An autumn sun was just rising over the plains of the yellow Theiss, when
two travellers, issuing from the gates of the old fortified city of
Arad, took their way toward the village of Vilagos, some twenty miles
distant.
It is scarce necessary to say they were on horseback. Men do not
journey afoot on the plains of the "Puszta."
Their military costume was in keeping with the scene around. Not as it
would have been in its normal and usual state, with the _ihaz_ quietly
attending his swine drove, and the _csiko_ galloping after his half-wild
colts and cattle. For Arad was now the headquarters of the Hungarian
army, and the roads around it hourly echoed the tread of the Honved, and
hoofstroke of the hussar.
The patriot force of less than thirty thousand men had moved upon
Vilagos, there to meet the Austro-Russian advance, of just four times
their number; Georgei the commanding general on one side, and Rudiger on
the other.
The two horsemen had reached Arad but the night before, coming from the
West. They had arrived too late to go out with the patriot troops, and
seemed now hurrying on to overtake them.
Though in uniform, as we have already said, it was not that belonging to
any branch of the Hungarian service. No more did it resemble any one of
the varied military costumes worn by the allied enemy. Both were
habited very much alike; in simple undress frocks of dark-blue cloth,
with gold-lace pantaloons of brighter blue, and banded forage-caps.
With Colt's revolver pistols--then an arm scarce known--worn in a
holstered waistbelt, steel sabres hanging handy against their thighs,
and short Jager rifles slung, _en bandolier_; behind them, the dress
looked warlike enough; and, on whatever side, it was evident the two
travellers intended fighting.
This was further manifest from their anxious glances cast ahead, and the
way they pressed their horses forward, as if fearing to be too late for
the field.
They were of different ages; one over forty, the other about
twenty-five.
"I don't like the look of things about Arad," said the elder, as they
checked up for a time, to breathe their horses.
"Why, Count?" asked his companion.
"There seems to be a bad electricity in the air--a sort of general
distrust."
"In what, or whom?"
"In Georgei. I could see that the people have lost confidence in him.
They even suspect that he's playing traitor, and has thoughts of
surrendering to the enemy."
"What! Georgei--their favourite general! Is he not so?"
"Of the old army, yes. But not of the new levies or the people. In my
opinion, the worst thing that could have happened to them is his having
become so. It's the old story of regulars _versus_ volunteers. He
hates the Honveds, and Kossuth for creating them, just as in our little
Mexican skirmish, there was a jealousy between West Pointers and the
newly-raised regiments.
"There are thousands of donkeys in Hungary, as in the United States, who
believe that to be a soldier a man must go through some sort of a
routine training--forgetting all about Cromwell of England, Jackson of
America, and a score of the like that might be quoted. Well, these
common minds, running in the usual groove, believe that Georgei, because
he was once an officer in the Austrian regular army, should be the
trusted man of the time; and they've taken him up, and trusted him
without further questioning. I know him well. We were at the military
school together. A cool, scheming fellow, with the head of a chemist
and the heart of an alchemist. Of himself he has accomplished nothing
yet. The brilliant victories gained on the Hungarian side--and
brilliant have they been--have all been due to the romantic enthusiasm
of these fiery Magyars, and the dash of such generals as Nagy Sandor,
Damjanich, and Guyon. There can be no doubt that, after the successes
on the Upper Danube, the patriot army could have marched unmolested into
Vienna, and there dictated terms to the Austrian Empire. The emperor's
panic-stricken troops were absolutely evacuating the place, when,
instead of a pursuing enemy, news came after them that the victorious
general had turned back with his whole army, to lay siege to the
fortress of Ofen! To capture an insignificant garrison of less than six
thousand men! Six weeks were spent in this absurd side movement,
contrary to the counsels of Kossuth, who had never ceased to urge the
advance on Vienna. Georgei did just what the Austrians wanted him to
do--giving their northern allies time to come down; and down they have
come."
"But Kossuth was Governor--Dictator! Could he not command the advance
you speak of?"
"He commanded it all he could, but was not obeyed. Georgei had already
sapped his influence, by poisoning the minds of the military leaders
against him--that is, the factious who adhered to himself, the old
regulars, whom he had set against the new levies and Honveds. `Kossuth
is not a soldier, only a lawyer,' said they; and this was sufficient.
For all their talk, Kossuth has given more proofs of soldiership and
true generalship than Georgei and his whole clique. He has put an army
of two hundred thousand men in the field; armed and equipped it. And he
created it absolutely out of nothing! The patriots had only two hundred
pounds weight of gunpowder, and scarce such a thing as a gun, when this
rising commenced. And the saltpetre was dug out of the mine, and the
iron smelted, and the cannon cast. Ay, in three months there was a
force in the field such as Napoleon would have been proud of. My dear
captain, there is more proof of military genius in this, than in the
winning of a dozen battles. It was due to Kossuth alone. Alone he
accomplished it all--every detail of it. Louis Kossuth not a general,
indeed! In the true sense of the word, there has been none such since
Napoleon. Even in this last affair of Ofen, it is now acknowledged, he
was right; and that they should have listened to his cry, `On to
Vienna!'"
"Clearly it has been a sad blunder."
"Not so clearly, Captain; not so clearly. I wish it were. There is
reason to fear it is worse."
"What mean you, Count?"
"I mean, treason."
"Ha!"
"The turning back for that useless siege looks confoundedly like it.
And this constantly retreating down the right bank of the Theiss,
without crossing over and forming a junction with Sandor. Every day the
army melting away, becoming reduced by thousands! _Sacre_! if it be so,
we've had our long journey for nothing; and poor liberty will soon see
her last hopeless struggle on the plains of the Puszta, perhaps her last
in all Europe! _Ach_!"
The Count, as he made this exclamation, drove the spur hard against the
ribs of his horse, and broke off into a gallop, as if determined to take
part in that struggle, however hopeless.
The younger man, seemingly inspired by the same impulse, rode rapidly
after.
Then gallop was kept up until the spire of Vilagos came in sight,
shooting up over the groves of olive and acacia embowering the Puszta
village.
Outside on the skirts of the far-spreading town they could see tents
pitched upon the plain, with standards floating over them--cavalry
moving about in squadrons--infantry standing in serried ranks--here and
there horsemen in hussar uniforms hurrying from point to point, their
loose dolmans trailing behind them. They could hear the rolling of
drums, the braying of bugles, and, away far beyond, the booming of great
guns.
"Who goes there?" came the abrupt hail of a sentry speaking in the
Magyar tongue, while a soldier in Honved dress showed himself in the
door of a shepherd's hut. He was the spokesman of a picket-guard
concealed within the house.
"Friends!" answered the Austrian Count, in the same language in which
the hail had been given. "Friends to the cause: _Eljen Kossuth_!"
At the magic words the soldier lowered his carbine, while his half-dozen
comrades came crowding out from their concealment.
A pass to headquarters, obtained by the Count in Arad, made the parley
short, and the two travellers continued their journey amidst cries of
"Eljen Kossuth!"