fierce struggle among the rocks on the hill side, the Chapelgorris,
to the great surprise of both friends and foes, emerged from a shady
hollow, and shouting like fiends, charged suddenly upon the rear of the
Carlists. For a little, they carried all before them, and at one time
had actually cleared the parapets that had been so long and bravely
defended; but, seeing the weakness of their assailants, and that the
attack was unsupported, the Carlists soon rallied, and with a force of
ten to one charged down the bloodstained hill. The Chapelgorris held
their vantage ground for many minutes, fighting desperately hand to
hand with bayonet thrust, and even with the deadly stab of their long
knives; but at length some squadrons of Lancers made their way through
the rough stones, and piked them without mercy. About half their
number, mostly wounded, made their way back into the Christino lines,
and having lighted fires, proceeded with perfect unconcern to cook
their dinners.
As I said before, the Christino troops held the broad elevated platform
at the foot of the Stony Hill. To the right, between this high ground
and the river Urumea, the English brigade of the Legion held the
valley. At the extreme advance, by the bank of the stream, on a rising
ground, there stood a small cottage, surrounded by a low stone wall,
enclosing the little orchard; a handful of men of a London regiment,
commanded by my late patient, were thrown into it, with orders to
defend it as long as possible, and then to make good their retreat,
should they see that the army found it necessary to retire. I was sent
with this small detachment to assist the wounded. Our position was
completely isolated from all communication with the main body, but
to the left rear our flank was protected by a thickly wooded conical
hill, held by half a battalion of the second Spanish light infantry;
to the left rear of that again, was the broad platform, where our main
force lay; from this elevation a threatening row of guns looked out
upon the conical hill, extending their protection over its defenders.
As long as this connecting position between us and the platform was
held, we were safe, for the Urumea covered our right flank but the
force appointed for this duty was under the command of the sullen and
treacherous captain of carbineers. During the early part of the day,
while the strife was raging upon the hill of San Gerònimo, we were in
comparative quiet, only intent upon holding our ground, while, with the
exception of a few daring skirmishers, every now and then rebuked by
the artillery on the platform, the enemy offered us no annoyance.
About four o'clock in the afternoon, when all our repeated attacks
upon the Stony Hill on the left had plainly failed, and it became
evident that some other means must be found of forcing our way to the
great French road, our chiefs began to withdraw their troops from the
extreme left, narrowing their front preparatory to returning within the
lines for the night. These movements released the stout defenders of
San Gerònimo, and flushed with their success, but unwearied by their
labours, they passed rapidly along the slope of the valleys in front
of the platform from left to right; sheltered from the fire of our
artillery by the shade of the thick woods, they formed their columns
for a desperate attack upon our extreme right--the cottage where I was,
and the conical hill, upon the possession of which our safety depended.
While these new dispositions were being made, the firing almost ceased
along the whole line. We guessed pretty well what was coming, and
prepared as best we might for the approaching storm.
Presently thousands of bayonets glittered in the bright sun-light among
the trees in our front; the heads of three heavy columns issued from
the wood and pushed across the valley against our positions. The main
force assailed the platform, but could make no head against the fire of
the artillery, and the masses of troops defending it; another body of
some strength rushed up to our cottage stronghold, swarmed round it,
and poured a deafening roar of musketry upon the doors and windows; we
were instantly driven from the orchard to the shelter of the dwelling,
but there we held our own, and the stout Londoners dealt death among
the foe. Several men had been killed, and some badly wounded, while
retreating from the orchard into the cottage, so my hands were full. I
did my utmost, but could not keep pace with the work of destruction.
The fire waxed heavier; the Carlists, though suffering severely,
pressed closer and closer round us, animated with the hope that we
might fall into their hands; but the conical hill is not yet assailed,
and till it is lost our retreat is safe. The third attacking column has
disappeared in a ravine to our left. Where will that storm burst? See,
there they are! now they rise up from the deep hollow--the glittering
bayonets and the terrible "white caps;" and now with a fierce shout,
louder than the roar of the battle, they dash against the conical hill.
We see no more; the thick woods conceal alike our friends and foes.
My late patient, the commander of our little garrison, had been already
wounded in the head, but refused my aid with horrid oaths. A torn
handkerchief was wrapped round his temples, his face and long grizzled
beard were stained with blood, begrimed with smoke and dust; he had
seized the musquet and ammunition of a fallen soldier, and fearless of
the deadly hail of bullets, stood upright before a window firing with
quick precision, then rapidly reloading. Nevertheless, every now and
then, he cast an anxious look beyond, to see how fared the strife upon
the all-important hill.
And now the roar of musketry is heard among the trees, and a thick
cloud of smoke hangs over the scene of the struggle, concealing the
fortunes of the fight. But see! From the back of the hill furthest from
the enemy, a tall man, in the uniform of an officer, hastens stealthily
away; he crosses towards the river close to the cottage; though hidden
by a bank from the Carlists, we see him plainly from the upper windows;
his object is probably to escape unobserved down by the stream into the
lines. He has thrown away his sword, his eyes are bloodshot, his face
pale with deadly fear, and wild with terror. We look again: eternal
infamy! it is the captain of carbineers. Immediately after this, the
defenders of the hill, deserted by their leader and pressed by the
superior force of the Carlists, gave ground, broke, and fled the
valley. "That accursed coward has betrayed us," shouted our commander,
fiercely. "But he shall not escape us, by ----." As he spoke he aimed
at the fugitive and pulled the trigger, but before he finished the
sentence, I heard a dull, heavy splash, as of a weight falling upon
water; the musket dropped from his grasp, he threw his long sinewy arms
up over his head, and fell back without a groan. A bullet had gone
through his brain; meanwhile the object of his wrath ran rapidly past
and gained the sheltering underwood by the stream in safety.
Our soldiers, instead of being daunted by the loss of their commander,
were inspired with the energy of despair. They knew they might not hope
for mercy from their fierce assailants, and determined to struggle to
the last. All retreat was cut off, but as long as their ammunition
lasted they could keep at bay. This, however, began soon to fail. They
rifled the pouches of their dead comrades, and still, though almost
against hope, bravely held on the fight.
The Carlists upon the conical hill were now exposed to the fire from
the guns of the platform, and though in a great degree sheltered
by the trees, they suffered severely. The Christino forces were,
however, being gradually withdrawn from the field of battle, and the
chances of our perilous situation being observed by our friends,
became momentarily less; a vigorous rush upon the conical hill to gain
possession of it, even for a few minutes, might enable us to extricate
ourselves, but in the roar and confusion of the battle our little band
was forgotten by the Spanish force, left to cover the withdrawal of the
army--forgotten by all but one,--the gallant young cadet, my generous
friend. He knew that I was in the beleaguered cottage, disgracefully
left to its fate by a portion of his own regiment; he saw that we still
held out,--that there was hope that we might yet be saved. He hastened
to the commanding officer of his corps, told of our perilous situation,
and pointed out the means of extricating us. The orders were, that this
regiment,--the second light infantry, should check the Carlist advance,
till the main body of the Christinos had fallen back upon the positions
taken in the morning. The generous boy who had gained a hearing by
his gallant conduct through the day, urged his cause so earnestly,
that at last it won attention; he pointed out how the recovery of the
conical hill would effectually secure the retirement of the troops from
annoyance, and that they would have the glory of saving the detachment
of the Legion from destruction. The colonel, a gallant old soldier,
himself an Englishman by birth, leant no unwilling ear, and the
regiment received the order to advance.
Meanwhile, we saw with bitter sorrow battalion after battalion
withdrawing from the platform, and the Carlist reserves advancing down
the valley in our front to press on the retiring army. But when we had
almost ceased to hope, a dark green column emerged from the woods in
our rear by the water side, and in serried ranks, with steady step,
marched straight upon the fatal hill. It dashes aside the opposing
crowds of white-capped skirmishers like foam from a ship's prow; it
gains the slope and nears the wooded brow, still, with unfaltering
courage, pressing on, though men are struck down at every step. They
are now close at hand; we feel their aid; our assailants slacken their
fire, and give way; the path is nearly clear: when the hill is won we
are saved. We can now plainly distinguish our deliverers--the Second
Light Infantry, and in front of the leading rank the gallant cadet
toils up the bloody hill. A crashing volley staggers the advancing
files; but the youth cheers them on--one effort more. Hurrah, brave
boy! hurrah for the honour of Castile! They follow him again; the brow
is gained, they plunge into the wood; another rattle of musketry, and
the Carlists are driven from the hill.
We seized the golden opportunity, and bearing with us those of the
wounded who survived, made good our retreat. The few still capable of
any exertion joined our brave deliverers, and retired slowly with them,
but the Carlists pressed upon us no more that night.
The evening was falling fast, and the long shadows of the mountains
covered the field of blood, when I sat down at the advanced post of
our lines to await the returning column and meet the gallant boy,
our deliverer from the merciless enemy. They marched slowly up along
the road; for many wounded men, borne on stretchers, or supported by
their companions, encumbered their movements. Then, as company after
company filed past, I looked with anxious straining eyes for my dear
young friend. But he came not. Even in the pride of their brave deed
the soldiers seemed dull and sorrowful without his airy step and
gallant bearing to cheer them on. Last in the ranks came a tall bearded
grenadier, carrying something in his arms--something very light, but
borne with tender care. It was the young cadet. His eyes were closed;
his face wore a smile of ineffable sweetness, but was white as marble,
and, like the smile on the features of a marble statue, there may be
never again a change; for the fair child was dead.
The Captain of the ship had joined our group some time before, and
listened attentively to the latter part of the story. When it came to
this point, he cried out somewhat impatiently, "Hillo, Doctor! if you
have nothing pleasanter to tell us, the sooner we turn in the better."
FLECHIER'S CHRONICLE OF CLERMONT ASSIZES.[23]
MANY of our readers, unacquainted with his writings, will remember
the name of the gentle prelate and renowned rhetorician who delivered
the funeral oration of the great TURENNE, accomplishing the mournful
but glorious task with such eloquence and grace that the composition
constitutes his chief claim to the admiration of posterity. We should
say, perhaps, that it _did_ constitute his principal hold upon the
world's memory, previously to the year 1844, date of exhumation of a
work likely to command readers longer than his _Oraisons Funébres_,
or, than any other portion of the ten serious volumes published
under the incorrect title of _œuvres Completes_. We can imagine the
astonishment of an erudite book-worm, suddenly encountering, when
winding his way through dusty folios and antique black letter, a
sprightly and gallant narrative, sparkling with graceful sallies and
with anecdotes and allusions _à la_ Grammont; and finding himself
compelled, by evidence internal and collateral, to accept the mundane
manuscript as the work of a grave and pious father of the church. A
courtly chronicle, in tone fringing on the frivolous, and often more
remarkable for piquancy of subject than for strict propriety of tone,
suddenly dragged from the cobwebbed obscurity of an ancient escritoire
and put abroad as the production of a South, a Tillotson, or a Blair,
would astound the public, and find many to doubt its authenticity. In
bringing forward the earliest work of the amiable bishop of Nismes, the
librarian of the town of Clermont had no such scepticism to contend
against. Moreover, he had arguments and proofs at hand sufficient
to confound and convince the most incredulous. True, there was vast
difference in tone and subject between the literary pastime of the
Abbé, and the results of the grave studies and oratorical talents of
the reverend churchman and renowned preacher; but affinities of style
were detectible by the skilful, and, in addition to this, there had
crept out, at sundry periods of the present century, certain letters
of Fléchier[24]--letters not to be found in the so-called "complete
editions" of his works--whose strain of graceful levity and exaggerated
gallantry indicated a talent distinct from that to which he owes a fame
now daily diminishing; and prepared the few whose notice they attracted
for a transition from grave didactics and inflated declamation to
lively _badinage_ and debonair narrative. The masses knew little about
the matter, and cared less. Latin verses, complimentary discourses, and
funeral orations, dating from a century and a half back, and relating
to persons and events great and brilliant, it is true, but now seen
dim and distant through the long vista of years, are not the class of
literature to compel much attention in this practical and progressive
age. As a constructor of French prose, Fléchier is unquestionably
entitled to honourable mention. If his claims to originality of genius
were small, he at least was an elegant rhetorician and a delicate and
polished writer, to whom the French language is under obligations.
As a man of letters, he formed an important link between the school
of Louis XIII. and that of the _Grand Monarque_; he was one of the
first to appreciate grace of diction, and to attempt the elevation
and correction of a spurious style. His florid eloquence, however,
not unfrequently wearies by its stilted pomposity, and, save by a few
scholars and literati, his works are rather respected than liked, more
often praised than read. He wrote for the century, not for all time.
And his books, if still occasionally referred to, each day drew nearer
to oblivion, when the publication of the _Mémoires sur les Grands-Jours
tenus à Clermont_ came opportunely to refresh his fading bays. The
lease of celebrity secured by ten studied and ponderous tomes, exhaling
strong odour of midnight oil, had nearly expired, when it was renewed
by a single volume, written with flowing pen and careless grace, but
overlooked and underrated for nearly two centuries.
Although scarcely essential to a just appreciation of the book
before us, we shall cursorily sketch the career of Esprit Fléchier,
esteemed one of the ablest of French pulpit orators,--one of the most
kind-hearted and virtuous of French prelates. Born in 1632, in the
county of Avignon, he early assumed the sacerdotal garb, and obtained
occupation as teacher of rhetoric. At the age of eight-and-twenty,
business resulting from the death of a relation having taken him to
Paris, he conceived an affection for that capital and remained there.
Having no fortune of his own, he was fain to earn a modest subsistence
by teaching the catechism to parish children. Already, when professing
rhetoric at Narbonne, he had given indication of the oratorical talents
that were subsequently to procure him the highest dignities of the
church, the favour of a great king, and the enthusiastic admiration
of a Sévigné. At Paris he busied himself with the composition of
Latin verses, for which he had a remarkable talent, and celebrated in
graceful hexameters the successes and virtues of ministers, princes,
and kings. The peace concluded with Spain by Mazarine, the future
prospects of the dauphin of France, the splendid tournament held by
the youthful Louis, in turn afforded subjects for the display of his
elegant Latinity. Fléchier had the true instinct of the courtier,
exempt from fawning sycophancy, and tempered by the dignity of his
sacred profession. And when he condescended to flatter, it was with
delicacy and adroitness. Ambitious of the patronage of the Duke of
Montausier, he knew how to obtain it by a judicious independence of
tone and deportment, more pleasing to that nobleman than the most
insinuating flattery. A constant guest in the Salon Rambouillet, he
made good his place amongst the wits frequenting it, and when its
presiding genius expired, it fell to him to speak its funeral oration.
This was the commencement of his fame. From the hour of that brilliant
harangue, his progress was rapid to the pinnacle of royal favour and
priestly dignity. Unanimously elected member of the academy, he became
almoner to the dauphiness, and was long the favourite court preacher,
petted by the king and by Madame de Maintenon. His nomination as bishop
was delayed longer than the high favour he enjoyed seemed to justify.
At last, in 1685, he received his appointment to the see of Lavaur. The
words with which Louis XIV. accompanied it, were characteristic of the
selfish and smooth-spoken sovereign. "Be not surprised at my tardiness
in rewarding your great merits: I could not sooner resolve to resign
the pleasure of hearing you." His promotion to the bishopric of Nismes
followed two years later, and there he founded the academy, and abode
in the constant practice of all Christian virtues, until his death,
which occurred in 1710, five years sooner than that of his royal patron
and admirer. This provincial residence could hardly have been a matter
of inclination to one who had so long basked in the warm sunshine
of court favour. But the self-imposed duty was well and cheerfully
performed. And we find the mild and unambitious churchman deprecating
the benefits showered on him by the king. "It is a great proof your
goodness," he wrote to Louis, when appointed to the rich and important
see of Nismes, "that you leave me nothing to ask but a diminution of
your favours." Strict in his own religious tenets, he was tolerant of
those of others, and more than once, during the cruel persecutions
of the Huguenots, his sacerdotal mantle was extended to shield the
unhappy fanatics from the raging sabres of their pitiless foes. "He
died," says St Simon, "distinguished for his learning, his works, his
morals, and for a truly episcopal life. Although very old, he was much
regretted and mourned throughout all Languedoc."