It was in something less than a week after that I entered upon my new
career as orderly in the staff, when I began to believe myself the
most miserable of all human beings. On the saddle at sunrise, I never
dismounted, except to carry a measuring chain, ‘to step distances,’
mark out intrenchments, and then write away, for hours, long
enormous reports, that were to be models of caligraphy, neatness and
elegance--and never to be read. Nothing could be less like soldiering
than the life I led; and were it not for the clanking sabre I wore at
my side, and the jingling spurs that decorated my heels, I might have
fancied myself a notary’s clerk. It was part of General Moreau’s plan to
strengthen the defences of Kehl before he advanced farther into Germany;
and to this end repairs were begun upon a line of earthworks, about
two leagues to the northward of the fortress, at a small village called
‘Ekheim.’ In this miserable little hole, one of the dreariest spots
imaginable, we were quartered, with two companies of sapeurs and some of
the waggon-train, trenching, digging, carting earth, sinking wells, and
in fact engaged in every kind of labour save that which seemed to be
characteristic of a soldier.
I used to think that Nancy and the riding-school were the most dreary
and tiresome of all destinies, but they were enjoyments and delight
compared with this. Now it very often happens in life that when a man
grows discontented and dissatisfied with mere monotony, when he chafes
at the sameness of a tiresome and unexciting existence, he is rapidly
approaching to some critical or eventful point, where actual peril and
real danger assail him, and from which he would willingly buy his escape
by falling back upon that wearisome and plodding life he had so often
deplored before. This case was my own. Just as I had convinced myself
that I was exceedingly wretched and miserable, I was to know there are
worse things in this world than a life of mere uniform stupidity. I was
waiting outside my captain’s door for orders one morning, when at
the tinkle of his little hand-bell I entered the room where he sat at
breakfast, with an open despatch before him.
‘Tiernay,’ said he, in his usual quiet tone, ‘here is an order from the
adjutant-general to send you back under an escort to headquarters. Are
you aware of any reason for it, or is there any charge against you which
warrants this?’
‘Not to my knowledge, _mon capitaine_,’ said I, trembling with fright,
for I well knew with what severity discipline was exercised in that
army, and how any, even the slightest, infractions met the heaviest
penalties.
‘I have never known you to pillage,’ continued he, ‘have never seen you
drink, nor have you been disobedient while under my command; yet this
order could not be issued on light grounds; there must be some grave
accusation against you, and in any case you must go; therefore arrange
all my papers, put everything to rights, and be ready to return with the
orderly.’
‘You’ll give me a good character, _mon capitaine_,’ said I, trembling
more than ever--‘you’ll say what you can for me, I’m sure.’
‘Willingly, if the general or chief were here,’ replied he; ‘but that’s
not so. General Moreau is at Strasbourg. It is General Régnier that is
in command of the army, and unless specially applied to, I could not
venture upon the liberty of obtruding my opinion upon him.’
‘Is he so severe, sir?’ asked I timidly.
‘The general is a good disciplinarian,’ said he cautiously, while he
motioned with his hand towards the door, and accepting the hint, I
retired.
It was evening when I re-entered Kehl, under an escort of two of my own
regiment, and was conducted to the ‘Salle de Police.’ At the door stood
my old corporal, whose malicious grin, as I alighted, revealed the whole
story of my arrest; and I now knew the charge that would be preferred
against me--a heavier there could not be made--was, ‘disobedience in the
field.’ I slept very little that night, and when I did close my eyes, it
was to awake with a sudden start, and believe myself in presence of
the court-martial, or listening to my sentence, as read out by the
president. Towards day, however, I sank into a heavy, deep slumber, from
which I was aroused by the reveille of the barracks.
I had barely time to dress when I was summoned before the ‘Tribunale
Militaire’--a sort of permanent court-martial, whose sittings were held
in one of the churches of the town. Not even all the terror of my own
precarious position could overcome the effect of old prejudices in my
mind, as I saw myself led up the dim aisle of the church towards the
altar rails, within which, around a large table, were seated a number of
officers, whose manner and bearing evinced but little reverence for the
sacred character of the spot.
Stationed in a group of poor wretches whose wan looks and anxious
glances told that they were prisoners like myself, I had time to see
what was going forward around me. The president, who alone wore his hat,
read from a sort of list before him the name of a prisoner and that of
the witnesses in the cause. In an instant they were all drawn up and
sworn. A few questions followed, rapidly put, and almost as rapidly
replied to. The prisoner was called on then for his defence: if this
occupied many minutes, he was sure to be interrupted by an order to be
brief. Then came the command to ‘stand by’; and after a few seconds’
consultation together, in which many times a burst of laughter might be
heard, the Court agreed upon the sentence, recorded and signed it, and
then proceeded with the next case.
If nothing in the procedure imposed reverence or respect, there was that
in the despatch which suggested terror, for it was plain to see that the
Court thought more of the cost of their own precious minutes than of the
years of those on whose fate they were deciding. I was sufficiently near
to hear the charges of those who were arraigned, and, for the greater
number, they were all alike. Pillage, in one form or another, was the
universal offending, and from the burning of a peasant’s cottage, to the
theft of his dog or his _poulet_, all came under this head. At last came
number 82--‘Maurice Tiernay, hussar of the Ninth.’ I stepped forward to
the rails.
‘Maurice Tiernay,’ read the president hurriedly, ‘accused by Louis
Gaussin, corporal of the same regiment, “of wilfully deserting his post
while on duty in the field, and in the face of direct orders to the
contrary, inducing others to a similar breach of discipline.” Make the
charge, Gaussin.’
The corporal stepped forward, and began--
‘We were stationed in detachment on the bank of the Rhine, on the
evening of the 23rd----’
‘The Court has too many duties to lose its time for nothing,’
interrupted I. ‘It is all true. I did desert my post, I did disobey
orders; and, seeing a weak point in the enemy’s line, attacked and
carried it with success. The charge is, therefore, admitted by me, and
it only remains for the Court to decide how far a soldier’s zeal for his
country may be deserving of punishment. Whatever the result, one thing
is perfectly clear, Corporal Gaussin will never be indicted for a
similar misdemeanour.’
A murmur of voices and suppressed laughter followed this impertinent and
not over-discreet sally of mine, and the president, calling out, ‘Proven
by acknowledgment,’ told me to ‘stand by.’ I now fell back to my
former place, to be interrogated by my comrades on the result of my
examination, and hear their exclamations of surprise and terror at the
rashness of my conduct. A little reflection of the circumstances would
probably have brought me over to their opinion, and shown me that I had
gratuitously thrown away an opportunity of self-defence; but my temper
could not brook the indignity of listening to the tiresome accusation
and the stupid malevolence of the corporal, whose hatred was excited by
the influence I wielded over my comrades.
It was long past noon ere the proceedings terminated, for the list was a
full one, and at length the Court rose, apparently not sorry to exchange
their tiresome duties for the pleasant offices of the dinner-table. No
sentences had been pronounced, but one very striking incident seemed
to shadow forth a gloomy future. Three, of whom I was one, were marched
off, doubly guarded, before the rest, and confined in separate cells of
the ‘Salle,’ where every precaution against escape too plainly showed
the importance attached to our safe keeping.
At about eight o’clock, as I was sitting on my bed--if that inclined
plane of wood, worn by the form of many a former prisoner, could deserve
the name--a sergeant entered with the prison allowance of bread and
water. He placed it beside me without speaking, and stood for a few
seconds gazing at me.
‘What age art thou, lad?’ said he, in a voice of compassionate interest.
‘Something over fifteen, I believe,’ replied I.
‘Hast father and mother?’
‘Both are dead!’
‘Uncles or aunts living?’
‘Neither.’
‘Hast any friends who could help thee?’
‘That might depend on what the occasion for help should prove, for I
have one friend in the world.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Colonel Mahon, of the Cuirassiers.’
‘I never heard of him--is he here?’
‘No, I left him at Nancy; but I could write to him.’
‘It would be too late, much too late.’
‘How do you mean--too late?’ asked I tremblingly.
‘Because it is fixed for to-morrow evening,’ replied he in a low,
hesitating voice.
‘What? the--the----’ I could not say the word, but merely imitated the
motion of presenting and firing. He nodded gravely in acquiescence.
‘What hour is it to take place?’ asked I.
‘After evening parade. The sentence must be signed by General Berthier,
and he will not be here before that time.’
‘It would be too late then, sergeant,’ said I, musing, ‘far too late.
Still I should like to write the letter; I should like to thank him for
his kindness in the past, and show him, too, that I have not been either
unworthy or ungrateful. Could you let me have paper and pen, sergeant?’
‘I can venture so far, lad; but I cannot let thee have a light, it is
against orders; and during the day, thou ‘ll be too strictly watched.*
‘No matter; let me have the paper, and I’ll try to scratch a few lines
in the dark; and thou ‘lt post it for me, sergeant? I ask thee as a last
favour to do this.’
‘I promise it,’ said he, laying his hand on my shoulder. After standing
for a few minutes thus in silence, he started suddenly and left the
cell.
I now tried to eat my supper, but although resolved on behaving with a
stout and unflinching courage throughout the whole sad event, I could
not swallow a mouthful. A sense of choking stopped me at every attempt,
and even the water I could only get down by gulps. The efforts I made
to bear up seemed to have caused a species of hysterical excitement that
actually rose to the height of intoxication, for I talked away loudly to
myself, laughed and sung. I even jested and mocked myself on this sudden
termination of a career that I used to anticipate as stored with future
fame and rewards. At intervals, I have no doubt that my mind wandered
far beyond the control of reason, but as constantly came back again to a
full consciousness of my melancholy position, and the fate that awaited
me. The noise of the key in the door silenced my ravings, and I sat
motionless as the sergeant entered with the pen, ink, and paper, which
he laid down upon the bed, and then as silently withdrew.
A long interval of stupor, a state of dreary half consciousness, now
came over me, from which I aroused myself with great difficulty to write
the few lines I destined for Colonel Mahon. I remember even now, long
as has been the space of years since that event, full as it has been of
stirring and strange incidents, I remember perfectly the thought which
flashed across me, as I sat, pen in hand, before the paper. It was the
notion of a certain resemblance between our actions in this world with
the characters I was about to inscribe upon that paper. Written in
darkness and in doubt, thought I, how shall they appear when brought to
the light! Perhaps those I have deemed the best and fairest shall seem
but to be the weakest or the worst! What need of kindness to forgive the
errors, and of patience to endure the ignorance! At last I began: ‘Mon
Colonel,--Forgive, I pray you, the errors of these lines, penned in the
darkness of my cell, and the night before my death. They are written
to thank you ere I go hence, and to tell you that the poor heart whose
beating will soon be still, throbbed gratefully towards you to the last!
I have been sentenced to death for a breach of discipline of which I was
guilty. Had I failed in the achievement of my enterprise by the bullet
of an enemy, they would have named me with honour; but I have had the
misfortune of success, and to-morrow am I to pay its penalty. I have the
satisfaction, however, of knowing that my share in that great day can
neither be denied nor evaded; it is already on record, and the time may
yet come when my memory will be vindicated. I know not if these lines
be legible, nor if I have crossed or recrossed them. If they are blotted
they are not my tears have done it, for I have a firm heart and a good
courage; and when the moment comes----’ Here my hand trembled so much,
and my brain grew so dizzy, that I lost the thread of my meaning,
and merely jotted down at random a few words, vague, unconnected, and
unintelligible, after which, and by an effort that cost all my strength,
I wrote ‘Maurice Tiernay, late Hussar of the 9th Regiment.’
A hearty burst of tears followed the conclusion of this letter; all the
pent-up emotion with which my heart was charged broke out at last, and
I cried bitterly. Intense passions are, happily, never of long duration,
and, better still, they are always the precursors of calm. Thus,
tranquil, the dawn of morn broke upon me, when the sergeant came to
take my letter, and apprise me that the adjutant would appear in a few
moments to read my sentence, and inform me when it was to be executed.
‘Thou’It bear up well, lad; I know thou wilt,’ said the poor fellow,
with tears in his eyes. ‘Thou hast no mother, and thou ‘lt not have to
grieve for her.’
‘Don’t be afraid, sergeant; I’ll not disgrace the old 9th. Tell my
comrades I said so.’
‘I will. I will tell them all! Is this thy jacket, lad?’
‘Yes; what do you want it for?’
‘I must take it away with me. Thou art not to wear it more?’
‘Not wear it, nor die in it! and why not?’
‘That is the sentence, lad; I cannot help it. It’s very hard, very
cruel; but so it is.’
‘Then I am to die dishonoured, sergeant; is that the sentence?’
He dropped his head, and I could see that he moved his sleeve across his
eyes; and then, taking up my jacket, he came towards me.
‘Remember, lad, a stout heart; no flinching. Adieu--God bless thee.’ He
kissed me on either cheek, and went out.
He had not been gone many minutes, when the tramp of marching outside
apprised me of the coming of the adjutant, and the door of my cell being
thrown open, I was ordered to walk forth into the court of the prison.
Two squadrons of my own regiment, all who were not on duty, were
drawn up, dismounted, and without arms; beside them stood a company
of grenadiers and a half battalion of the line, the corps to which the
other two prisoners belonged, and who now came forward, in shirtsleeves
like myself, into the middle of the court.
One of my fellow-sufferers was a very old soldier, whose hair and
beard were white as snow; the other was a middle-aged man, of a dark and
forbidding aspect, who scowled at me angrily as I came up to his side,
and seemed as if he scorned the companionship. I returned a glance,
haughty and as full of defiance as his own, and never noticed him after.
The drum beat a roll, and the word was given for silence in the
ranks--an order so strictly obeyed, that even the clash of a weapon was
unheard, and, stepping in front of the line, the Auditeur Militaire read
out the sentences. As for me, I heard but the words ‘_Peine afflictive
et infamante’_; all the rest became confusion, shame, and terror
commingled; nor did I know that the ceremonial was over when the troops
began to defile, and we were marched back again to our prison quarters.