Nothing displays more powerfully the force of egotism than the simple
truth that, when any man sits himself down to write the events of his
life, the really momentous occurrences in which he may have borne a part
occupy a conspicuously small place, when each petty incident of a merely
personal nature is dilated and extended beyond all bounds. In one sense,
the reader benefits by this, since there are few impertinences less
forgivable than the obtrusion of some insignificant name into the
narrative of facts that are meet for history. I have made these remarks
in a spirit of apology to my reader; not alone for the accuracy of my
late detail, but also, if I should seem in future to dwell but passingly
on the truly important facts of a great campaign, in which my own part
was so humble.
I was a soldier in that glorious army which Moreau led into the heart
of Germany, and whose victorious career would only have ceased when
they entered the capital of the Empire, had it not been for the unhappy
mistakes of Jourdan, who commanded the auxiliary forces in the north.
For nigh three months we advanced steadily and successfully, superior
in every engagement; we only waited for the moment of junction with
Jourdan’s army, to declare the Empire our own; when at last came the
terrible tidings that he had been beaten, and that Latour was advancing
from Ulm to turn our left flank, and cut off our communications with
France.
Two hundred miles from our own frontiers--separated from the Rhine by
that terrible Black Forest whose defiles are mere gorges between vast
mountains--with an army fifty thousand strong on one flank, and the
Archduke Charles commanding a force of nigh thirty thousand on the
other--such were the dreadful combinations which now threatened us with
a defeat not less signal than Jourdan’s own. Our strength, however, lay
in a superb army of seventy thousand unbeaten men, led on by one whose
name alone was victory.
On the 24th of September the order for retreat was given; the army began
to retire by slow marches, prepared to contest every inch of ground, and
make every available spot a battlefield. The baggage and ammunition were
sent on in front, and two days’ march in advance. Behind, a formidable
rear-guard was ready to repulse every attack of the enemy. Before,
however, entering those close défiles by which his retreat lay, Moreau
determined to give one terrible lesson to his enemy, like the hunted
tiger turning upon his pursuers, he suddenly halted at Biberach, and ere
Latour, who commanded the Austrians, was aware of his purpose, assailed
the Imperial forces with an attack on right, centre, and left together.
Four thousand prisoners and eighteen pieces of cannon were the trophies
of the victory.
The day after this decisive battle our march was resumed, and the
advanced-guard entered that narrow and dismal defile which goes by the
name of the ‘Valley of Hell,’ when our left and right flanks, stationed
at the entrance of the pass, effectually secured the retreat against
molestation. The voltigeurs of St. Cyr crowning the heights as we
went, swept away the light troops which were scattered along the rocky
eminences, and in less than a fortnight our army debouched by Fribourg
and Oppenheim into the valley of the Rhine, not a gun having been lost,
not a caisson deserted, during that perilous movement.
The Archduke, however, having ascertained the direction of Moreau’s
retreat, advanced by a parallel pass through the Kinzigthal, and
attacked St. Cyr at Nauen-dorf, and defeated him. Our right flank,
severely handled at Emmendingen, the whole force was obliged to retreat
on Hüningen, and once more we found ourselves upon the banks of the
Rhine, no longer an advancing army, high in hope, and flushed with
victory--but beaten, harassed, and retreating!
The last few days of that retreat presented a scene of disaster such
as I can never forget. To avoid the furious charges of the Austrian
cavalry, against which our own could no longer make resistance, we
had fallen back upon a line of country cut up into rocky cliffs and
precipices, and covered by a dense pine forest. Here, necessarily broken
up into small parties, we were assailed by the light troops of the
enemy, led on through the various passes by the peasantry, whose
animosity our own severity had excited. It was, therefore, a continual
hand-to-hand struggle, in which, opposed as we were to overpowering
numbers acquainted with every advantage of the ground, our loss was
terrific. It is said that nigh seven thousand men fell---an immense
number, when no general action had occurred. Whatever the actual loss,
such were the circumstances of our army, that Moreau hastened to propose
an armistice, on the condition of the Rhine being the boundary between
the two armies, while Kehl was still to be held by the French.
The proposal was rejected by the Austrians, who at once commenced
preparations for a siege of the fortress with forty thousand troops,
under Latour’s command. The earlier months of winter now passed in the
labours of the siege, and on the morning of New-year’s Day the first
attack was made; the second line was carried a few days after, and,
after a glorious defence by Desaix, the garrison capitulated, and
evacuated the fortress on the 9th of the month. Thus, in the space of
six short months, had we advanced with a conquering army into the very
heart of the Empire, and now we were back again within our own frontier,
not one single trophy of all our victories remaining, two-thirds of our
army dead or wounded--more than all, the prestige of our superiority
fatally injured, and that of the enemy’s valour and prowess as signally
elevated.
The short annals of a successful soldier are often comprised in the few
words which state how he was made lieutenant at such a date, promoted to
his company here, obtained his majority there, succeeded to the command
of his regiment at such a place, and so on. Now my exploits may even be
more briefly written as regards this campaign--for, whether at Kehl,
at Nauendorf, on the Elz, or at Huningen, I ended as I began--a
simple soldier of the ranks. A few slight wounds, a few still more
insignificant words of praise, were all that I brought back with me; but
if my trophies were small, I had gained considerably both in habits
of discipline and obedience. I had learned to endure, ably and without
complaining, the inevitable hardships of a campaign, and, better still,
to see that the irrepressible impulses of the soldier, however prompted
by zeal or heroism, may oftener mar than promote the more mature plans
of his general. Scarcely had my feet once more touched French ground,
than I was seized with the ague, then raging as an epidemic among the
troops, and sent forward with a large detachment of sick to the Military
Hospital of Strasbourg.
Here I bethought me of my patron, Colonel Mahon, and determined to
write to him. For this purpose I addressed a question to the
Adjutant-General’s office to ascertain the colonel’s address. The reply
was a brief and stunning one--he had been dismissed the service. No
personal calamity could have thrown me into deeper affliction; nor had
I even the sad consolation of learning any of the circumstances of this
misfortune. His death, even though thereby I should have lost my only
friend, would have been a lighter evil than this disgrace; and coming as
did the tidings when I was already broken by sickness and defeat, more
than ever disgusted me with a soldier’s life. It was then with a feeling
of total indifference that I heard a rumour which at another moment
would have filled me with enthusiasm--the order for all invalids
sufficiently well to be removed, to be drafted into regiments serving in
Italy. The fame of Bonaparte, who commanded that army, had now surpassed
that of all the other generals; his victories paled the glory of their
successes, and it was already a mark of distinction to have served under
his command.
The walls of the hospital were scrawled over with the names of his
victories; rude sketches of Alpine passes, terrible ravines, or
snow-clad peaks, met the eye everywhere; and the one magical name,
‘Bonaparte,’ written beneath, seemed the key to all their meaning. With
him war seemed to assume all the charms of romance. Each action was
illustrated by feats of valour or heroism, and a halo of glory seemed to
shine over all the achievements of his genius.
It was a clear, bright morning of March, when a light frost sharpened
the air, and a fair, blue sky overhead showed a cloudless elastic
atmosphere, that the ‘invalides,’ as we were all called, were drawn
up in the great square of the hospital for inspection. Two superior
officers of the staff, attended by several surgeons and an adjutant,
sat at a table in front of us, on which lay the regimental books and
conduct-rolls of the different corps. Such of the sick as had received
severe wounds, incapacitating them for further service, were presented
with some slight reward--a few francs in money, a greatcoat, or a pair
of shoes, and obtained their freedom. Others, whose injuries were less
important, received their promotion, or some slight increase of pay,
these favours being all measured by the character the individual bore
in his regiment, and the opinion certified of him by his commanding
officer. When my turn came, and I stood forward, I felt a kind of
shame to think how little claim I could prefer either to honour or
advancement.
‘Maurice Tiernay, slightly wounded by a sabre at Nauendorf--flesh-wound
at Biberach--enterprising and active, but presumptuous and overbearing
with his comrades,’ read out the adjutant, while he added a few words I
could not hear, but at which the superior laughed heartily.
‘What says the doctor?’ asked he, after a pause.
‘This has been a bad case of ague, and I doubt if the young fellow will
ever be fit for active service--certainly not at present.’
‘Is there a vacancy at Saumur?’ asked the general. ‘I see he has been
employed in the school at Nancy.’
‘Tes, sir; for the third class there is one.’
‘Let him have it, then. Tiernay, you are appointed as aspirant of the
third class at the College of Saumur. Take care that the report of your
conduct be more creditable than what is written here. Your opportunities
will now be considerable, and, if well employed, may lead to further
honour and distinction; if neglected or abused, your chances are
forfeited for ever.’
I bowed and retired, as little satisfied with the admonition as elated
with a prospect which converted me from a soldier into a scholar,
and, in the first verge of manhood, threw me back once more into the
condition of a mere boy.
Eighteen months of my life--not the least happy, perhaps, since in the
peaceful portion I can trace so little to be sorry for--glided over
beside the banks of the beautiful Loire, the intervals in the hour of
study being spent either in the riding-school, or the river, where, in
addition to swimming and diving, we were instructed in pontooning and
rafting, the modes of transporting ammunition and artillery, and the
attacks of infantry by cavalry pickets.
I also learned to speak and write English and German with great ease
and fluency, besides acquiring some skill in military drawing and
engineering.
It is true that the imprisonment chafed sorely against us, as we read of
the great achievements of our armies in various parts of the world--of
the great battles of Cairo and the Pyramids, of Acre and Mount Thabor,
and of which a holiday and a fête were to be our only share.
The terrible storms which shook Europe from end to end only reached us
in the bulletins of new victories, and we panted for the time when we,
too, should be actors in the glorious exploits of France.
It is already known to the reader that of the country from which my
family came I myself knew nothing. The very little I had ever learned of
it from my father was also a mere tradition; still was I known among my
comrades only as ‘the Irishman,’ and by that name was I recognised,
even in the record of the school, where I was inscribed thus--‘Maurice
Tiernay, _dit l’Irlandais_.’ It was on this very simple and seemingly
unimportant fact my whole fate in life was to turn; and in this wise-But
the explanation deserves a chapter of its own, and shall have it.