IX

The next morning I awoke at about seven o'clock. A trumpet was

sounding the recall at the corner of the street; horses, wagons, and

men and women on foot were hurrying past the house. My feet were yet

somewhat sore, but nothing to what they had been; and when I had

dressed, I felt like a new man, and thought to myself:

"Joseph, if this continues, you will soon be a soldier. It is only the

first step that costs."

I dressed in this cheerful mood. The baker's wife had put my shoes to

dry before the fire, after filling them with hot ashes to keep them

from growing hard. They were well greased and shining.

Then I buckled on my knapsack, and hurried out, without having time to

thank those good people--a duty I intended to fulfil after roll-call.

At the end of the street--on the square--many of our Italians were

already waiting, shivering around the fountain. Furst, Klipfel, and

Zebede arrived a moment after.

Cannon and their caissons covered one entire side of the square.

Horses were being brought to water, led by hussars and dragoons.

Opposite us were cavalry barracks, high as the church at Phalsbourg,

while around the other three sides rose old houses with sculptured

gables, like those at Saverne, but much larger. I had never seen

anything like all this, and while I stood gazing around, the drums

began to beat, and each man took his place in the ranks, and we were

informed, first in Italian and then in French, that we were about to

receive our arms, and each one was ordered to stand forth as his name

was called.

The wagons containing the arms now came up, and the call began. Each

received a cartouche-box, a sabre, a bayonet, and a musket. We put

them on as well as we could, over our blouses, coats or great-coats,

and we looked, with our hats, our caps, and our arms, like a veritable

band of banditti. My musket was so long and heavy that I could

scarcely carry it; and the Sergeant Pinto showed me how to buckle on

the cartouche-box. He was a fine fellow, Pinto.

So many belts crossing my chest made me feel as if I could scarcely

breathe, and I saw at once that my miseries had not yet ended.

After the arms, an ammunition-wagon advanced, and they distributed

fifty rounds of cartridges to each man. This was no pleasant augury.

Then, instead of ordering us to break ranks and return to our lodgings,

Captain Vidal drew his sabre and shouted:

"By file right--march!"

The drums began to beat. I was grieved at not being able to thank my

hosts for their kindness, and thought that they would consider me

ungrateful. But that did not prevent my following the line of march.

We passed through a long winding street, and soon found ourselves

without the glacis, and near the frozen Rhine. Across the river high

hills appeared, and on the hills, old, gray, ruined castles, like those

of Haut-Bas and Geroldseck in the Vosges.

The battalion descended to the river-bank, and crossed upon the ice.

The scene was magnificent--dazzling. We were not alone on the ice;

five or six hundred paces before us there was a train of powder wagons

guarded by artillerymen on the way to Frankfort. Crossing the river we

continued our march for five hours through the mountains. Sometimes we

discovered villages in the defiles; and Zebede, who was next to me,

said:

"As we had to leave home, I would rather go as a soldier than

otherwise. At least we shall see something new every day, and, if we

are lucky enough ever to return, how much we will have to talk of!"

"Yes," said I; "but I would like better to have less to talk about, and

to live quietly, toiling on my own account and not on account of

others, who remain safe at home while we climb about here on the ice."

"You do not care for glory," said he; "and yet glory is something."

And I answered him:

"Glory is not for such as we, Zebede; it is for others who live well,

eat well, and sleep well. They have dancings and rejoicings, as we see

by the gazettes, and glory too in the bargain, when we have won it by

dint of sweat, fasting and broken bones. But poor wretches like us,

forced away from home, when at last they return, after losing their

habits of labor and industry, and, mayhap a limb, get but little of

your glory. Many a one, among their old friends--no better men than

they--who were not, perhaps so good workmen, have made money during the

conscript's seven years of war, have opened a shop, married their

sweethearts, had pretty children, are men of position--city

councillors--notables. And when the others, who have returned from

seeking glory by killing their fellow-men, pass by with their chevrons

on their arms, those old friends turn a cold shoulder upon them, and if

the soldier has a red nose through drinking brandy which was necessary

to keep his blood warm in the rain, the snow, the forced march, while

they were drinking good wine, they say--'There goes a drunkard!' and

the poor conscript, who only asked to be let stay at home and work,

becomes a sort of beggar. This is what I think about the matter,

Zebede; I cannot see the justice of all this, and I would rather have

these friends of glory go fight themselves, and leave us to remain in

peace at home."

"Well," he replied, "I think much as you do, but, as we are forced to

fight, it is as well to say that we are fighting for glory. If we go

about looking miserable, people will laugh at us."

Conversing thus, we reached a large river, which, the sergeant told us,

was the Main, and near it, upon our road, was a little village. We did

not know the name of the village, but there we halted.

We entered the houses, and those who could bought some brandy, wine,

and bread. Those who had no money crunched their ration of biscuits,

and gazed wistfully at their more fortunate comrades.

About five in the evening we arrived at Frankfort, which is a city yet

older than Mayence, and full of Jews. They took us to a place called

Saxenhausen, where the Tenth Hussars and the Baden Chasseurs were in

barracks,--old buildings which were formerly a hospital, as I was told

and believe, for within there was a large yard, with arches under the

walls; beneath these arches the horses were stabled, and in the rooms

above, the men.

We arrived at this place after passing through innumerable little

streets, so narrow that we could scarcely see the stars between the

chimneys. Captain Florentin, and the two lieutenants, Clavel and

Bretonville, were awaiting us. After roll-call our sergeants led us by

detachments to the rooms above the Chasseurs. They were great halls

with little windows, and between the windows were the beds.

Sergeant Pinto hung his lantern to the pillar in the middle; each man

placed his piece in the rack, and then took off his knapsack, his

blouse and his shoes, without speaking. Zebede was my bed-fellow. God

knows we were sleepy enough. Twenty minutes after, we were buried in

slumber.

X

At Frankfort I learned to understand military life. Up to that time I

had been but a simple conscript, then I became a soldier. I do not

speak merely of drill,--the way of turning the head right or left,

measuring the steps, lifting the hand to the height of the first or

second band to load, aiming, recovering arms at the word of

command--that is only an affair of a month or two, if a man really

desires to learn; but I speak of discipline--of remembering that the

corporal is always in the right when he speaks to a private soldier,

the sergeant when he speaks to the corporal, the sergeant-major when

speaking to the sergeant, the second lieutenant when he orders the

sergeant-major, and so on to the Marshal of France--even if the

superior asserts that two and two make five, or that the moon shines at

midday.

This is very difficult to learn; but there is one thing that assists

you immensely, and that is a sort of placard hung up in every room in

the barracks, and which is from time to time read to you. This placard

presupposes everything that a soldier might wish to do, as, for

instance, to return home, to refuse to serve, to resist his officer,

and always ends by speaking of death, or at least five years with a

ball and chain.

The day after our arrival at Frankfort I wrote to Monsieur Goulden, to

Catharine, and to Aunt Gredel. You may imagine how sadly. It seemed

to me, in addressing them, that I was yet at home. I told them of the

hardships I had undergone, of the good luck that had happened to me at

Mayence, and the courage it required not to drop behind in the march.

I told them that I was in good health, for which I thanked God, and

that I was even stronger than before I left home, and sent them a

thousand remembrances. Our Phalsbourg conscripts, who saw me writing,

made me add a few words for each of their families. I wrote also to

Mayence, to the good couple of the _Capougner-Strasse_, who had been so

kind to me, telling them how I was forced to march without being able

to thank them, and asking their forgiveness for so doing.

That day, in the afternoon, we received our uniforms. Dozens of Jews

made their appearance and bought our old clothes. I kept only my shoes

and stockings. The Italians had great difficulty in making these

respectable merchants comprehend their wishes, but the Genoese were as

cunning as the Jews, and their bargainings lasted until night. Our

corporals received more than one glass of wine; it was policy to make

friends of them, for morning and evening they taught us the drill in

the snow-covered yard. The _cantiniere_ Christine was always at her

post with a warming-pan under her feet. She took young men of good

family into special favor, and the young men of good family were all

those who spent their money freely. Poor fools! How many of them

parted with their last _sou_ in return for her miserable flattery!

When that was gone they were mere beggars; but vanity rules all, from

the conscripts to the generals.

All this time recruits were constantly arriving from France, and

ambulances full of wounded from Poland. What a sight was that before

the hospital Saint Esprit on the other side of the river! It was a

procession without an end. All these poor wretches were frost-bitten;

some had their noses, some their ears frozen, others an arm, others a

leg! They were laid in the snow to prevent them from dropping to

pieces. Others got out of the carts clinging and holding on, and

looked at you like wild beasts, their eyes sunk in their heads, their

hair bristling up: the gypsies who sleep in nooks in the woods would

have had pity on them; and yet these were the best off, because they

escaped from the carnage, while thousands of their comrades had

perished in the snow, or on the battle-field. Klipfel, Zebede, Furst,

and I often went to see these poor wretches, and never did we see men

so miserably clad. Some wore jackets which once belonged to Cossacks,

crushed shakos, women's dresses, and many had only handkerchiefs wound

round their feet in lieu of shoes and stockings. They gave us a

history of the retreat from Moscow, and then we knew that the

twenty-ninth bulletin told only truth.

These stories enraged our men against the Russians. Many said, "If the

war would only begin again, they would have a hard job of it then: it

is not over! it is not over!" I was at times almost overcome with

wrath after hearing some tale of horror; and sometimes I thought to

myself, "Joseph, are you not losing your wits? These Russians are

defending their families, their homes, all that man holds most dear.

We hate them for defending themselves; we would have despised them had

they not done so."

But about this time an extraordinary event occurred.

You must know that my comrade, Zebede, was the son of the gravedigger

of Phalsbourg, and sometimes between ourselves we called him

"Gravedigger." This he took in good part from us; but one evening

after drill, as he was crossing the yard, a hussar cried out:

"Halloo, Gravedigger! help me to drag in these bundles of straw."

Zebede, turning about, replied:

"My name is not Gravedigger, and you can drag in your own straw. Do

you take me for a fool?"

Then the other cried in a still louder tone:

"Conscript, you had better come, or beware!"

Zebede, with his great hooked nose, his gray eyes and thin lips, never

bore too good a character for mildness. He went up to the hussar and

asked:

"What is that you say?"

"I tell you to take up those bundles of straw, and quickly, too. Do

you hear, conscript?"

He was quite an old man, with mustaches and red, bushy whiskers.

Zebede seized one of the latter, but received two blows in the face.

Nevertheless, a fist-full of the whisker remained in his grasp, and, as

the dispute had attracted a crowd to the spot, the hussar shook his

finger, saying:

"You will hear from me to-morrow, conscript."

"Very good," returned Zebede; "we shall see. You will probably hear

from me too, veteran."

He came immediately after to tell me all this, and I, knowing that he

had never handled a weapon more warlike than a pickaxe, could not help

trembling for him.

"Listen, Zebede," I said; "all that there now remains for you to do,

since you do not want to desert, is to ask pardon of this old fellow;

for those veterans all know some fearful tricks of fence which they

have brought from Egypt or Spain, or somewhere else. If you wish, I

will lend you a crown to pay for a bottle of wine to make up the

quarrel."

But he, knitting his brows, would hear none of this.

"Rather than beg his pardon," said he, "I would go and hang myself. I

laugh him and his comrades to scorn. If he has tricks of fence, I have

a long arm, that will drive my sabre through his bones as easily as his

will penetrate my flesh."

The thought of the blows made him insensible to reason; and soon Chazy,

the _maitre d'armes_, Corporal Fleury, Furst, and Leger came in. They

all said that Zebede was in the right, and the _maitre d'armes_ added

that blood alone could wash out the stain of a blow; that the honor of

the recruits required Zebede to fight.

Zebede answered proudly that the men of Phalsbourg had never feared the

sight of a little blood, and that he was ready. Then the _maitre

d'armes_ went to see our Captain, Florentin, who was one of the most

magnificent men imaginable--tall, well-formed, broad-shouldered, with

regular features, and the Cross, which the Emperor had himself given

him at Eylau. The captain even went further than the _maitre d'armes_;

he thought it would set the conscripts a good example, and that if

Zebede refused to fight he would be unworthy to remain in the Third

Battalion of the Sixth of the Line.

All that night I could not close my eyes. I heard the deep breathing

of my poor comrade as he slept, and I thought: "Poor Zebede! another

day, and you will breathe no more." I shuddered to think how near I

was to a man so near death. At last, as day broke, I fell asleep, when

suddenly I felt a cold blast of wind strike me. I opened my eyes, and

there I saw the old hussar. He had lifted up the coverlet of our bed,

and said as I awoke:

"Up, sluggard! I will show you what manner of man you struck."

Zebede rose tranquilly, saying:

"I was asleep, veteran; I was asleep."

The other, hearing himself thus mockingly called "veteran," would have

fallen upon my comrade in his bed; but two tall fellows who served him

as seconds held him back, and, besides, the Phalsbourg men were there.

"Quick, quick! Hurry!" cried the old hussar.

But Zebede dressed himself calmly, without any haste. After a moment's

silence, he said:

"Have we permission to go outside our quarters, old fellows?"

"There is room enough for us in the yard," replied one of the hussars.

Zebede put on his great-coat, and, turning to me, said:

"Joseph and you, Klipfel, I choose for my seconds."

But I shook my head.

"Well, then, Furst," said he.

The whole party descended the stairs together. I thought Zebede was

lost, and thought it hard, that not only must the Russians seek our

lives, but that we must seek each other's.

All the men in the room crowded to the windows. I alone remained

behind upon my bed. At the end of five minutes the clash of sabres

made my heart almost cease to beat; the blood seemed no longer to flow

through my veins.