Let us now turn to the Knight of Gwynne, who, wounded and bleeding,
was carried along in the torrent of the retreat. Poor fellow, he had
witnessed the total slaughter or capture of the gallant band he had so
bravely led into action but a few hours before, and now, with one arm
powerless, and a sabre-cut in the side, could barely keep up with the
hurried steps of the flying army.
From the few survivors among his followers, not one of whom was
unwounded, he received every proof of affectionate devotion. If they
were proud of the gallant old officer as their leader, they actually
loved him like a father. The very last incident of their struggle was
an effort to cut through the closing ranks of the French, and secure his
escape; and although one of the Volunteers almost lifted him into the
saddle, from which he had torn the rider, Darcy would not leave his
comrades, but cried out, “What signifies a prisoner more or less, lads?
The victory is ours; let that console us.” The brave fellow who had
perilled his life for his leader was cut down at the same instant. Darcy
saw him bleeding and disarmed, and had but time to throw him his last
pistol, when he was driven onward, and, in the mingled confusion of the
movement, beheld him no more.
The exasperation of a defeat so totally unlooked for had made the French
almost savage in their vindictiveness, and nothing but the greatest
efforts on the part of the officers could have saved the prisoners from
the cruel vengeance of the infuriated soldiery. As it was, insulting
epithets, oaths, and obnoxious threats met them at every moment of
the halt; and at each new success of the British their fury broke out
afresh, accompanied by menacing gestures that seemed to dare and defy
every fear of discipline.
Darcy, whom personal considerations were ever the last to influence,
smiled at these brutal demonstrations, delighted at heart to witness
such palpable evidence of insubordination in the enemy; nor could he, in
the very midst of outrages which perilled his life, avoid comparing to
his followers the French troops of former days with these soldiers of
the Republic. “I remember them at Quebec,” said he, “under Montcalm.
It may be too much to say that the spirit of a monarchy had imparted a
sense of chivalry to its defenders, but certainly it is fair to think
that the bloody orgies of a revolutionary capital have made a ruffian
and ruthless soldiery.”
Nor was this the only source of consolation open; for he beheld on every
side of him, in the disorder of the force, the moral discouragement
of the army, and the meagre preparations made for the defence of
Alexandria. Wounded and weary, he took full note of these various
circumstances, and made them the theme of encouragement to his
companions in captivity. “There is little here, lads,” said he, “to
make us fear a long imprisonment. The gallant fellows, whose watch-fires
crown yonder hills, will soon bivouac here. All these preparations
denote haste and inefficiency. These stockades will offer faint
resistance, their guns seem in many instances unserviceable, and from
what we have seen of their infantry to-day, we need never fear the issue
of a struggle with them.”
In the brief intervals of an occasional halt, he lost no opportunity
of remarking the appearance of the enemy's soldiery,--their bearing and
their equipment,--and openly communicated to his comrades his opinion
that the French army was no longer the formidable force it had been
represented to be, and that the first heavy reverse would be its
dismemberment. In all the confidence a foreign language suggests, he
spoke his mind freely and without reserve, not sparing the officers in
his criticisms, which now and then took a form of drollery that drew
laughter from the other prisoners. It was at the close of some remark of
this kind, and while the merriment had not yet subsided, that a French
major, who had more than once shown interest for the venerable old
soldier, rode close up to his side, and whispered a few words of
friendly caution in his ear, while by an almost imperceptible gesture he
pointed to a group of prisoners who accompanied the Knight's party, and
persisted in pressing close to where he walked. These were four dragoons
of Hompesch's regiment, then serving with the British army, but a
corps which had taken no part in the late action. Darcy could not help
wondering at their capture,--a feeling not devoid of distrust, as he
remarked that neither their dress nor accoutrements bore any trace
of the fierce struggle, while their manner exhibited a degree of rude
assurance and effrontery, rather than the regretful feelings of men
taken prisoners.
Darcy's attention was not permitted to dwell much more on the
circumstance, for at the same instant the column was halted, in order
that the wounded might pass on; and in the sad spectacle that now
presented itself, all memory of his own griefs was merged. The
procession was a long one, and seemed even more so than it was, from
the frequent halts in front, the road being choked up by tumbrels and
wagons, all confusedly mixed up in the hurry of retreat. Night was now
falling fast, but still there was light enough to descry the ghastly
looks of the poor fellows, suffering in every variety of agony. Some
sought vent to their tortures by shouts and cries of pain; others
preserved a silence that seemed from their agonized features an effort
as dreadful as the very wounds themselves; many were already mad with
suffering, and sang and blasphemed, with shrieks of mingled recklessness
and misery. What a terrible reverse to the glory of war, and how far
deeper into the heart do such scenes penetrate than all the triumphs the
most successful campaign has ever gathered! While Darcy still gazed on
this sad sight, he was gently touched on the arm by the same officer who
had addressed him before, saying, “There is an English soldier here among
the wounded, who wishes to speak with you; it is against my orders to
permit it, but be brief and cautious.” With a motion to a litter some
paces in the rear, the officer moved on to his place in the column, nor
waited for any reply.
The Knight lost not a second in profiting by the kind suggestion, but in
the now thickening, gloom it was some time before he could discover
the object of his search. At length he caught sight of the well-known
uniform of his corps,--the blue jacket slashed with silver,--as it was
thrown loosely over the figure, and partly over the face of a wounded
soldier. Gently removing it, he gazed with steadfastness at the pale and
bloodless countenance of a young and handsome man, who with half-closed
eyelids lay scarcely breathing before him. “Do you know me, my poor
fellow?” whispered Darcy, bending down over him,--“do you know me? For I
feel as if we should know each other well, and had met before this.” The
wounded man met his glance with a look of kind acknowledgment, but made
no effort to speak; a faint sigh broke from him, as with a tremulous
hand he pushed back the jacket and showed a terrible bayonet-stab in
the chest, from which at each respiration the blood welled out in florid
rivulets.
“Where is the surgeon?” said Darcy, to the soldier beside the litter.
“He is here, Monsieur,” said a sharp-looking man, who, without coat and
with shirt-sleeves tucked up, came hastily forward.
“Can you look to this poor fellow for me?” whispered Darcy, while he
pressed into the not unwilling hand of the doctor a somewhat weighty
purse.
“We can do little more thau put a pad on a wounded vessel just now,”
said the surgeon, as with practised coolness he split up with a scissors
the portions of dress around the wound. “When we have them once housed
in the hospital--Parbleu!” cried he, interrupting himself, “this is a
severe affair.”
Darcy turned away while the remorseless fingers of the surgeon probed
the gaping incision, and then whispered low, “Can he recover?”
“Ah! _mon Dieu!_ who knows? There is enough mischief here to kill half
a squadron; but some fellows get through anything. If we had him in
a quiet chamber of the Faubourg, with a good nurse, and all still
and tranquil about him, there 's no saying; but here, with some seven
hundred others,--many as bad, some worse than himself,--the chances
are greatly against him. Come, however, we'll do our best for him.” So
saying, he proceeded to pass ligatures on some bleeding arteries; and
although speaking rapidly all the while, his motions were even still
more quick and hurried. “How old is he?” asked the surgeon, suddenly, as
he gazed attentively at the youth.
“I can't tell you,” said Darcy. “He belonged to my own corps, and by the
lace on his jacket, I see, must have been a Volunteer; but I shame to
say I don't remember even his name.” “He knows _you_, then,” replied
the doctor, who, with the shrewd perception of his craft, watched the
working of the sick man's features. “Is't not so?” said he, stooping
down and speaking with marked distinctness. “You know your colonel?”
A gesture, too faint to be called a nod of the head, and a slight motion
of the eyebrows, seemed to assent to this question; and Darcy, whose
laboring faculties struggled to bring up some clew to the memory of a
face he was convinced he had known before, was about to speak again,
when a mounted orderly, with a led horse beside him, rode up to the
spot, and looking round for a few seconds, as if in search of some one,
said,--
“The English colonel, I believe?” The Knight nodded. “You are to
mount this horse, sir,” continued the orderly, “and proceed to the
head-quarters at once.”
The doctor whispered a few hasty sentences, and while promising to
bestow his greatest care upon the sick man, assured Darcy that at the
head-quarters he would soon obtain admission of the wounded Volunteer
into the officers' hospital. Partly comforted by this, and partly
yielding to what he knew was the inevitable course of fortune, the
Knight took a farewell look of his follower, and mounted the horse
provided for him.
Darcy was too much engrossed by the interest of the wounded soldier's
case to think much on what might await himself; nor did he notice for
some time that they had left the high-road by which the troops were
marching for a narrower causeway, leading, as it seemed, not into, but
at one side of Alexandria. It mattered so little to him, however, which
way they followed, that he paid no further attention, nor was he aware
of their progress, till they entered a little mud-built village, which
swarmed with dogs, and miserable-looking half-clothed Arabs.
“How do they call this village?” said the Knight, speaking now for the
first time to his guide.
“El Etscher,” replied the soldier; “and here we halt” At the same moment
he dismounted at the door of a low, mean-looking house; and having
ushered Darcy into a small room dimly lighted by a lamp, departed.
The Knight listened to the sharp tramp of the horses' feet as they moved
away; and when they had gone beyond hearing, the silence that followed
fell heavily and drearily on his spirits. After sitting for some time in
expectation of seeing some one sent after him, he arose and went to the
door, but there now stood a sentry posted. He returned at once within
the room, and partly overcome by fatigue, and partly from the confusion
of his own harassed thoughts, he leaned his head on the table and slept
soundly.
“Pardon, Monsieur le colonel,” said a voice at his ear, as, some hours
later in the night, he was awakened from his slumbers. “You will be
pleased to follow me.” Darcy looked up and beheld a young officer, who
stood respectfully before him; and though for a second or so he could
not remember where he was, the memory soon came back, and without a word
he followed his conductor.
The officer led the way across a dirty, ill-paved courtyard, and
entered a building beyond it of greater size, but apparently not less
dilapidated than that they had quitted. From the hall, which was lighted
with a large lamp, they could perceive through an open door a range of
stables filled with horses; at the opposite side a door corresponding
with this one, at which a dragoon stood with his carbine on his arm. At
a word from the officer the soldier moved aside and permitted them to
enter.
The room into which they proceeded was large, but almost destitute
of furniture. A common deal table stood in the middle, littered with
military cloaks, swords, and shakos. In one corner was a screen, from
behind which the only light proceeded; and, with a gesture towards this,
the officer motioned Darcy to advance, while with noiseless footsteps he
himself withdrew.
Darcy moved forward, and soon came within the space enclosed by the
screen, and in front of an officer in a plain uniform, who was busily
engaged in writing. Maps, returns, printed orders, and letters lay
strewed about him, and in the small brazier of burning wood beside him
might be seen the charred remains of a great heap of papers. Darcy had
full a minute to contemplate the figure before him ere he was noticed.
The Frenchman was short and muscular, with a thick, bushy head of hair,
bald in the centre of the head. His features were full of intelligence
and quickness, but more unmistakably denoted violence of temper, and
the coarse nature of one not born to his present rank, which seemed, at
least, that of a field officer. His hands were covered with rings, but
their shape and color scarcely denoted that such ornaments were native
to them.
“Ha,--the English colonel,--sit down, sir,” said he to Darcy, pointing
to a chair without rising from his own. Darcy seated himself with the
easy composure of one who felt that in any situation his birth and
breeding made him unexceptionable company.
“I wished to see you, sir. I have received orders, that is,” said
he, speaking with the greatest rapidity, and a certain thickness of
utterance very difficult to follow, “to send for you here, and make
certain inquiries, your answers to which will entirely decide the
conduct of the Commander-in-Chief in your behalf. You are not aware,
perhaps, how completely you have put this in our power?”
“I suppose,” said Darcy, smiling, “my condition as a prisoner of war
makes me subject to the usual hardships of such a lot; but I am not
aware of anything, peculiar to my case, that would warrant you in
proposing even one question which a gentleman and a British officer
could refuse to answer.”
“There is exactly such an exception,” replied the Frenchman, hastily.
“The proofs are very easy, and nearer at hand than you think of.”
“You have certainly excited my curiosity, sir,” said the Knight, with
composure; “you will excuse my saying that the feeling is unalloyed by
any fear.”
“We shall see that presently,” said the French officer rising and
moving towards the door of an apartment which Darcy had not noticed.
“Auguste,” cried he, “is that report ready?” The answer was not audible
to the Knight. But the officer resumed, “No matter; it is sufficient for
our purpose.” And hastily taking a paper from the hands of a subaltern,
he returned to his place within the screen. “A gentleman so conversant
with our language, it would be absurd to suppose ignorant of our
institutions. Now, sir, to make a very brief affair of this, you have,
in contravention to a law passed in the second year of the Republic,
ventured to apply opprobrious epithets to the forces of France,
ridiculing the manner, bearing, and conduct of our troops, and
instituting comparison between the free citizens of a free state and
the miserable minions of a degraded monarchy. If a Frenchman,
your accusation, trial, and sentence would have probably been nigh
accomplished before this time. As a foreigner and a prisoner of war--”
“I conclude such remarks as I pleased to make were perfectly open to
me,” added Darcy, finishing the sentence.
“Then you admit the charge,” said the Frenchman eagerly, as if he had
succeeded in entrapping a confession.
“So far, sir, as the expressions of my poor judgment on the
effectiveness of your army, and its chances against such a force as
we have yonder, I am not only prepared to avow, but if you think the
remarks worth the trouble of hearing, to repeat them.”
“As a prisoner of war, sir, according to the eighty-fourth article
of the Code Militaire, the offence must be tried by a court-martial,
one-half of whose members shall have the same rank as the accused.”
“I ask nothing better, sir, nor will I ever believe that any man who has
carried a sword could deem the careless comments of a prisoner on what
he sees around him a question of crime and punishment.”
“I would advise you to reflect a little, sir, ere you suffer matters to
proceed so far. The witnesses against you--”
“The witnesses!” exclaimed the Knight, in amazement.
“Yes, sir, four dragoons of a German regiment, thoroughly conversant
with your language and ours, have deposed to the words--”
“I avow everything I have spoken, and am ready to abide by it.”
“Take care, sir,--take care.”
“Pardon me, sir,” said Darcy, with a look of quiet irony, “but it
strikes me that the exigencies of your army must be far greater than
I deemed them, or you had never had recourse to a system of attempted
intimidation.”
“You are in error there,” said the Frenchman. “It was the desire to
serve, not to injure you, suggested my present course. It remains with
yourself to show that my interest was not misplaced.”
“Let me understand you more clearly. What is expected of me?”
“The answers to questions which doubtless every countryman of yours
and mine could reply to from the public papers, but which, to us here,
remote from intercourse and knowledge, are matters of slow acquirement.”
While the French officer spoke, he continued to search among the papers
before him for some document, and at length, taking up a small slip of
paper, resumed: “For instance, the 'Moniteur' asserts that you meditate
sending a force from India to cross the Red Sea and the Desert, and
menace us by an attack in the rear as well as in the front. This reads
so like a fragment of an Oriental tale, that I can forgive the smile
with which you hear it.”
“Nay, sir; you have misinterpreted my meaning,” said the Knight, calmly.
“I am free to confess I thought this intelligence was no secret. The
form of our Government, the public discussions of our Houses, the
freedom of our press, are little favorable to mystery. If you have
nothing to ask of me more difficult to answer than this--”
“And the expedition of Acre,--is this also correct?”
“Perfectly so. A combined movement, which shall compel you to evacuate
the country, is in preparation.”
“_Parbleu_, sir,” said the Frenchman, stamping his foot with impatience,
“these are somewhat bold words for a man in your situation to one in
mine.”
“I fancy, sir, that circumstance affects the issue I allude to very
slightly indeed; even though the officer to whom I address myself should
be General Menou, the Commander-in-Chief.”
“And if I be, sir, and if you know it,” said Menou,--for it was he,--his
face suffused with anger, “is it consistent with the respect due to _my_
position and to _your own_ safety, to speak thus?”
“For the first, sir, although a mere surmise on my part, I humbly hope
I have made no transgression; for the last, I have very little reason to
feel any solicitude, knowing that if you hurt a hair of my head, a heavy
reprisal will await such of your own officers as may be taken, and the
events of yesterday may have told you that a contingency of this sort is
neither improbable nor remote.”
Menou made no answer to this threatening speech, but with folded arms
paced the apartment for several minutes. At length he turned hastily
round, and fixing his eyes on the Knight, said, with a rude oath, “You
are a fortunate man, sir, that you did not hold this language to my
predecessor in the command. General Kleber would have had you in front
of a _peloton_ of grenadiers within five minutes after you uttered it.”
“I have heard as much,” said the Knight, with a slight smile.
Menou rang a bell which stood beside him, and an aide-de-camp entered.
“Captain le Messurier,” said he, in the ordinary tone of discipline,
“this officer is under arrest. You will take the necessary steps for
his safe keeping, and his due appearance when summoned before a military
tribunal.”
He bowed to Darcy as he spoke, and, reseating himself at the table, took
up his pen to write.
“At the hazard of being thought very hardy, sir,” said the Knight, as he
moved towards the door, “I would humbly solicit a favor.”
“A favor!” exclaimed Menou, staring in surprise.
“Yes, sir; it is that the services of a surgeon should be promptly
rendered--”
“I have given orders on that score already. My own medical man shall
attend to you.”
“I speak not of myself, sir. It is of a Volunteer of my corps, a
young man who now lies badly wounded; his case is not without hope, if
speedily looked to.”
“He must take his chance with others,” said the general, gruffly, while
he made a gesture of leave-taking; and Darcy, unable to prolong the
interview, retired.
“I am sorry, sir,” said the aide-de-camp, as he went along, “that my
orders are peremptory, and you must, if the state of your health permit,
at once leave this.”
“Is it thus your prisoners of war are treated, sir?” said Darcy,
scornfully, “or am I to hope--for hope I do--that the exception is
created especially for me?”
The officer was silent; and although the flush of shame was on his
cheek, the severe demands of duty overcame all personal feelings, and he
did not dare to answer.
The Knight was not one of those on whom misfortune can press, without
eliciting in return the force of resistance, and, if not forgetting,
at least combating, the indignities to which he had been subjected; he
resigned himself patiently to his destiny, and after a brief delay set
forth for his journey to Akrish, which he now learned was to be the
place of his confinement.