WE SEEK GARIBALDI
Hugh Deventer and I reached Orange only to hear that the recruiting
parties of the Garibaldians had gone away north. But on the railway,
hundreds of wagons laden with supplies were moving in the same
direction, and with the conductors of these we made what interest we
could.
We showed the letter we had brought from Gaston Cremieux, but these were
men of the Saone and Isere, who had never heard of the agitator. But
Hugh's willing help during heavy hours of loading and "transhipment,"
and perhaps also the multitude and flavour of my tales of Scotland,
gained us a footing.
From them we heard with pride of what had already been done by
Garibaldi, with such wretched material, and how the great Manteuffel
himself, in his dispatches, had allowed the excellence of Garibaldi's
tactics.
What we were most afraid of was that the whole war would be over before
we got a chance. The men of the Isere, however, who on the strength of
six months' campaigning considered themselves veterans, laughed
scornfully at our young enthusiasms. They would march. They would fight.
But as for beating the Germans in the long run it was impossible. That
time had gone by when Bazaine had let himself be locked up in Metz.
"All we can do is to help the Republic to get out of the mess with some
credit!" said a tall sergeant who sat in the open door of a bullock
wagon. And the others agreed with him. They were on tenterhooks to know
why we English should be so eager to take up their quarrel. The thousand
Italians they could understand. They came because Garibaldi did, touched
by the glory of his name, but we English--what had we to do with the
affair?
Me they suspected of Southern blood from my quick slimness and swarthy
colour, but Deventer was a joy to them. "That Englishman!" they cried,
and laughed as at an excellent jest. His big hearty blundering ways, his
ignorance of military affairs kept them perpetually on the grin. But
when they saw him strip and repair a chassepot with no more tools than a
pocket screw-driver and a nail file, they changed the fashion of their
countenances. Hugh was not the son of Dennis Deventer for nothing.
Presently we found ourselves privileged stowaways, whirling in the
direction of Lyons, protected by these good fellows, who hid us
carefully from the rounds of inspection which visited the wagons at
every stopping place. Mostly, however, no severe examination was made,
and the word of the sergeant was taken that all was right inside.
But as soon as the train slackened speed we sprang on a shelf which ran
along one end of the wagon, and there lay snug behind a couple of bags
of potatoes.
At last, near Civry, a little town on the foothills of the Cote d'Or, we
were abruptly ordered down.
It was a dark night and raining as we set our noses out. We would much
rather have remained behind the potato sacks, but there was no help for
it. Out we must come along with the rest, for Manteuffel's Uhlans were
off on a raid and had cut the line between us and Dijon. At first we
could only see the blackness and the shapes of the trees bent eastward
by many winter blasts, but after a time our eyes grew accustomed, and we
became aware of a long line of wagoners' teams drawn up on a road that
skirted the railway.
We did our best to assist at the changing of the provisions and
ammunition, and would have been glad of permission to accompany the
convoy through the hills to its destination.
But we had the ill fortune to fall in the way of a captain of regulars
who asked us our business there, and on our telling him, he answered
with evident contempt, that in that case we had better go and look for
"Monsieur Garibaldi." As far as he was concerned, if he found us in his
convoy again he would have us shot for spies. Hugh Deventer and I could
not rejoice enough that we had left our two beautiful Henry rifles and
our stores of ammunition on our sleeping shelf. We knew well that our
protector the sergeant and his men would say nothing about the matter,
though they looked with unrestrained envy and desire of possession upon
our repeating rifles.
Accordingly I advised Hugh to confide to the sergeant in private the
name of his father, and promise that a similar rifle would be sent to
him with the next consignment of chassepots.
The sergeant's eyes glowed, and he told us that he was under orders for
his native town of Epinal, which he hoped to reach in about a fortnight.
Hugh promised that he would find a Henry repeater with an abundant
supply of cartridges waiting for him there at his mother's house. And
accordingly he sat down in the empty wagon, and by the light of the
lantern wrote a note to his father which he gave into the sergeant's
hands to be posted at the first opportunity. He in his turn entrusted it
to the care of the engine driver, who was getting ready to take his
empty wagons rattling southward again to bring further supplies from the
rich Rhone valley.
The sergeant also arranged that we should accompany the rear-guard so
far as was possible during the night, when we were to strike off
diagonally to the west to pick up Autun, where Menotti Garibaldi was
reported to be waiting with a large force to cut off the retreat of the
German raiders.
So we started on our march, and had soon reason to be glad that we were
not stumbling at hazard up and down those leg-breaking vine-terraces.
The convoy had relays of peasants as guides, and at least we were kept
along some semblance of a path. We could hear the rumbling and creaking
of the wheels before us, but for that night the goad superseded the loud
crack of the whip, and the language beloved of all nationalities of
teamsters was, if not wholly silenced, at least sunk to a whisper. We
marched far enough in the rear to be rid of the cloud of dust raised by
the convoy, which fell quickly in the damp night air.
Occasionally an orderly would gallop back, dust-mantled in grey from
head to heel. He was sent to see that we of the rear-guard kept our
distance and did not straggle. The Isere and Grenoble men with whom we
marched were veterans and in no ways likely to desert, so that the
adjutant's report was at once accepted, and the officer galloped back.
All the same we two regularly sneaked aside into a belt of trees or took
refuge behind the vine-terraces as soon as the sound of hoofs was heard.
We had marched many hours in the darkness--from eight or nine of the
evening till the small hours were passing one by one with infinite
weariness. I was lighter on my feet than Hugh, having less to carry in
the way of "too, too solid flesh." Consequently he suffered more, both
from the weight of his rifle, and the dumb remorseless steadiness of the
marching column. Forward we went, however, stumbling now and then with
sleep, our feet blistered, and the rattle and wheeze of the ammunition
wagons coming back to us mixed with a jingle of mules' gear through the
dark.
At last, when it seemed as if we could do no more, the column halted,
and our grateful sergeant came back in order to set us on the road to
Autun.
"Yonder," he said, "you can see a hill which cuts the stars. It is high
and steep, but to the right of it is a pass, and when you reach the top
you will look down upon the lights of Autun."
He bade us a rapid good-bye, and hastened away to his own place in the
column. With a final word of thanks to the adjutant (who is here a kind
of sergeant-major), we left our kindly rear-guard and set out to find
Garibaldi.
The night grew suddenly darker as we missed the shoulder-touch of a
comrade on either side of us. We rolled over vine-terraces, clutching at
the gnarled roots, or stumbled with a breath-expelling "ouch" into dry
ditches all laid out for the summer irrigation. Fence rails and the
corner posts of vineyard guard-shelters marked us black, and blue, but
aloft or alow we held firm to the Henry rifles which were to be our
chief treasures, when we should at last don the red cardigan of the
Garibaldian troops.
To us it seemed as if we never would reach the top of that pass. We
could see the mountain towering up on our left hand, and once a shower
of stones came rumbling down as a warning not to venture too near. The
wind was now soft and equal, and the unusual warmth had served no doubt
to loosen the frost-bound rocks above, as well as to keep us in a gentle
perspiration while we climbed the corkscrew pathway towards the hill
crest. Things became easier after we had left the vineyards beneath us,
and our road lay over the clean grassy plateau on which the sheep had
that day been grazing. We rested a while in a shepherd's shelter hut,
and did not scruple to refresh ourselves with some slices of bread and
sausage, washed down by a long swig from a skin of wine. We left a franc
in payment, stuck into the cut end of the sausage, with a note appended
that we were two recruits on our way to join Garibaldi. Little did we
imagine that in a few weeks we should, without hurt to our consciences,
simply have transferred the whole supply to our haversacks without
thanks or payment.
There was still no hint of dawn when we started out, but beyond the
lowest part of the ridge immediately above us a kind of faint
illumination appeared. It burned steadily, and for a long while we could
not explain it. It could not be the approaching sunrise, for our
compasses told us that we were marching as near as possible due west.
Quite suddenly we topped the crest, and saw beneath us the lights of
Autun gleaming hazily through a kind of misty drizzle. But that which
struck our faces was in no wise wetting. It only struck a chill through
us, making our greatcoats welcome. We had so far carried them _en
bandouliere_.
The west side of the ridge was, in fact, already spotted with fine
sifted snow, which blew in our faces and sought a way down our necks.
Its coming had caused the fluorescent light we had seen as we were
mounting the eastern slopes, and now with bowed heads and our rifles as
well "happed" as possible, we strode downhill in the direction of the
town.
At the limits of the chestnut woods the vineyards began again, and our
troubles threatened to be as great as they had been after we left the
convoy. But though fine snow fell steadily, its clinging whiteness
showed up the stone-dykes and terraces as black objects to be avoided.
There was, therefore, less tumbling about among the ledges of loose
stones, and presently we came out upon a regular "departmental" road,
with drainage ditches on either side, rows of pollarded willows and
poplars, and kilometric pillars, with numbers on them which it was too
dark to see.
Along this we made all haste, for we were bent on getting to Autun as
soon as possible, and indeed it was not long before we were in the way
of getting our wish.
"Halt! Who goes there?" came a challenge out of the unseen. Well was it
for us that we had attempted no stealthy approach upon the town, but
serenely clattered down the middle of the turnpike. Luckier still that
we fell into the hands of regular mobiles of the army of the Vosges,
instead of a stray company of _franc-tireurs_, who as like as not, would
have cut our throats for the sake of our rifles, the stores of
ammunition, and the few silver coins we carried.
We had come upon a picket of men of the regiment of Gray on the borders
of the Haute Saone. It was like one of Napoleon's levies after
Moscow--young lads of sixteen and men of forty or fifty standing by each
other cheerfully, and without distinction of age or previous occupation.
We stated our purpose and asked to be taken to head-quarters. Like most
of such casual recruits, we thought we would be taken directly into the
presence of Garibaldi, but the Gray men astonished us by the information
that the great soldier was almost a recluse, and indeed so much of an
invalid that he could only review his troops from a carriage. His sons,
Menotti and Ricciotti, were his fighting generals, but all directing
power was centred in Colonel Bordone, through whom all orders came to
the army.
In the meantime we were conveyed amicably to the temporary head-quarters
of the 14th Mobiles of the Haute Saone. Here we found several officers,
but after a look at us and a civil enough demand for the production of
our papers, we were permitted to betake ourselves to the snug kitchen of
an ancient monastery, where the soldiers of the outpost guard were
sitting around a huge fire, or lying extended on couches of straw,
sleeping the sleep of men who had marched far the day before, and
expected to do as much more on the morrow.
Our clothes were soon dry, and our overcoats spread out to the blaze,
after being well shaken and thumped to get rid of the clinging snow. The
morning began to come tardily, and as if reluctantly. The snow had
ceased, but a thin whitish mist had been left behind, softening and
dimming all outlines.
The town of Autun bethought itself of waking up. A few shopkeepers took
down their shutters in a leisurely fashion, the first of these being a
couple of ladies, venders of sweet cakes, both pretty and apparently
exceedingly attractive to the young Italian officers, all of whom had
the racial sweet tooth as well as the desire to rival each other in the
eyes of beauty.
Our men of Gray were rather contemptuous, but could not deny that these
young sweet-suckers fought well and bravely whenever it came to blows.
"And I dare say, after all," said a tall brigadier, "it is better to
munch sugar cakes flavoured with cinnamon than to swallow the filth they
serve out to you in the _cafes_."
The others agreed, but we did not observe that their teetotal sentiments
were more than platonic. At least, during all our stay with the 3rd
Corps in the town of Autun, the Frenchmen went to the _cafe_ and the
Italians to the _patissiere_.
It was nine o'clock when the brigadier of the post detailed two men to
accompany us to the Cadran Bleu, the inn where the army head-quarters
was established. We had a short time to wait, for the officers within
were judging the case of a spy, a dull heavy-witted fellow who had
formerly served in a line regiment, but who had had the ill thought to
turn his knowledge of the army of the Vosges to account by compiling a
careful estimate of the strength of Garibaldi's command, and offering it
by ordinary letter post to General Werder of the Prussian service. The
letter was addressed to his brother-in-law at Macon, who was to arrange
terms. He, however, preferred patriotism (and the chance of a possible
heritage) to his relative's life. So the officer of the day was already
picking out the firing-party, for, as was the way of the army of the
Vosges under Garibaldi, a very short shrift was given to any traitor.
Though the supreme judges were Italian and the man a Frenchman, the good
sense of the soldiers supported them in the certainty and rapidity of
such military punishments. I saw the man come out between a couple of
Mobiles with fixed bayonets. His hair fell in an unkempt mass over his
brow. His face was animal and stupid, but he had little pig's eyes that
glanced rapidly from one side to the other as if seeking for any way of
escape. But there was none for him, as the rattle of musketry testified
almost before we had reached the antechamber.
Here there were half a dozen young French officers and many Italians all
talking together, who turned from their conversations to gaze at us. We
had made what toilets we could, and the men of the Gray regiments had
rolled up our overcoats in military style.
"Two English come from Aramon to enlist," we heard them say, with a
certain resentment as if they had been offered an affront. "Do all the
foreigners in the world think that France has need of them to fight her
battles?"
However, one of the sub-lieutenants, a handsome lad, from a Protestant
family in the Isere, came over to talk to us. The ice was at once
broken, and the next moment we had quite a gathering round us admiring
our Henry repeaters, and asking questions.
"That is the new Remington action!" said one who stated that he read
English and American periodicals, but became appallingly unintelligible
as soon as he attempted to speak a single sentence of the language.
"No," said Hugh Deventer, "the movement was invented by my father."
"And who may your father be? Are you travelling for the firm?"
"My father," said Hugh steadily, "is Monsieur Dennis Deventer,
director-in-chief of the Arms Factory at Aramon-sur-Rhone, and he will
supply as many of these repeaters as the Company is paid for. The
Government have the matter under consideration, but if they do not
hurry, the war will be over before their minds are made up."
An officer in the red cloak of the Italian corps pushed a door open,
spoke an order in imperfect French, and the next moment we found
ourselves in an apartment where two men were sitting rolling cigarettes
at opposite sides of a long table. They were both tall, dark-bearded men
with swarthy faces, clad in uniforms much the worse for wear. I knew
them by instinct to be Menotti and Ricciotti Garibaldi. Both had a look
of the common lithograph portraits of their father, but perhaps no more
than one weather-beaten shepherd on a Scottish hill resembles his
comrade on the next.
We stood at attention after the English manner instilled into us by Jack
Jaikes and the numerous old soldiers who by Dennis Deventer's orders had
taken us for drill during vacation time at the works.
The two grave men looked at one another and smiled. "We have seen
something like this when the English lads came to us in Sicily eleven
years ago, eh, brother? Tell us your names, little ones! Can you speak
Italian?"
We could, and that made us, if not of the "children," at least something
very different from the dull peasants whom Gambetta's conscription
supplied, or the innumerable company of ne'er-do-weels who appeared from
nowhere in particular, drawn by the mere sound of Garibaldi's name.
Hugh Deventer did not much like to be called a "little one," but the
Italian speech is not like our English, which lends itself more easily
to oaths and cursing than to the "little language" and the expression of
emotion.
We presented the letters with which we had been furnished--one a
personal epistle to Ricciotti from Dennis Deventer--the others for the
most part addressed to the General himself.
That, however, made no difference. His sons opened them all without
hesitation or apology. Indeed, we soon learned that, excepting the
conduct of the campaign, Father Garibaldi was not allowed to concern
himself with anything.
"Ah, Dennis Deventer," said Ricciotti, starting up and embracing Hugh on
both cheeks. "I owe much to your father, more than I am likely to pay
for some while. He took our word for it that the chassepots for the new
troops would be paid for, even though he knows that the Government is
likely to fall into the hands of those who hate us. Also the new
twelve-pounders--Menotti, brother, what shall we do for this man's son?"
"I must stay with my comrade, Angus Cawdor," put in Hugh Deventer. "He
is far more clever than I am, and I should be lost without him. I am
only a boy, but he----"
"Has the thoughts of a man--I see," interrupted Menotti, who had been
considering us from under his hand without speaking. "I think it would
be no kindness to add two recruits of such mettle to the number of the
admirably combed and pressed young gentlemen in the anteroom out there.
You had better take them, Ricciotti. You will be sure to find old
Manteuffel hammering away at you on your return to Dijon, and the lads
can take bite and sup with the 'Enfants.' Since they speak Italian no
explanations need be made. They can be fitted out by the commissariat
adjutant."
"The favour is an unusual one, brother. There will be grumbling."
"The circumstances are unusual, and so are the lads. There is but one
Dennis Deventer, and we must do the best we can for his son."
And in this manner we became part of the personal following of Ricciotti
Garibaldi, and were destined to take part in the war game which he
played out successfully against Manteuffel and Werder till the coming of
the armistice stopped all fighting.