Chapter 2: Terrible News.
Chapter 3: Death To The Spy!
Chapter 4: Starting For The Vosges.
Chapter 5: The First Engagement.
Chapter 6: The Tunnel Of Saverne.
Chapter 7: A Baffled Project.
Chapter 8: The Traitor.
Chapter 9: A Desperate Fight.
Chapter 10: The Bridge Of The Vesouze.
Chapter 11: A Fight In The Vosges.
Chapter 12: The Surprise.
Chapter 13: The Escape.
Chapter 14: A Perilous Expedition.
Chapter 15: The Expedition.
Chapter 16: A Desperate Attempt.
Chapter 17: A Balloon Voyage.
Chapter 18: A Day Of Victory.
Chapter 19: Down At Last.
Chapter 20: Crossing The Lines.
Chapter 21: Home.
Illustrations
Rescue of a Supposed Spy.
Among the German Soldiers.
The Children on the Battlefield.
The Sea! The Sea!
Preface.
My Dear Lads,
The present story was written and published a few months, only,
after the termination of the Franco-German war. At that time the
plan--which I have since carried out in The Young Buglers, Cornet
of Horse, and In Times of Peril, and which I hope to continue, in
further volumes--of giving, under the guise of historical tales,
full and accurate accounts of all the leading events of great wars,
had not occurred to me. My object was only to represent one phase
of the struggle--the action of the bodies of volunteer troops known
as franc tireurs.
The story is laid in France and is, therefore, written from the
French point of view. The names, places, and dates have been
changed; but circumstances and incidents are true. There were a
good many English among the franc tireurs, and boys of from fifteen
to sixteen were by no means uncommon in their ranks. Having been
abroad during the whole of the war, I saw a good deal of these
irregulars, and had several intimate friends amongst them. Upon the
whole, these corps did much less service to the cause of France
than might have been reasonably expected. They were too often badly
led, and were sometimes absolutely worse than useless.
But there were brilliant exceptions, and very many of those daring
actions were performed which--while requiring heroism and courage
of the highest kind--are unknown to the world in general, and find
no place in history. Many of the occurrences in this tale are
related, almost in the words in which they were described to me, by
those who took part in them; and nearly every fact and circumstance
actually occurred, according to my own knowledge. Without aspiring
to the rank of a history, however slight, the story will give you a
fair idea of what the life of the franc tireurs was, and of what
some of them actually went through, suffered, and performed.
Yours sincerely,
The Author.
Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.
The usually quiet old town of Dijon was in a state of excitement.
There were groups of people in the streets; especially round the
corners, where the official placards were posted up. Both at the
Prefecture and the Maine there were streams of callers, all day.
Every functionary wore an air of importance, and mystery; and
mounted orderlies galloped here and there, at headlong speed. The
gendarmes had twisted their mustaches to even finer points than
usual, and walked about with the air of men who knew all about the
matter, and had gone through more serious affairs than this was
likely to be.
In the marketplace, the excitement and buzz of conversation were at
their highest. It was the market day, and the whole area of the
square was full. Never, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had
such a market been seen in Dijon. For the ten days preceding,
France had been on the tiptoe of expectation; and every peasant's
wife and daughter, for miles round the town, had come with their
baskets of eggs, fowls, or fruits, to attend the market and to hear
the news. So crowded was it, that it was really difficult to move
about. People were not, however, unmindful of bargains--for the
French peasant woman is a thrifty body, and has a shrewd eye to
sous--so the chaffering and haggling, which almost invariably
precede each purchase, went on as briskly as usual but, between
times, all thoughts and all tongues ran upon the great event of the
day.
It was certain--quite certain, now--that there was to be war with
Prussia. The newspapers had said so, for some days; but then, bah!
who believes a newspaper? Monsieur le Prefect had published the
news, today; and everyone knows that Monsieur le Prefect is not a
man to say a thing, unless it were true. Most likely the Emperor,
himself, had written to him. Oh! There could be no doubt about it,
now.
It was singular to hear, amidst all the talk, that the speculation
and argument turned but little upon the chances of the war, itself;
it being tacitly assumed to be a matter of course that the Germans
would be defeated, with ease, by the French. The great subject of
speculation was upon the points which directly affected the
speakers. Would the Mobiles be called out, and forced to march;
would soldiers who had served their time be recalled to the
service, even if they were married; and would next year's
conscripts be called out, at once? These were the questions which
everyone asked, but no one could answer. In another day or two, it
was probable that the orders respecting these matters would arrive
and, in the meantime, the merry Burgundian girls endeavored to hide
their own uneasiness by laughingly predicting an early summons to
arms to the young men of their acquaintance.
At the Lycee--or great school--the boys are just coming out. They
are too excited to attend to lessons, and have been released hours
before their usual time. They troop out from the great doors,
talking and gesticulating. Their excitement, however, takes a
different form to that which that of English boys would do, under
the same circumstances. There was no shouting, no pushing, no
practical jokes. The French boy does not play; at least, he does
not play roughly. When young he does, indeed, sometimes play at
buchon--a game something similar to the game of buttons, as played
by English street boys. He may occasionally play at marbles but,
after twelve years of age, he puts aside games as beneath him.
Prisoners' base, football, and cricket are alike unknown to him;
and he considers any exertion which would disarrange his hair, or
his shirt collar, as barbarous and absurd. His amusements are
walking in the public promenade, talking politics with the gravity
of a man of sixty, and discussing the local news and gossip.
This is the general type of French school boy. Of course, there are
many exceptions and, in the Lycee of Dijon, these were more
numerous than usual. This was due, to a great extent, to the
influence of the two boys who are coming out of the school, at the
present moment. Ralph and Percy Barclay are--as one can see at
first sight--English; that is to say, their father is English, and
they have taken after him, and not after their French mother. They
are French born, for they first saw the light at the pretty cottage
where they still live, about two miles out of the town; but their
father, Captain Barclay, has brought them up as English boys, and
they have been for two years at a school in England.
Their example has had some effect. Their cousins, Louis and
Philippe Duburg, are almost as fond of cricket, and other games,
and of taking long rambles for miles round, as they are themselves.
Other boys have also taken to these amusements and, consequently,
you would see more square figures, more healthy faces at the Lycee
at Dijon than at most other French schools. The boys who joined in
these games formed a set in themselves, apart from the rest. They
were called either the English set or, contemptuously, the
"savages;" but this latter name was not often applied to them
before their faces, for the young Barclays had learned to box, in
England; and their cousins, as well as a few of the others, had
practised with the gloves with them. Consequently, although the
"savages" might be wondered at, and sneered at behind their backs,
the offensive name was never applied in their hearing.
At the present moment, Ralph Barclay was the center of a knot of
lads of his own age.
"And so, you don't think that we shall get to Berlin, Ralph
Barclay? You think that these Prussian louts are going to beat the
French army? Look now, it is a little strong to say that, in a
French town."
"But I don't say that, at all," Ralph Barclay said. "You are
talking as if it was a certainty that we were going to march over
the Prussians. I simply say, don't be too positive. There can be no
doubt about the courage of the French army; but pluck, alone, won't
do. The question is, are our generals and our organization as good
as those of the Prussians? And can we put as many, or anything like
as many, men into the field? I am at least half French, and hope
with all my heart that we shall thrash these Germans; but we know
that they are good soldiers, and it is safer not to begin to brag,
till the work is over."
There was silence, for a minute or two, after Ralph ceased
speaking. The fact was, the thought that perhaps France might be
defeated had never once, before, presented itself to them as
possible. They were half disposed to be angry with the English boy
for stating it; but it was in the first place, evident now that
they thought of it, that it was just possible and, in the second
place, a quarrel with Ralph Barclay was a thing which all his
schoolfellows avoided.
Ralph Barclay was nearly sixteen, his brother a year younger. Their
father, Captain Barclay, had lost a leg in one of the innumerable
wars in India, two or three years before the outbreak of the
Crimean war. He returned to England, and was recommended by his
doctors to spend the winter in the south of France. This he did
and, shortly after his arrival at Pau, he had fallen in love with
Melanie Duburg; daughter of a landed proprietor near Dijon, and who
was stopping there with a relative. A month later he called upon
her father at Dijon and, in the spring, they were married. Captain
Barclay's half pay, a small private income, and the little fortune
which his wife brought him were ample to enable him to live
comfortably, in France; and there, accordingly, he had settled
down.
His family consisted of Ralph, Percy, and a daughter--called, after
her mother, Melanie, and who was two years younger than Percy. It
had always been Captain Barclay's intention to return to England,
when the time came for the boys to enter into some business or
profession; and he had kept up his English connection by several
visits there, of some months' duration, with his whole family. The
boys, too, had been for two years at school in England--as well as
for two years in Germany--and they spoke the three languages with
equal fluency.
A prettier abode than that of Captain Barclay would be difficult to
find. It was in no particular style of architecture, and would have
horrified a lover of the classic. It was half Swiss, half Gothic,
and altogether French. It had numerous little gables, containing
the funniest-shaped little rooms. It had a high roof, with
projecting eaves; and round three sides ran a wide veranda, with a
trellis work--over which vines were closely trained--subduing the
glare of the summer sun, casting a cool green shade over the
sitting rooms, and affording a pretty and delightfully cool
retreat; where Mrs. Barclay generally sat with her work and taught
Melanie, moving round the house with the sun, so as to be always in
the shade.
The drawing and dining rooms both opened into this veranda The road
came up to the back of the house; and upon the other three sides
was a garden, which was a compromise between the English and French
styles. It had a smooth, well-mown lawn, with a few patches of
bright flowers which were quite English; and mixed up among them,
and beyond them, were clumps of the graceful foliaged plants and
shrubs in which the French delight. Beyond was a vineyard, with its
low rows of vines while, over these, the view stretched away to the
towers of Dijon.
In the veranda the boys, upon their return, found Captain Barclay
reading the papers, and smoking. He looked up as they entered.
"You are back early, boys."
"Yes, papa, there was so much talking going on, that the professor
gave it up as hopeless. You have heard the news, of course?"
"Yes, boys, and am very sorry to hear it."
Captain Barclay spoke so gravely that Ralph asked, anxiously:
"Don't you think we shall thrash them, papa?"
"I consider it very doubtful, Ralph," his father said. "Prussia has
already gained an immense moral victory. She has chosen her own
time for war; and has, at the same time, obliged France to take the
initiative, and so to appear to be the aggressor--and therefore to
lose the moral support of Europe. She has forced this quarrel upon
France, and yet nine-tenths of Europe look upon France as the
inciter of the war. History will show the truth, but it will then
be too late. As it is, France enters upon the war with the weight
of public opinion dead against her and, what is worse, she enters
upon it altogether unprepared; whereas Prussia has been getting
ready, for years."
"But the French always have shown themselves to be better soldiers
than the Prussians, papa."
"So they have, Percy, and--equally well led, disciplined, and
organized--I believe that, in anything like equal forces, they
would do so again. The question is, have we generals to equal those
who led the Prussians to victory against Austria? Is our discipline
equal--or anything like equal--to that of the Prussians? Is our
organization as good as theirs? And lastly, have we anything like
their numbers?
"I don't like the look of it, boys, at all. We ought, according to
published accounts, to be able to put a larger army than theirs in
the field, just at first and, if we were but prepared, should
certainly be able to carry all before us, for a while. I question
very much if we are so prepared. Supposing it to be so, however,
the success would, I fear, be but temporary; for the German
reserves are greatly superior to ours. Discipline, too, has gone
off sadly, since I first knew the French army.
"Radical opinions may be very wise, and very excellent for a
nation, for aught I know; but it is certain that they are fatal to
the discipline of an army. My own opinion, as you know, is that
they are equally fatal for a country, but that is a matter of
opinion, only; but of the fact that a good Radical makes an
extremely bad soldier, I am quite clear, and the spread of Radical
opinion among the French army has been very great. Then, too, the
officers have been much to blame. They think of pleasure far more
than duty. They spend four times as much time in the cafes and
billiard rooms as they do in the drill ground. Altogether, in my
opinion, the French army has greatly gone off in all points--except
in courage which, being a matter of nationality, is probably as
high as ever. It is a bad lookout, boys--a very bad lookout.
"There, don't talk about it any more. I do not want to make your
mother unhappy. Remember not to express--either as my or your own
opinion--anything I have said, in the town. It would only render
you obnoxious, and might even cause serious mischief. If things go
wrong, French mobs are liable to wreak their bad temper on the
first comer."
"Percy," Mrs. Barclay said, coming into the room, "please to run
down to the end of the garden, and cut some lettuces for salad.
Marie is so upset that she can do nothing."
"What is the matter with her, mamma?" both the boys asked, at once.
"Victor Harve--you know him, the son of the blacksmith Harve, who
had served his time in the army, and came back two months ago to
join his father in his forge, and to marry our Marie--has left to
join his regiment. He was here, an hour since, to say goodbye. By
this time he will have started. It is not wonderful that she weeps.
She may never see him again. I have told her that she must be
brave. A Frenchwoman should not grudge those she loves most to
fight for France."
"Ah! Melanie," Captain Barclay said, smiling, "these little
patriotic outbursts are delightful, when one does not have to
practice them at one's own expense. 'It is sweet and right to die
for one's country,' said the old Roman, and everyone agrees with
him but, at the same time, every individual man has a strong
objection to put himself in the way of this sweet and proper death.
"Although, as you say, no Frenchwoman should grudge her love to her
country; I fancy, if a levee en masse took place, tomorrow, and the
boys as well as the cripples had to go--so that Ralph, Percy, and I
were all obliged to march--you would feel that you did grudge us to
the country, most amazingly."
Mrs. Barclay turned a little pale at the suggestion.
"Ah! I can't suppose that, Richard. You are English, and they
cannot touch you, or the boys; even if you could march, and if they
were old enough."
Captain Barclay smiled.
"That is no answer, Melanie. You are shirking the question. I said,
if they were to make us go."
"Ah, yes! I am afraid I should grudge you, Richard, and the boys,
except the enemy were to invade France; and then everyone, even we
women, would fight. But of that there is no chance. It is we who
will invade."
Captain Barclay made no reply.
"The plums want gathering, papa," Percy said, returning from
cutting the lettuces. "It was arranged that our cousins should come
over, when they were ripe, and have a regular picking. They have no
plums, and Madame Duburg wants them for preserving. May we go over
after dinner, and ask them to come in at three o'clock, and spend
the evening?"
"Certainly," Captain Barclay said; "and you can give your mamma's
compliments, and ask if your uncle and Madame Duburg will come in,
after they have dined. The young ones will make their dinner at our
six o'clock tea."
In France early dinner is a thing scarcely known, even among the
peasantry; that is to say, their meals are taken at somewhat the
same time as ours are, but are called by different names. The
Frenchman never eats what we call breakfast; that is, he never
makes a really heavy meal, the first thing in the morning. He
takes, however, coffee and milk and bread and butter, when he gets
up. He does not call this breakfast. He speaks of it as his morning
coffee; and takes his breakfast at eleven, or half-past eleven, or
even at twelve. This is a regular meal, with soup, meat, and wine.
In England it would be called an early lunch. At six o'clock the
Frenchman dines, and even the working man calls this meal--which an
English laborer would call supper--his dinner. The Barclays' meals,
therefore, differed more in name than in reality from those of
their neighbors.
Louis and Philippe Duburg came in at five o'clock, but brought a
message that their sisters would come in with their father and
mother, later. Melanie was neither surprised nor disappointed at
the non-arrival of her cousins. She greatly preferred being with
the boys, and always felt uncomfortable with Julie and Justine;
who, although little older than herself, were already as prim,
decorous, and properly behaved as if they had been women of thirty
years old. After tea was over, the four boys returned to their work
of gathering plums; while Melanie--or Milly, as her father called
her, to distinguish her from her mother--picked up the plums that
fell, handed up fresh baskets and received the full ones, and
laughed and chattered with her brothers and cousins.
While so engaged, Monsieur and Madame Duburg arrived, with their
daughters, Julie and Justine. Monsieur Duburg--Mrs. Barclay's
brother--was proprietor of a considerable estate, planted almost
entirely with vines. His income was a large one, for the soil was
favorable, and he carried on the culture with such care and
attention that the wines fetched a higher price than any in the
district. He was a clear-headed, sensible man, with a keen eye to a
bargain. He was fond of his sister and her English husband, and had
offered no opposition to his boys entering into the games and
amusements of their cousins--although his wife was constantly
urging him to do so. It was, to Madame Duburg, a terrible thing
that her boys--instead of being always tidy and orderly, and ready,
when at home, to accompany her for a walk--should come home
flushed, hot, and untidy, with perhaps a swelled cheek or a black
eye, from the effects of a blow from a cricket ball or boxing
glove.
Upon their arrival at Captain Barclay's, the two gentlemen strolled
out to smoke a cigar together, and to discuss the prospects of the
war and its effect upon prices.
Mrs. Barclay had asked Julie and Justine if they would like to go
down to the orchard; but Madame Duburg had so hurriedly answered in
their name, in a negative--saying that they would stroll round the
garden until Melanie returned--that Mrs. Barclay had no resource
but to ask them, when they passed near the orchard, to call
Milly--in her name--to join them in the garden.
"My dear Melanie," Madame Duburg began, when her daughters had
walked away in a quiet, prim manner, hand in hand, "I was really
quite shocked, as we came along. There was Melanie, laughing and
calling out as loudly as the boys themselves, handing up baskets
and lifting others down, with her hair all in confusion, and
looking--excuse my saying so--more like a peasant girl than a young
lady."
Mrs. Barclay smiled quietly.
"Milly is enjoying herself, no doubt, sister-in-law; and I do not
see that her laughing, or calling out, or handing baskets will do
her any serious harm. As for her hair, five minutes' brushing will
set that right."
"But, my dear sister-in-law," Madame Duburg said, earnestly, "do
you recall to yourself that Milly is nearly fourteen years old;
that she will soon be becoming a woman, that in another three years
you will be searching for a husband for her? My faith, it is
terrible--and she has yet no figure, no manner;" and Madame Duburg
looked, with an air of gratified pride, at the stiff figures of her
own two girls.
"Her figure is not a bad one, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said,
composedly; "she is taller than Julie--who is six months her
senior--she is as straight as an arrow. Her health is admirable;
she has never had a day's illness."
"But she cannot walk; she absolutely cannot walk!" Madame Duburg
said, lifting up her hands in horror.
"She walked upwards of twelve miles with her father, yesterday,"
Mrs. Barclay said, pretending to misunderstand her sister-in-law's
meaning.
"I did not mean that," Madame Duburg said, impatiently, "but she
walks like a peasant girl. My faith, it is shocking to say, but she
walks like a boy. I should be desolated to see my daughter step out
in that way.
"Then, look at her manners. My word, she has no manners at all. The
other day when I was here, and Monsieur de Riviere with his sons
called, she was awkward and shy; yes, indeed, she was positively
awkward and shy. It is dreadful for me to have to say so,
sister-in-law, but it is true. No manners, no ease! Julie, and even
Justine, can receive visitors even as I could do, myself."
"Her manners are not formed yet, sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said,
quietly, "nor do I care that they should be. She is a young girl at
present, and I do not wish to see her a woman before her time. In
three years it will be time enough for her to mend her manners."
"But in three years, sister-in-law, you will be looking for a
husband for her."
"I shall be doing nothing of the sort," Mrs. Barclay said,
steadily. "In that, as in many other matters, I greatly prefer the
English ways. As you know, we give up our house in two years, and
go to England to reside. We have economized greatly, during the
seventeen years since our marriage. We can afford to live in
England, now.
"At sixteen, therefore, Milly will have good masters; and for two
years her education will be carried on, and her walk and manner
will, no doubt, improve. In England, fathers and mothers do not
arrange the marriage of their children; and Milly will have to do
as other girls do--that is--wait until someone falls in love with
her, and she falls in love with him. Then, if he is a proper
person, and has enough to keep her, they will be married."
Madame Duburg was too much shocked at the expression of these
sentiments to answer at once. She only sighed, shook her head, and
looked upwards.
"It is strange," she said at last, "to hear you, sister-in-law--a
Frenchwoman--speak so lightly of marriage. As if a young girl could
know, as well as her parents, who is a fit and proper person for
her to marry. Besides, the idea of a young girl falling in love,
before she marries, is shocking, quite shocking!"
"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay said, "we have talked this
matter over before, and I have always stated my opinion, frankly. I
have been a good deal in England; and have seen, therefore, and
know the result of English marriages. I know also what French
marriages are; and no one, who does know the state of things in the
two countries, can hesitate for a moment in declaring that married
life in England is infinitely happier, in every respect, than it is
in France. The idea of telling your daughter that she is to marry a
man whom she has never seen--as we do in France--is, to my mind,
simply monstrous. Fortunately, I myself married for love; and I
have been happy, ever since. I intend Milly, when the time comes,
to do the same thing."
Before Madame Duburg had time to answer, the gentlemen joined them,
and the conversation turned upon the war. In a short time the three
girls came up.
"What a rosy little thing you are, Milly," her uncle said; "where
do you get your plump cheeks, and your bright color? I wish you
could give the receipt to Julie and Justine. Why, if you were to
blow very hard, I do think you would blow them both down."
"I am really surprised at you, Monsieur Duburg," his wife said,
angrily. "I am sure I do not wish Julie and Justine to have as much
color as their cousin. I consider it quite a misfortune for poor
Milly. It is so very commonplace. Poor child, she looks as if she
had been working at the vintage."
"That is right, madame; stand up for your own," and her husband,
who was accustomed to his wife's speeches, laughed. "But for all
that, commonplace or not commonplace, I should like to see some of
Milly's bright, healthy color in my girls' cheeks; and I should
like to see them walk as if they had forgotten, for a moment, their
tight boots and high heels."
His wife was about to make an angry reply, when the arrival of the
four boys--bearing in triumph the last basket of plums--changed the
conversation; and shortly afterwards, Madame Duburg remarking that
the evening was damp, and that she did not like Julie and Justine
to be out in it any later, the Du burgs took their leave.