"THE LITTLE WOOD AT ENTZHEIM."
The summer had almost passed and the early autumn come ere that other
battle which had been so long impending between the French and the
Imperialists seemed at last about to take place. For the Duke de
Bournonville had crossed the Rhine once more and was known to be
meditating the siege of Philipsburg, while Turenne, who had been
watching every movement of the enemy, at last made up his mind that he
would try conclusions with him, although the other was twenty thousand
men stronger than he. For he knew that, while this enemy was thus
double his own force of about twenty-two thousand men, it must soon be
treble, since now the Elector of Brandenburg was marching to join the
Austrian general with still another twenty thousand men.
The time had come! He must prevent that coalition or see Franche-Comté
and Lorraine torn away from Louis' grasp almost ere it had tightened
on them; Champagne devastated, even as he himself had devastated the
Palatinate; see Philipsburg lost. For if Brandenburg joined De
Bournonville all this and worse would happen, while the Electress and
other princesses who accompanied the Elector--saying in their
bitterness that they did so with a view to making the acquaintance
of the French aristocracy, and thereby acquiring their good
breeding--would, without doubt, have good opportunity for gratifying
their desire.
But it was October now, and at last--for Brandenburg was perilously
near with his twenty thousand men and his Electress and princesses--on
the second of the month the French army advanced. The night march
which was to bring the contending forces face to face had begun;
through a stormy, rainy night, over roads deep with pools of rain and
mud, the departure was made.
Ahead of the Marshal there marched the "King's" and "Queen's" dragoons
and those of Listenai, with, riding by the side of the third troop of
these, Debrasques, his corselet on now, and, above his fair but
troubled face, his helmet; behind Turenne came the infantry commanded
by Mont-Georges, with, amongst it, Churchill's regiment, which had
just joined from Rhinzabern, then the artillery under St. Hilaire--all
marching in three columns. And, riding near Turenne ahead of the man
who had sworn to kill him, was De Bois-Vallée, with his left arm in a
sling, but not otherwise much incommoded by the sword-thrust he had
received six weeks before.
Of those three men round whom this narrative revolves, perhaps
Debrasques was the most unhappy; unhappy because, turn his eyes which
way he might, he saw nothing but misery ahead. It was borne in on him
that his cousin would inevitably fall by Andrew's hand unless the
impending battle removed him from the other's path--which, in truth,
would not grieve him much!--he was doubly unhappy because of those
last words which Andrew had uttered ere he set out for the defile of
Rhinzabern; the words: "Afterwards--the woman."
For he knew what Andrew had not the least thought of, namely, that,
base as had been De Bois-Vallée's treachery to Philip Vause, it was
nothing to the treachery which he had practised towards the woman
Philip had loved, towards Marion Wyatt.
Yet, knowing what Debrasques did, he himself did not know all.
* * * * * *
Splashing through the miry roads, the rain beating down upon their
cloaks, their horses stumbling into ruts a foot deep, wheels of gun
carriages getting stuck fast in the mud and shoes being torn from of
the feet of the infantry, that night-march was continued until at last
a river called the Breusch was reached at four on the next afternoon,
and there, on the other side of it, in a half-moon position, the
Imperial army was seen. And all through that night-march one question
had troubled the lad far more than any inconvenience which he shared
with thousands of others, the question: "Shall I tell him all I know?
To-morrow, when the battle is over and if we three are all left alive,
or to-day, ere the fight begins and while there is still time?" And he
decided that it should be to-day; to-morrow might be too late. He
himself might be dead, and then the light he could throw on all that
had happened--a light which, at least, might shield Marion Wyatt from
Andrew Vause's vengeance--would never be cast. Yes, he must reach
Andrew somehow before the conflict began, if possible; must say one
word to him that would save the woman. As for his cousin, he was a
villain; he must take his chance. He had done his best for him because
his own mother's blood ran in his veins, had tried to frighten him
away from the neighbourhood of Andrew, and the other had refused to
go. Nay, had he not threatened to expose him to the King so as to
drive him away? but even as he made the threat he knew he would never
carry it out. Base as De Bois-Vallée was, he was a soldier; it was his
career, and he had won golden opinions from Turenne by his conduct in
this campaign and others. He could not be equally base and shut that
career against him. In spite of all, he was his kinsman.
But the chance had not come for him to communicate with Andrew, when,
at nightfall, and with the whole French army sheltered from the
Imperialists, not only by the darkness, but also by the incessant rain
and mist, the passage of the Breusch was commenced, and when gradually
the distance between the enemy and the river--a plain of about a mile
and a half in extent, which had foolishly been left unoccupied by De
Bournonville--was filled with Turenne's army. Thus, when the day
broke, foggy and wet as ever, the two enemies were facing each
other--the French with the river at their backs, and the Germans with
a large wood serving as cover on their right and a smaller wood on
their left, and with the village of Entzheim between them and the foe.
But if, by the time the filthy day had dawned, the Imperialists had
not found out that they were face to face with France once more, and
that the Elector of Brandenburg would be of no service to them here,
they discovered it soon, for from their enemy's position there rose
now the cheering of twenty thousand voices as Turenne rode along in
front of his first line, and, with an air of gaiety which he always
possessed on the day of battle, waved his hand and hat to them, and
gave the order to advance, the Little Wood being the spot principally
subjected to attack. And among those who first reached that wood was
Debrasques, the "King's" dragoons and those of Listenai being sent
forward to clear it of the enemy. Shortly the battle became general.
Meanwhile Turenne, who was everywhere, saw that his cavalry was driven
back by numbers of the other side who were in possession of the wood,
and instantly gave the order for the infantry of the left to advance,
amongst those who went forward being the regiments of Churchill and
Monmouth.
The chance Debrasques desired so much of communication with Andrew was
coming near!
Avoiding the interior or middle part of the "Little Wood"--where were
three battalions of the enemy with two pieces of cannon--there went
forward the regiments of Burgundy and Orleans, the "King's" dragoons
and Monmouth's foot, after which followed Debrasques' regiment, it
being separated only from Churchill's by the men of Languedoc. And,
sweeping round to the left to prevent the enemy's troops from coming
to the assistance of those who were already in possession of the wood,
the whole of Turenne's right line advanced, while the left was engaged
with Caprara's right.
And now the fight in the "Little Wood," as it was ever afterwards
called, became a scene of terrible slaughter, a scene made doubly so
by the downpour of rain which fell incessantly all that day, by the
fog and mist which surrounded and hid Austrians from French, and by
the vomiting of the cannons. Twice the French obtained possession of
the wood, and twice were driven out--for half an hour the battle
ceased, so thick did the fog become; then, at last, when once more the
whole of the left went at the wood again, the possession of it became
assured for the attackers.
Amidst the scene of carnage, none fought more bravely on that day than
two Englishmen, Churchill and Andrew Vause. From the first, in that
high-pitched, aristocratic voice, which, later on in his life, was to
give the orders that should for ever crush the might of the French
king under whom he now fought as an auxiliary, was issued command
after command. From the other, tall, stalwart, grim, his big sword
grasped as easily as, not long before, his rapier had been, was dealt
forth blow after blow against Austrian, Bavarian, Luneburger, and
Holsteiner; while over their prostrate bodies he, in company with
others, leapt to find fresh foes. And in a pause, as still he and his
comrades swept their way into the fringe of the wood, he heard above
him a quiet voice exclaim, "Well done, my handsome Englishmen. Well
done," and looking up at the horseman above him--a broad-shouldered,
short-necked man, whose morose countenance belied his words--Andrew
recognized Turenne. But a moment later he was gone, riding all along
the advancing line to utter encouragement to other regiments.
And now the charge was ordered for what was to be, happily, the last
time, when rushing down through the open ranks of the infantry went
the dragoons, while amongst them Andrew recognized the fair hair of
Debrasques, as, without covering to his head, he flew by.
"Bravo, Debrasques! Bravo!" shouted Andrew, and the boy, turning his
face, saw his friend. Then he waved his sword and vanished into the
gloom around.
The darkness was growing more intense, there was something more than
fog and mist enveloping them, they knew that the October evening was
at hand by the time the fight was done, and when, from neither little
nor great wood, nor from where the village of Entzheim lay, came aught
but desultory firing.
"The battle is over," said Churchill as he passed Andrew; "they say we
have lost two thousand men, and the enemy double."
"They are still firing," muttered the other, leaning against a tree to
take breath.
"Nay, 'tis our side firing their own cannon at them. They are in full
retreat and have left their big guns behind. Hark! there is the
recall!" and he went on to muster his men together.
"I must find the boy," Andrew said to himself. "Find how he has worn
through this day," and making his way over heaps of slain he went
towards where Listenai's dragoons had plunged into the wood for the
last time.
And at last he found him, when there was but a little light left;
when, indeed, there would have been none had not the fog cleared away
suddenly and the rain ceased, leaving what remained of daylight clear.
He found him amidst a heap of his own dragoons, who lay where they had
fallen, some above and some across their dead horses, some beneath
them, and some kicked to death by the animals in their agonized
struggles. Found him with his back against his own horse, which lay
dead on the ground with half its head blown away by a cannon ball, and
with his eyes staring wildly in front of him, though, as Andrew
thought, seeing nothing.
Of others of that regiment there were none about, except the dead and
the dying--'twas evident that they had made their way through the
wood, driving before them the Imperialists who had earlier had
possession of it; perhaps, indeed, had followed them in their flight.
"My boy," said Andrew, going up to him, and kneeling down by his side,
"this is a sad sight. Debrasques, what ails you? Are you sorely
wounded?" And, as he spoke, he slung a small canteen round that he
carried on his back, and, uncorking it, moistened the Marquis's lips
with some drops of spirit which he produced.
At first the other could not answer, and, meanwhile, Andrew was
looking him all over to see where any wound might be, but finding
none--when, at last, after he had decided that the Marquis must be
hurt inwardly by some tremendous blow--perhaps from one of the
horses--the other spoke in a faint voice and said--
"Captain Vause--I--think--my back is broken by the fall. The horse
fell on me."
"Nay, not so bad as that," whispered Andrew, "not so bad as that, pray
God. Yet, courage, _mon ami_, there will soon be some coming this way.
And if not, why I will carry you," and he set about undoing the
other's back and breast piece so as to give him more freedom.
"I cannot move," the boy replied feebly. "I think I am dying. Oh! my
mother."
"Nay, nay," repeated Andrew. "Nay. Heart up."
But still the young man's voice grew more and more feeble, and now he
seemed wandering in his speech.
"I--I--meant to tell you much if I had lived. I must speak now.
The--she--the woman we know of was----"
"What?" asked Andrew quickly, catching his breath. He knew, something
told him, that the woman to whom the other referred could be one
only--Marion Wyatt. "What was she?"
"She was--ah, God! Look there!" and, with a strange glance of
agitation in his eyes, he glared towards the wood. Following that
glance, Andrew saw what had so unnerved the other.
For, coming from out the wood, urging his horse to its greatest pace,
though it was sadly blown, there rode swiftly De Bois-Vallée, hatless
and the sling from his wounded arm hanging loose, while as he left the
wood he was calling back orders to some whom doubtless he imagined
were still there. And Andrew knew that, as one of Turenne's
_aides-de-camp_, he had been sent out with instructions to the various
scattered regiments.
At first he evidently recognized neither Debrasques nor Vause, and was
going as swiftly by as he could, and as all the impediments of dead
men and animals would permit, but as Andrew sprang to his feet,
intent, not on renewing his feud with him at such a moment as this,
but on summoning him to the assistance of his dying cousin, he saw him
plainly in the now clear evening light. And, even as he observed who
was before him, the Marquis, with his brain becoming evidently more
and more disordered, shouted out in a voice that seemed to have
acquired unnatural strength at this crisis--
"Traitor! scoundrel! I have told him all," and then sank back, either
dead or senseless, against his horse's side.