"the stirring memory of a thousand years." It touched a chord in every
Scottish heart. It seemed like a voice from their home, from the
tongues of those they had left behind, and served to stimulate them to
fresh exertions in honour of the land of the rock and the eagle.
"Cheer, my blue bonnets!" cried Campbell, leaping in his saddle in
perfect ecstasy. "Oh! the gallant fellows! how bravely they ride. God
and victory be with them this day!"
"Scotland for ever!" echoed the Highlanders, as they waved their black
plumage on the gale. The Royals, the 42nd, the Cameron Highlanders, and
every Scots regiment within hearing took up the battle-cry and tossed it
to the wind; and even the feeble voices of the wounded were added to the
general shout while the chivalrous Greys plunged into the column of the
enemy, sabring them in scores, and riding them down like a field of
corn. The cries of the panic-stricken French were appalling; they were
like the last despairing shrieks of drowning men, rather than the
clamour of men-at-arms upon a battle-field. Colours, drums, arms, and
every thing were abandoned in their eagerness to escape, and even while
retreating double quick, some failed not to shout _Vive l'Empereur!
Vive la Gloire!_ as vociferously as if they had been the victors instead
of the vanquished.
An unlucky random shot struck Lisle's left arm, and fractured the bone
just above the elbow. He uttered a sudden cry of anguish, and reeled
backward several paces, but propped himself upon his sword. Ronald
Stuart rushed towards him, but almost at the same moment a half-spent
cannon shot (one of the last fired by the train sent to dislodge the
ninth brigade) struck him on the left side, doubled him up like a cloak,
and dashed him to the earth, where he lay totally deprived of sense and
motion. When struck, a consciousness flashed upon his mind that his
ribs were broken to pieces, and that he was dying; then the darkness of
night seemed to descend on his eyes, and he felt as if his soul was
passing away from his body. That feeling, which seemed the reverse of a
terrible one, existed for a space of time scarcely divisible. There was
a rushing sound in his ears, flashes of red fire seemed to go out from
his eyes, and then every sensation of life left him for a time. The
regiment thought him dead, as few escape a knock from a cannon-shot, and
no one considered it worth while to go towards him, save Louis Lisle.
All were too intently watching the flashing weapons of the cavalry as
they charged again and again, each squadron wheeling to the right and
left to allow the others to come up, and the work of slaying and
capturing proceeded in glorious style. Poor Ronald's loss was never
thought of by his comrades.
"Stuart's knocked on the head, poor fellow!" was his only elegy. One
life is valued less than a straw, when thousands are breathing their
last on the awful arena of a battle-field.
Louis, whose left arm hung bleeding and motionless by his side, turned
Ronald on his back with the right, and saw that he was pale and
breathless. He placed his hand on the heart, but it was still. He felt
no vibration.
"Great Heaven! what a blow this will be for my poor sister! Farewell,
Ronald! I look upon your face for the last time!" He groaned deeply
with mental and bodily agony as he bent his steps to the rear,--a long
and perilous way, for shot of every size and sort were falling like hail
around, whizzing and whistling through the air, or tearing the turf to
pieces when they alighted. Hundreds of riderless horses, many of them
greys, snorting and crying with pain or terror, were galloping madly
about in every direction, trampling upon the bodies of the dead and the
wounded, and finishing with their ponderous hoofs the work which many a
bullet had begun.
The slaughter among the French at that part of the field was immense,
but their case might have been very different had they stood firm and
shown front, as British infantry would have done.
One thousand were literally sabred, ridden down, or cut to pieces, two
thousand taken prisoners, with two eagles, one by a sergeant of the
Greys, and all the drums and colours; a catastrophe which scarcely
occupied five minutes' time, and which Napoleon beheld from his post
near La Belle Alliance with sensations which may easily be conceived,
for these troops were the flower of his numerous army.
This was about half-past four in the afternoon, and over the whole plain
of Waterloo the battle was yet raging with as much fury as ever.
*CHAPTER XIII.*
*THE SISTER OF CHARITY.*
"O woman! in our hours of ease
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!"
_Marmion._
When Ronald again became conscious that he was yet in the land of the
living, he found himself in a waggon, the uneasy jolting of which
occasioned him great agony. It was driven by two sturdy Flemish
peasants, clad in blue blouses and red caps, as he could perceive by the
light of the moon: they sang merrily some uncouth song, and appeared to
be in a happy state of intoxication.
The Flemings were driving furiously, at a rate which threatened every
moment to overturn the vehicle, and it was incessantly bumped against a
wall on one side of the highway, or a high foot-path which bordered the
other. Ronald often implored and commanded them to drive slower, but
they heeded him no more than the wind. However, they were compelled to
slacken their speed on approaching Waterloo, where, in a short time,
they were brought to a halt altogether, the road being completely choked
up with the wounded,--thousands upon thousands of whom were on their way
to Brussels on foot, a few on horseback, and many in waggons. It was
now midnight, as the toll of a distant church clock announced. A
horrible medley filled the air around the place where Stuart's waggon
stopped. The cries of the wounded were piercing. In their agony, strong
men were screaming like women, and the appeals for water from their
parched tongues were piteous in the extreme. Some of them were men who
had been wounded on the 16th at Quatre Bras, but hundreds of the
sufferers who were maimed on that occasion, perished under the fury of
the next day's storm in the forest of Soignies, whither they had fled
for shelter on the temporary advance of Napoleon.
The highway was as much crowded as the field with dead and dying, and
the waggons of the train, the baggage-carts, the commissariat caissons,
&c., were every moment increasing in number, all pressing to get along
the choked up road. The hubbub was increased by foreign and British
cavalry, and mounted officers riding, some to the front and some to the
rear, as their duty led them, and threatening to sabre any one who
opposed their passage. Oaths, threats, and execrations, in English,
French, Belgic, and German, resounded every where. It was a medley of
horror and confusion, such as few men have ever looked upon.
The boors who drove the waggon in which Stuart lay, abandoned it and
left him to his fate. He was utterly heedless of what it might be. He
had never felt so weary of life, when suffering under any disaster, as
he did at that moment; and he sincerely envied the dead who lay around
him. The pain of his bruised side was intense, and he would gladly have
given mountains of gold, if he had them, for a single drop of water to
moisten his parched and swollen tongue, His head felt hot and heavy, but
there was no one near to raise it.
He sunk again into a stupor, and all that passed during the remainder of
that dismal night seemed like a dream. He was still sensible of acute
pain, but the jolting of the rumbling waggon, when again in motion,
seemed like the motion of a ship at sea, and he thought himself once
more in the Bay of Biscay, on board the Diana of London.
From his feverish slumber he was roused by feeling his forehead bathed
with some cool and refreshing liquid, by hands soft and gentle, like
those of a female; but this, too, he deemed imagination, and his eyes
remained closed. But the bathing continued, and became too palpable to
be mistaken. When he looked around, he found himself in an airy and
elegant room, with white flowing drapery hanging gracefully from the
windows, and from the roof of the French couch upon which he lay.
Instinctively he raised his hand to his neck, to feel for the portrait
of Alice Lisle. It hung no longer there, but was placed in his hands by
the kind fairy who had taken upon herself the office of being his nurse.
He turned to look upon her, but she glided away.
"I am dreaming," murmured he, and closed his eyes; but on opening them
again, the same scene met his view. The room was richly carpeted, the
furniture was costly and elegant, the ceiling was lofty, and covered
with painted birds and angels, flying among fleecy clouds and azure
skies. The pictures on the wall were large Dutch cattle-pieces and
glaring prints of Oudenarde and other battles, and a most agreeable
perfume was wafted through the apartment from several Delft vases filled
with fresh flowers, which adorned the polished side-tables and lofty
marble mantel-piece. Ronald looked from one thing to another in silent
wonder,--he could not imagine whither he had been conveyed; but that
which most attracted his attention was the figure of a female,--a nun he
supposed her to be,--whose face was turned from him, and who seemed to
be kneeling in a meek and graceful attitude of prayer, so he had an
opportunity of observing her particularly.
Her costume was very simple, but, from its shape, amply displayed her
very beautiful bust and whole figure. It consisted of a tight body and
wide skirt of black serge, girt round her slender waist by a white
fillet. She wore a hood of white silk, from beneath which one bright
ringlet fell over her shoulder. There was something very bewitching and
coquettish in that stray love-lock, and it gave fair promise that there
was much more worth seeing under the same little hood. Her hands were
very small, and very white; but they were clasped in prayer, and her
face seemed to be turned upwards.
"Heavens!" thought Stuart, "I am back again in the land of guitars and
pig-skins. This is witchcraft, and Waterloo is all a dream. Bah! my
wound says no! Where am I?" said he aloud. "_Buenos dias, gentil
senora_," he added in his most bland Spanish.
"Ah, monsieur!" said the lady, springing towards him, "you have awakened
at last."
"French, by Jove!" thought the invalid. "Napoleon has beaten us, and I
am a prisoner."
"Ah! I have prayed for you very earnestly, and Heaven has heard me."
"What!" said Ronald in astonishment, "have you really been praying for
me?"
"For you, monsieur," replied the young damsel, seating herself by his
side.
"How very good of you, mademoiselle! But to what do I owe such
happiness,--I mean, that you should take any interest in me?"
"Monsieur," said she pouting, "I pray for all,--the good Christian and
the heretic alike."
Her face was very pretty, almost beautiful, indeed; rather pale,
perhaps, but there was a girlishness, a pure innocence of expression in
her soft dove-like hazel eyes, which made her extremely attractive. She
seemed somewhere about sixteen,--a mature age on the Continent,--and had
all the air of a lively French girl turned prematurely into a nun.
"I am extremely fortunate that you should interest yourself so much
about me, mademoiselle," said Ronald in a tone sufficiently doleful,
although he attempted to assume a gallant air. "But will you please to
tell me where I am just now?"
"In Brussels, monsieur."
"Brussels? Good."
"See," continued the fair girl, drawing back the curtains; "there is the
gay Sablon-square, and yonder the good old church of holy Saint Gudule,
with its two huge towers and beautiful window."
"And this splendid house?"
"Belongs to the widow of Mynheer Vandergroot."
"And you, my pretty mademoiselle,--pray who are you?"
"You must not call me mademoiselle," said she demurely.
"What then?"
"Sister."
"Sister?"
"_Oui, monsieur_. I am called Sister Antoinette de la Misericorde."
"A strange name!"
"I think it very pretty, monsieur: I am called so among the _Soeurs de
la Charite_. But never mind my name, monsieur; you speak too much, and
disturb yourself. How glad I am to see you looking so well, after being
in so deep a sleep all yesterday."
Ronald put his hand to his head, and strove to recollect himself.
"Was I not at Waterloo yesterday?"
"No, monsieur; the day before. Alas, what a day it was! But you must
not speak any more,--and _must_ obey me in all things. I am your
nurse."
"_You!_" exclaimed Stuart in a tone of pleasure and surprise, while he
attempted to take her hand; but she easily eluded him. "Ah, what a
happiness for me, mademoiselle!"
"Sister!" said she, holding up her tiny finger. "I am your only nurse,
and I have six other officers on my list. Poor creatures!" she added,
while her fine eyes became suffused with tears. "Alas! they are
dreadfully wounded, and I experience great horror in being their
attendant, but my vows must be fulfilled. 'Tis the work of Heaven, and
the poor Sister Antoinette must neither shrink nor repine. But your
wound, monsieur; you were struck in the side, but there is no blood."
"But I am bruised to death, Antoinette."
"_Mon Dieu! mon ami;_ so the medical officer said. But here he comes,
and I must be gone, for a time at least."
At that moment the door opened, and the assistant-surgeon entered. He
made a profound bow to the lady,--imitating a style he had picked up in
Castile, and causing the black plumage of his regimental bonnet to
describe a circle in the air.
"Well, my dear Mademoiselle Antoinette," said he, taking her hand, "how
is our patient this morning?"
"Indeed, monsieur, I know not," replied the girl with confusion, and
attempting to withdraw her hand.
"I fear, Antoinette, if the troops are all provided with such nurses,
they will be in no hurry to quit the sick list, which it is our interest
to keep as empty as possible; but--"
Here mademoiselle broke away from him, and, snatching up a little basket
of phials, fled from the apartment.
"Well, Ronald, my man," said the _medico_, unbuckling his broad-sword
and seating himself by the bed; "how do you find yourself this morning?"
"Having ended your flirtation, 'tis time to ask, Dick," replied the
invalid pettishly.
"What! are you turning jealous of a girl that nurses half the regiment?
Let me see your knocks,--how are they?"
"Confoundedly sore! My ribs are all broken to pieces, I think."
"Scarcely," replied the doctor, passing his hand over the injured part;
"they are all as sound as ever they were. Do you find _that_ sore?"
said he, deliberately poking his finger on particular places with the
most medical _nonchalance_.
"The devil, Dick! to be sure I do," said Ronald, wincing, and
suppressing a violent inclination to cry out, or punch the other's head.
"Sore, eh?"
"Very," said the other sulkily.
"Ah! I thought you would."
"I suppose you mean to follow up this attack, by prescribing bleeding
and hot water?"
"The first, certainly; the last, as may be required," said Stuart, the
doctor in his turn getting a little piqued.
"I have dozed away a whole day," said Ronald.
"You find yourself all the better for it now. We will have you on your
legs next week."
"But the battle! You have kept up such a gabble, Dick, I have not had
time to ask you if we won it."
"Who else could win it? But I will tell you all, after I have looked to
your hurts."
"No; tell me first of the battle, and be as brief as possible."
"Well, then, Buonaparte was soundly beaten on the 18th, and is flying
towards Paris, I believe. Wellington and old Blucher are after him,
double quick."
"Our loss?"
"I have not heard."
"How is Lisle, and all the rest of ours?"
"I have not yet learned where Louis is billeted, but I fear his arm is
lost. Captain Little was killed close by me, after you were struck.
Fifteen officers are wounded, and eight killed; but you shall hear not
another word till I have seen your wound more particularly, and have
applied some dressing."
The cannon-shot had bruised his side severely. It was frightfully
discoloured, and he was almost unable to move in consequence of the
intense pain which he suffered.
The doctor, producing a silver case of lancets, proposed bleeding, a
course to which Ronald stoutly objected, saying that he felt weak enough
already. He was therefore fain to content himself with leaving
directions for the preparation of an enormous poultice, and a diet of
broth and barley-water. He then took his leave, saying that he had more
than a hundred patients on his list, and should be totally unable to
call for two days at least; but desired Allan Warristoun, Ronald's
servant, to come every evening, and report how his master was. The
doctor's prescription gave Ronald considerable relief, notwithstanding
the throwing out of window of a considerable portion of the ingredients,
and the discussion, with infinite relish, of certain delicacies which,
after a few days, were brought to his bedside by the kind old widow
Vandergroot.
Converting Warristoun's knapsack into a desk, Ronald sat, propped up in
bed, writing a letter for Alice, and another for Lochisla, for he was
still ignorant of the change which had taken place there, when Sister
Antoinette, entering lightly and softly, stole to his side. Her gentle
hand was on his shoulder, and her soft eyes were beaming on his, almost
before he was aware of her presence. Her silken hood had fallen back,
and revealed her fine glossy hair,--all, save the long stray ringlet,
beautifully braided like a coronet around her head. Her order were not
robbed of their flowing tresses on taking their vow upon them.
Ronald tossed the knapsack upon the carpet, and caught her hand with an
exclamation of pleasure. She permitted him to retain his hold for a
moment. He would have spoken, but she placed her finger on his lips, and
again told him that she was his nurse, and that he "must not speak."
The finger belonged to a very pretty hand, though it was unadorned by
ring or bracelet; and, taking it again within his own, he ventured to
kiss it. The sister drew back instantly, and blushed crimson; but not
with displeasure, for she seemed too amiable and gentle a creature to be
easily offended.
"I have brought you three books, monsieur."
"A thousand thanks, my dear little sister!" said he, as she produced the
volumes from a small reticule, which she carried under the skirt of her
long cape. "How very attentive of you! I am always so dull when you
are absent."
"I had them, monsieur, from an aged _Reposante_ of our order, who in
time has amassed quite a little library of her own."
"A French Bible," said Ronald, laying aside the first with an air of
disappointment. "What next? 'The holy Doings of the good Sisters of St.
Martha.' And the next? 'Rules of the _Servantes des Pauvres de
Charite_! By Jove! my dear Antoinette, these books won't do for me, I
fear."
"They are very good books, monsieur," said she modestly. "I am sorry
you are displeased."
"_Ma belle Antoinette_, I thank you not the less, believe me; but if any
of my brother-officers were to pop in and find me reading them, I should
never hear the end of it, and two or three duels would scarcely keep the
mess in order."
"I am sorry for it. But if you will not read them yourself, I will; and
if any of your wild Scottish officers come in, let them laugh at me if
they dare."
"They will take care how they do that in my chamber, Antoinette," said
Stuart with a peculiar smile, while the girl threw back her hood and
prepared to read, displaying, as she did so, a neck and hands of perfect
beauty and lady-like whiteness. She read, in a low, earnest, and very
pleasing voice, the story of the good Samaritan, to which Ronald, who
was quite enraptured with her appearance and manner, paid very little
attention. She read on without ceasing for nearly half an hour, and
imagined that the young officer was a very attentive listener. But, in
truth, he was too much occupied in observing the admirable contour of
her face, her downcast lashes and fine hair, the motion of her little
cherry lips and swelling bosom, to attend to the various chapters which
she was so good-natured as to select for his edification.
After administering certain drugs, which perhaps neither Widow
Vandergroot nor Doctor Stuart, with all their eloquence, could have
prevailed on Ronald to swallow, she withdrew, notwithstanding his
entreaties that she would remain a little longer.
He felt rather jealous of the attentions she might bestow on others; but
this selfish feeling lasted only for awhile. She had several
Highlanders, three hussars, and two artillery officers on her list: some
of the latter were minus legs and arms. Next day when she visited
Stuart she was weeping, for three of her patients had died of their
wounds.
The whole of Brussels had been converted into a vast hospital: every
house, without distinction, was crowded with wounded and sick. The
officers and soldiers, in some places, were lying side by side on the
same floor; and the humanity, kindness, and solicitude displayed towards
these unfortunates by the ladies, and other females of every class, are
worthy of the highest praise. They were to be seen hourly in the
hospitals, distributing cordials and other little comforts to the
wounded soldiers of all nations,--friend and foe alike. They were
blessed on every side as they moved along, for the poor fellows found
sisters and mothers in them all.
Ronald took a deep and, perhaps for so young a man, a dangerous interest
in the fair Antoinette de la Misericorde. He deplored that so charming
a creature should be condemned to dwell in a dreary cloister,--her fine
features shaded and lost beneath the hideous lawn veil and mis-shapen
hood of the sisters; and that her existence was doomed to be one of
everlasting prayer, penance, fast, humiliation, and slavery in
hospitals, surrounded continually by the fetid breath of the sick, by
distempers and epidemics, scenes of want, woe, and misery, and in the
hearing sometimes of sorrow, blasphemy, and horrid imprecations,--for
her duty led her into the dens and prisons of the police, and the inmost
recesses of the infamous _Rasp-haus_. Whether her own wish, or her
parents' tyranny and superstition, had consigned her to this miserable
profession, he never discovered; but the life of a galley-slave or a
London sempstress would have been preferable.
Antoinette was evidently a lady by manner, appearance, and birth. None
but a lady could have owned so beautiful a hand. She had all the
natural vivacity and buoyant spirits of a French girl, and, at times,
her sallies and clear ringing laughter contrasted oddly with the sombre
garb and her half real, half affected demureness.
Ronald formed a hundred plans for her emancipation, but always rejected
them as impracticable. To persuade her to elope from Brussels, and go
home with him to be a companion for Alice Lisle, would never do.
Scandal would be busy, and even should he escape the wrath of the
Belgian police, the _mess_ would quiz him out of the service.
"What the deuce can be done to save this fair creature from such
slavery?" thought he. "I would to Heaven somebody would run away with
her! There's Macildhui of ours, and Dick Stuart, our senior Esculapius,
handsome fellows both, and both quite well aware of it. Who knows what
may come about? The medico is evidently smitten with her, and Macildhui
is on her sick list. Since poor Grant was knocked on the head, we have
not a married man, except Louis, among us, and Antoinette would be an
honour to the regiment."
The combined attention of the interesting little _fille de convent_, of
the widow, of Doctor Stuart, and of Allan his servant, soon placed
Ronald on his feet again; and in the course of a week or two he was able
to move about the room, and enjoy a cup of chocolate at the window
overlooking the square, where a host of crippled soldiers, leaning on
sticks and crutches, were seen hobbling about among fresh-coloured
Flemish girls with plump figures and large white caps, bulbous-shaped
citizens, and pipe-smoking Dutchmen in high-crowned hats and mighty
inexpressibles.
Two days after he became convalescent, the sister informed him that now
her visits must cease.