corner on the left, just under the old
Dutch clock, a heap of arms and legs jumbled together. Nicolas's arm
had already been thrown on to the top, and the doctor was preparing to
extract a ball from the shoulder of a mountaineer of the Harberg with
red whiskers; large gashes in form of a cross had to be made in his
back, and from his hairy, shuddering flesh the blood was streaming down
to his boots.
It was strange to see the dog, Pluto, behind the doctor, surveying the
operations with an attentive look, as if he understood it all; and from
time to time he stretched his legs and bent his back with a yawn that
reached from ear to ear.
Materne could not bear to see any more. "Let us be going," said he.
They had hardly entered the dark walk when they heard the doctor
exclaim, "I've got the ball!" which must have caused great pleasure to
the man from Harberg.
Once outside, and breathing the fresh clear air, Materne ejaculated:
"And to think that the same might have happened to us!"
"Yes," replied Kasper; "to get a bullet through your head is no great
matter; but it's another thing to be chopped about like that, and have
to beg your bread for the rest of your days."
"Oh! I should do like old Rochart, for my part," said Frantz; "I should
just die quietly, without any bother. When you've done your duty, what
have you to fear? The good God is always the same!"
At this moment, the hum of voices was heard on their right.
"It is Marc Divès and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.
"Oh, yes! they have been, no doubt, making barricades behind the fir
forest to protect the cannon," added Frantz.
They listened again; the footsteps drew nearer.
"You are greatly embarrassed with those three prisoners," Hullin was
saying, in an abrupt tone. "Since you return to Falkenstein to-night to
procure ammunition, what prevents your taking them with you?"
"But where shall I put them?"
"Where? Why, in the public prison of Abreschwiller; we cannot keep them
here."
"All right; I understand, Jean-Claude; and if they attempt to escape by
the way, I shall plant my toasting-iron between their shoulders."
"Of course, of course."
They had by this time reached the door, and Hullin, perceiving Materne,
could not restrain a cry of delight.
"Ah! is it you, old fellow? I've been looking for you for the last
hour. Where the deuce have you been to?"
"We've been carrying poor Rochart to the hospital, Jean-Claude."
"Ah! that's a bad job, isn't it?"
"Yes, very bad."
There was a moment's silence, and then, the worthy man's satisfaction
regaining the upper hand, "Yes; it's not pleasant," he went on; "but
what can you do? It's the chance of war. You're not hit, you fellows?"
"No; we are all three safe and sound."
"So much the better, so much the better. Those who are left may boast
of having been lucky."
"Yes," exclaimed Marc Divès, laughing; "there was a moment when I
thought Materne was going to sound a parley; but for those cannon-shots
at the end, by my faith! things were taking a bad turn."
Materne coloured, and casting a side-look at the smuggler, "Possibly,"
he drily observed; "but had it not been for the cannon-shots at the
beginning, we should have had no need of those at the end; old Rochart,
and fifty more of our brave fellows, would have had their arms and legs
still, which wouldn't have made our victory any the less pleasant."
"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, who foresaw the beginning of a dispute
between two men whose dispositions were far from conciliatory. "Let's
put an end to this; every one has done his duty, and that's the great
thing." Then addressing Materne, "I have just despatched a messenger to
Framont," said he, "to desire the Germans to fetch away their wounded.
In an hour they will be here, no doubt; we must warn our look-outs to
let them approach, but without arms, and with torches; if they come
otherwise, let them be shot."
"I will see to it at once," replied the old huntsman.
"Hey! Materne, you will come to supper afterwards at the farm with your
boys?"
"All right, Jean-Claude."
He departed.
Hullin then told Frantz and Kasper to have large camp fires lighted for
the night; Marc, to give his horses a feed of corn, so that they might
be ready to go, without loss of time, to fetch ammunition; and, as they
withdrew to execute his orders, he entered the farm.