In half an hour afterwards, Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard--for it
was they who were thus rapidly travelling--reached Vilagos, and passed
on to the camp of the Hungarian army.
They halted near its centre, in front of the marquee occupied by its
commander-in-chief. They had arrived just in time to witness a
remarkable scene--none more so on military record.
Around them were officers of all ranks, and of every conceivable arm of
service. They were standing in groups talking excitedly, now and then
an individual crossing hastily from one to the other.
There was all the evidence of warlike preparation, but as if under some
mysterious restraint. This could be read in scowling looks and mutinous
mutterings.
In the distance was heard the continuous roaring of artillery.
They knew whence it came, and what was causing it. They knew it was
from Temesvar, where Nagy Sandor, with his attenuated corps of heroes,
was holding the large army of Rudiger in check.
Yes, their brilliant and beloved comrade; Nagy Sandor, that splendid
cavalry officer--before whom even the _beau sabreur_ of France sinks
into a second place--was fighting an unequal fight!
It was the thought of this that was causing the dark looks and angry
mutterings.
Going up to a group of officers, the Count asked for an explanation.
They were in hussar uniforms, and appeared to be more excited than the
others.
One of them sprang forward, and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming:
"Roseveldt!"
It was an old comrade, who had recognised him.
"There's some trouble among you?" said the Count, scarce staying to
return the salutation. "What is it, my dear friend?"
"You hear those guns?"
"Of course I do."
"It's the brave Sandor fighting against no end of odds. And this
scheming chemist won't give us the order to go to his assistance. He
stays inside his tent like some Oracle of Delphi. Dumb, too, for he
don't make a response. Would you believe it, Roseveldt; we suspect him
of treason?"
"If you do," responded the Count, "you're great fools to wait for his
bringing it to maturity. You should advance without his orders. For my
part, and I can speak, too, for my comrade here, I shan't stay here,
while there's fighting farther on. Our cause is the same as yours; and
we've come several thousand miles to draw swords in it. We were too
late for the Baden affair; and by staying here with you we may again get
disappointed. Come, Maynard! _We_ have no business at Vilagos. Let us
go on to Temesvar!"
Saying this, the Count strode brusquely back toward his horse, still
under the saddle, the captain keeping pace with him. Before they could
mount, there arose a scene that caused them to stand by their stirrups,
holding their bridles in hand.
The hussar officers, among whom were several of high rank, generals and
colonels, had overheard the speeches of Roseveldt. The Count's friend
had made them acquainted with his name.
It needed not for them to know his title, to give influence to what he
had said. His words were like red-hot cinders pitched into a barrel of
gunpowder, and almost as instantaneous was the effect.
"Georgei _must_ give the order?" cried one, "or we shall advance without
it. What say you, comrades?"
"We're all agreed!" responded a score of voices, the speakers clutching
at their sword-hilts, and facing toward the marquee of the
commander-in-chief.
"Listen?" said their leader, an old general, with steel-grey moustaches
sweeping back to his ears. "You hear that? Those are the guns of
Rudiger. Too well do I know their accursed tongues. Poor Sandor's
ammunition is all spent. He must be in retreat?"
"We shall stop it!" simultaneously exclaimed a dozen. "Let us demand
the order to advance! To his tent, comrades! to his tent!"
There could be no mistaking which tent; for, with the cry still
continuing, the hussar officers rushed toward the marquee--the other
groups pouring in, and closing around it, after them.
Several rushed inside; their entrance succeeded by loud words, in tones
of expostulation.
They came out again, Georgei close following. He looked pale,
half-affrighted, though it was perhaps less fear than the consciousness
of a guilty intent.
He had still sufficient presence of mind to conceal it.
"Comrades!" he said, with an appealing look at the faces before him, "my
children! Surely you can trust to me? Have I not risked my life for
your sake--for the sake of our beloved Hungary? I tell you it would be
of no use to advance. It would be madness, ruin. We are here in an
advantageous position. We must stay and defend it! Believe me, 'tis
our only hope."
The speech so earnest--so apparently sincere--caused the mutineers to
waver. Who could doubt the man, so compromised with Austria?
The old officer, who led them, did.
"Thus, then!" he cried, perceiving their defection. "Thus shall I
defend it!"
Saying this, he whipped his sabre from its sheath; and grasping it hilt
and blade, he broke the weapon across his knee--flinging the fragments
to the earth!
It was the friend of Roseveldt who did this.
The example was followed by several others, amidst curses and tears.
Yes; strong men, old soldiers, heroes, on that day, at Vilagos, were
seen to weep.
The Count was again getting into his stirrup, when a shout, coming from
the outer edge of the encampment, once more caused him to keep still.
All eyes were turned toward the sentry who had shouted, seeking the
explanation. It was given not by the sentinel, but something beyond.
Far off, men mounted and afoot were seen approaching over the plain.
They came on in scattered groups, in long straggling line, their banners
borne low and trailing. They were the _debris_ of that devoted band,
who had so heroically held Temesvar. Their gallant leader was along
with them, in the rear-guard--still contesting the ground by inches,
against the pursuing cavalry of Rudiger!
The old soldier had scarce time to regret having broken his sword, when
the van swept into the streets of Vilagos, and soon after the last link
of the retreating line.
It was the final scene in the struggle for Hungarian independence!
No; not the last! We chronicle without thought. There was another--one
other to be remembered to all time, and, as long as there be hearts to
feel, with a sad, painful bitterness.
I am not writing a history of the Hungarian war--that heroic struggle
for national independence--in valour and devotedness perhaps never
equalled upon the earth. Doing so, I should have to detail the tricks
and subterfuges to which the traitor Georgei had to resort before he
could deceive his betrayed followers, and, with safety to himself,
deliver them over to the infamous enemy. I speak only of that dread
morn--the 6th day of October--when _thirteen general officers_, every
one of them the victor in some sternly contested field, were strung up
by the neck, as though they had been pirates or murderers!
And among them was the brave Damjanich, strung up in spite of his
shattered leg; the silent, serious Perezel; the noble Aulich; and,
perhaps most regretted of all, the brilliant Nagy Sandor! It was in
truth a terrible taking of vengeance--a wholesale hanging of heroes,
such as the world never saw before! What a contrast between this
fiendish outpouring of monarchical spite against revolutionists in a
good cause, and the mercy lately shown by republican conquerors to the
chiefs of a rebellion _without cause at all_!
Maynard and Roseveldt did not stay to be spectators of this tragical
finale. To the Count there was danger upon Hungarian soil--once more
become Austrian--and with despondent hearts the two revolutionary
leaders turned their faces towards the West, sad to think that their
swords must remain unsheathed, without tasting the blood of either
traitor or tyrant!