The next morning Madame Duburg arrived, at ten o'clock; an hour at
which she had never, as far as Mrs. Barclay knew, turned out of her
house since her marriage. She was actually walking fast, too. It
was evident that something serious was the matter.
Mrs. Barclay was in the garden, and her visitor came straight out
from the house to her.
"Is anything the matter?" was Mrs. Barclay's first question.
"Yes, a great deal is the matter," Madame Duburg began, vehemently.
"You and your English husband are mad. Your wretched boys are mad.
They have made my sons mad, also; and--my faith--I believe that my
husband will catch it. It is enough to make me, also, mad."
Notwithstanding the trouble in which Mrs. Barclay was, at the
resolution of her sons, she could scarcely help smiling at the
excitement of Madame Duburg; the cause of which she at once
guessed. However, she asked, with an air of astonishment:
"My dear sister-in-law, what can you be talking about?"
"I know what I say," Madame Duburg continued. "I always said that
you were mad, you and your husband, to let your boys go about and
play, and tear and bruise themselves like wild Indians. I always
knew that harm would come of it, when I saw my boys come in
hot--oh, so unpleasantly hot, to look at--but I did not think of
such harm as this. My faith, it is incredible. When I heard that
you were to marry yourself to an Englishman, I said at once:
"'It is bad, harm will come of it. These English are islanders.
They are eccentric. They are mad. They sell their wives in the
market, with a cord round their neck.'"
"My dear sister-in-law," Mrs. Barclay interrupted, "I have so often
assured you that that absurd statement was entirely false; and due
only to the absolute ignorance, of our nation, of everything
outside itself."
"I have heard it often," Madame Duburg went on, positively. "They
are a nation of singularities. I doubt not that it is true, he has
hidden the truth from you. True or false, I care not. They are mad.
For this I care not. My faith, I have not married an Englishman.
Why, then, should I care for the madness of this nation of
islanders?
"This I said, when I heard that you were to marry an Englishman.
Could I imagine that I, also, was to become a victim? Could I
suppose that my husband--a man sensible in most things--would also
become mad; that my boys would grow up like young savages, and
would offer themselves to go out to sleep without beds, to catch
colds, to have red noses and coughs, perhaps even--my faith--to be
killed by the balls of German pigs? My word of honor, I ask myself:
"'Am I living in France? Am I asleep? Am I dreaming? Am I, too,
mad?'
"I said to myself:
"'I shall go to my sister-in-law, and I will demand of her, is it
possible that these things are true?'"
"If you mean by all this, sister-in-law, is it true that I have
consented to my boys going out to fight for France, it is quite
true," Mrs. Barclay said, quietly.
Madame Duburg sat down upon a garden seat, raised her hands, and
nodded her head slowly and solemnly.
"She says it is true, she actually says that it is true."
"Why should they not go?" Mrs. Barclay continued, quietly. "They
are strong enough to carry arms, and why should they not go out to
defend their country? In a short time, it is likely that everyone
who can carry arms will have to go. I shall miss them sorely, it is
a terrible trial; but other women have to see their sons go out,
why should not I?"
"Because there is no occasion for it, at all," Madame Duburg said,
angrily; "because they are boys and not men, because their father
is English; and stupid men like my husband will say, if these young
English boys go, it will be a shame upon us for our own to remain
behind.
"What, I ask you, is the use of being well off? What is the use of
paying taxes for an army, if our boys must fight? It is absurd, it
is against reason, it is atrocious."
Madame Duburg's anger and remonstrance were, alike, lost upon Mrs.
Barclay; and she cut her visitor short.
"My dear sister-in-law, it is of no use arguing or talking. I
consider, rightly or wrongly, that the claims of our country stand
before our private convenience, or inconvenience. If I were a man,
I should certainly go out to fight; why should not my boys do so,
if they choose? At any rate, I have given my consent, and it is too
late to draw back, even if I wished to do so--which I say, frankly,
that I do not."
Madame Duburg took her departure, much offended and, late in the
evening, her husband came in and had a long talk with Captain
Barclay. The following morning Louis and Philippe came in--in a
high state of delight--to say that their father had, that morning,
given his consent to their going.
In three days after the opening of the list, a hundred and twenty
men had inscribed their names; and Captain Tempe refused to admit
more. Numbers were, he argued, a source of weakness rather than of
strength, when the men were almost entirely ignorant of drill. For
sudden attacks, for night marches, for attacks upon convoys, number
is less needed than dash and speed. Among large bodies discipline
cannot be kept up, except by immense severity upon the part of the
officers; or by the existence of that feeling of discipline and
obedience, among the men, which is gained only by long custom to
military habits. Besides which, the difficulty of obtaining
provisions for a large body of men would be enormous.
Indeed, Captain Tempe determined to organize even this small corps
into four companies, each of thirty men; to act under one head, and
to join together upon all occasions of important expeditions; but
at other times to be divided among villages, at such distance as
would enable them to watch a large extent of country, each company
sending out scouts and outposts in its own neighborhood.
By far the larger proportion of those who joined were either
proprietors, or the sons of proprietors, in and around Dijon. At
that time Government had made no arrangement, whatever, concerning
franc tireurs; and no pay was, therefore, available. The invitation
was, therefore, especially to those willing and able to go out upon
their own account, and at their own expense. Other recruits had
been invited but, as these could join the regular forces and
receive pay, and other advantages, the number who sent in their
names was small. The men who did so were, for the most part, picked
men; foresters, wood cutters, and others who preferred the
certainty of active and stirring service, among the franc tireurs,
to the pay and comparative monotony of the regular service. There
were some forty of these men among the corps, the rest being all
able to provide at least their outfit. Subscriptions had come in
rapidly and, in a week, an ample sum was collected to arm and equip
all those not able to do so for themselves; and to form a military
chest sufficient to pay for the food of the whole corps, in the
field, for some time.
When the list of volunteers was complete, a meeting was held at
which, for the first time, the future comrades met. Besides Ralph
and Percy, and their cousins, there were six or eight others of
their school friends, all lads of about sixteen. It was an
important moment in their lives, when they then felt themselves--if
not actually men--at least, as going to do the work of men. Upon
the table in the room in which the meeting was held was a document,
which each in turn was to sign and, behind this, Captain Tempe took
his seat.
As many of those present knew each other, there was a considerable
buzz and talk in the room, until Captain Tempe tapped the table for
silence, and then rose to speak.
"My friends," he began, "--for I cannot call you comrades, until
you have formally entered your names--before you irrevocably commit
yourselves to this affair, I wish you each to know exactly what it
is that we are going to do. This will be no holiday expedition. I
can promise all who go with me plenty of excitement, and a great
deal of fighting; but I can also promise them, with equal
certainty, an immense deal of suffering--an amount of hardship and
privation of which, at present, few here have any idea, whatever.
The winter is fast coming on, and winter in the Vosges mountains is
no trifle. Let no one, then, put down his name here who is not
prepared to suffer every hardship which it is well possible to
suffer.
"As to the danger, I say nothing. You are Frenchmen; and have come
forward to die, if needs be, for your country."
Here the speaker was interrupted by loud cheering, and cries of
"Vive la France!"
"Next, as to discipline. This is an extremely important point. In
our absence from military stations, it is essential that we,
ourselves, should keep and enforce the strictest discipline. I have
this morning received from General Palikao--under whom I served,
for many years--an answer to an application I wrote to him, a week
since. He highly approves of my plan of cutting the roads behind
the Prussians, and only wishes that he had a hundred small corps
out upon the same errand. He has already received other proposals
of the same nature. He enclosed, with his letter, my formal
appointment as Commandant of the Corps of Franc Tireurs of Dijon;
with full military authority, and power."
Great cheering again broke out.
"This power, in case of need, I warn you that I shall use
unhesitatingly. Discipline, in a corps like ours, is everything.
There must be no murmuring, under hardships; no hesitation in
obeying any order, however unpleasant. Prompt, willing, cheerful
obedience when at work; a warm friendship, and perfect good
fellowship at other times: this is my programme."
The speaker was again interrupted with hearty cheering.
"I intend to divide the corps into four companies, each of thirty
men. Each company will have an officer; and will, at times, act
independently of each other. I have deliberated whether it is best
to allow each company to choose its own officer, or whether to
nominate them myself. I have determined to adopt the latter course.
You can hardly be such good judges, as to the qualities required by
officers during an expedition like the present, as I am; and as I
know every man here, and as I shall have the opportunity of seeing
more of each man, during the three weeks which we shall spend here
upon drill, I shall then choose an officer for each company; but I
will leave it to each company to decide whether to accept my
choice, or not. There may be points in a man's character which may
make him unpopular.
"Now, as to drill. We have three weeks before us. Not long enough
to make men good soldiers; but amply sufficient--with hard work--to
make them good skirmishers. I have already arranged with four men
who have served as non-commissioned officers in the army, one of
whom will take each company.
"Captain Barclay--who is well known to most of you--has kindly
offered to give musketry instruction, for four hours each morning.
Ten men of each company will go, each morning for a week, to drill
at the range; so that, in three weeks, each man will have had a
week's instruction. The hours will be from seven to eleven. The
others will drill during the same hours.
"All will drill together, in the afternoon, from three to six. The
officer commanding the troops, here, has promised us the loan of a
hundred and twenty old guns, which are in store; and also of twenty
chassepots for rifle practice.
"That is all I have to say. All who are ready and willing to enter,
upon these terms, can now sign their names. Those who are not
perfectly sure of their own willingness can draw back, before it is
too late."
When the cheering ceased, each man came forward and signed his
name.
"The first parade will take place, at seven tomorrow morning, in
the Place d'Armes. A suit of uniform, complete, will be exhibited
here at twelve o'clock. A man has offered to supply them, at
contract prices; but any who prefer it can have it made by their
own tailor.
"Now, good night, boys."
"Vive les franc tireurs du Dijon!"
"Vive la France!" and, with a cheer, the men separated.
The next morning the corps met, and were divided into companies.
The division was alphabetical, and the young Barclays and Duburgs
were all in the first company. This was a matter of great pleasure
to them, as they had been afraid that they might have been
separated.
The following day, drill began in earnest and, accustomed as the
boys were to exercise, they found seven hours a day hard work of
it. Still, they felt it very much less than many of the young men
who, for years, had done little but lounge in cafes, or stroll at
the promenade. All, however, stuck to their work and, as their
hearts were in it, it was surprising how quickly they picked up the
rudiments of drill. Fortunately, they were not required to learn
anything beyond the management of their firearms, the simplest
movements, and the duty of skirmishers; as all complicated
maneuvers would have been useless, in a small corps whose duties
would be confined entirely to skirmishing.
With this branch of their work, Captain Tempe was determined that
they should be thoroughly acquainted, and they were taught how to
use cover of all kinds with advantage; how to defend a building,
crenelate a wall, fell trees to form an obstacle across roads, or a
breastwork in front of them; and how to throw themselves into
square, rapidly, to repel cavalry.
Captain Barclay was indefatigable as a musketry instructor and,
with the aid of a few friends, got up a subscription which was
spent in a number of small prizes, so as to give the men as much
interest as possible in their work. Captain Tempe impressed most
strenuously, upon the men, the extreme importance of proficiency in
shooting; as it was upon the accuracy and deadliness of their fire
that they would have to rely, to enable them to contend with
superior forces in the combats they would have to go through; and
each man would probably have frequently to depend, for his life,
upon the accuracy of his fire.
The original plan--of instructing a third of the men, each week, in
musketry--was abandoned; and the parties were changed each day, in
order to enable all to advance at an equal rate. Besides, their
ammunition was supplied; so that those who chose to do so could
practice shooting, for their own amusement, between their morning
and afternoon drill.
The Barclays were constant in their attendance at the shooting
ground; and the steady hand and eye which cricket, fencing, and
other exercises had given them now stood them in good stead for, by
the end of the time, they became as good marksmen as any in the
corps. They still lived at home, as did all those members of the
corps whose residences were in and around Dijon. For those who
lived too far away to come in and out every day to drill, a large
empty barn was taken, and fitted up as a temporary barracks.
The time did not pass away without great excitement for, as the end
of August drew on, everyone was watching, in deep anxiety, for the
news of a battle near Chalons--where MacMahon had been organizing a
fresh army. Then came the news that the camp at Chalons was broken
up, and that MacMahon was marching to the relief of Bazaine. Two or
three days of anxious expectation followed; and then--on the 3rd of
September--came the news, through Switzerland, of the utter defeat
and surrender of the French army, at Sedan.
At first, the news seemed too terrible to be true. People seemed
stunned at the thought of a hundred thousand Frenchmen laying down
their arms. Two days later came the news of the revolution in
Paris. This excited various emotions among the people; but the
prevailing idea seemed to be that--now there was a republic--past
disasters would be retrieved.
"What do you think of the news, papa?" the boys asked as, drill
over, they hurried up to talk the matter over with their father.
"With any other people, I should consider it to be the most
unfortunate event which could have possibly occurred," Captain
Barclay said. "A change of Government--involving a change of
officials throughout all the departments, and a perfect upset of
the whole machinery of organization--appears little short of
insanity. At the same time, it is possible that it may arouse such
a burst of national enthusiasm that the resistance which, as far as
the civil population is concerned, has as yet been contemptible--in
fact, has not been attempted at all--may become of so obstinate and
desperate a character that the Prussians may be fairly wearied out.
"There is scarcely any hope of future victories in the field. Raw
levies, however plucky, can be no match for such troops as the
Prussians, in the open. The only hope is in masses of franc tireurs
upon the rear and flanks of the enemy. Every bridge, every wood,
every village should be defended to the death. In this way the
Prussians would only hold the ground they stand on; and it would be
absolutely impossible for them to feed their immense armies, or to
bring up their siege materiel against Paris.
"The spirit to do this may possibly be excited by the revolution;
otherwise, France is lost. Success alone can excuse it; for a more
senseless, more unjustifiable, more shameful revolution was, in my
mind, never made. It has been effected purely by the Radicals and
roughs of Paris--the men who have, for years, been advocating a war
with Prussia; and who, a month ago, were screaming 'To Berlin.' For
these men to turn round upon the Emperor in his misfortune and,
without consulting the rest of France, to effect a revolution, is
in my mind simply infamous.
"Even regarded as a matter of policy, it is bad in the extreme.
Austria, Italy, and Russia--to say nothing of England--would,
sooner or later, have interfered in favor of an established empire;
but their sympathies will be chilled by this revolution. The
democratic party in all these countries may exult, but the extreme
democratic party do not hold the reins of power anywhere; and their
monarchs will certainly not feel called upon to assist to establish
a republic.
"Prussia herself--intensely aristocratic in her institutions--will
probably refuse to treat, altogether, with the schemers who have
seized the power; for the King of Prussia is perhaps the greatest
hater of democracy in Europe.
"Still, boys, these changes make no difference in your duty. You
are fighting for France, not for an empire or a republic and, as
long as France resists, it is your duty to continue. In fact, it is
now more than ever the duty of you, and of every Frenchman, to
fight. Her army is entirely gone; and it is simply upon the pluck
and energy of her population that she has to trust."
"Do you think Paris will hold out, papa?"
"She is sure to do so, boys. She has made the revolution, and she
is bound to defend it. I know Paris well. The fortifications are
far too strong to be taken by a sudden attack, and it will be a
long time before the Prussians can bring up a siege train. Paris
will only be starved out and, if her people are only half as brave
as they are turbulent, they ought to render it impossible for the
Prussians to blockade such an immense circle. At any rate, France
has two months; perhaps much longer, but two months ought to be
quite enough, if her people have but spirit to surround the enemy,
to cut off his supplies, and to force him to retreat."
The next morning, when the corps assembled for drill, Captain Tempe
addressed them on the subject of the events in Paris. He told them
that, whether they approved or disapproved of what had taken place
there, their duty as Frenchmen was plain. For the present they were
not politicians, but patriots; and he hoped that not a word of
politics would be spoken in the corps, but that everyone would give
his whole thought, his whole strength and, if must be, his life in
the cause of France.
His address was greatly applauded, and gave immense satisfaction to
the men; for already differences of opinion were becoming manifest
among them. Some had exulted loudly at the downfall of Napoleon;
others had said little, but their gloomy looks had testified
sufficiently what were their opinions; while many among the
gentlemen in the corps, especially those belonging to old families,
were well known to be attached either to a Legitimist or Orleanist
Prince. The proposal, therefore, that no politics should be
discussed during the war, but that all should remember only that
they were fighting for France, gave great satisfaction; and
promised a continuance of the good fellowship which had hitherto
reigned in the corps.
It was a great day when, a fortnight from its first organization,
the corps turned out for the first time in their uniforms. The band
of the national guard headed them, as they marched down the high
street of Dijon to the parade ground; and--as the spectators
cheered, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the whole corps
joined in cheers, to the stirring notes of the Marseillaise--the
young Barclays felt their cheeks flush, their hands tighten upon
their rifles, and their hearts beat with a fierce longing to be
face to face with the hated Prussians.
A day or two after this, the Snider rifles ordered from England by
Captain Barclay arrived; and although the men at first preferred
the chassepots, with which they were familiar, they were soon
accustomed to the new weapons; and readily acknowledged the
advantage which--as their commander pointed out to them--the
dark-brown barrels possessed, for skirmishers, over the bright
barrels of the chassepots which, with the sun shining upon them,
would betray them to an enemy miles away.
A day or two afterwards, as Ralph and Percy were returning in the
evening from drill, they heard a great tumult in the streets. They
hurried forward to see what was the matter, and found an excited
crowd shouting and gesticulating.
"Death to the spy!"
"Death to the spy!"
"Hang him!"
"Kill the dog!" were the shouts, and two gendarmes in the center of
the crowd were vainly trying to protect a man who was walking
between them. He was a tall, powerful-looking man; but it was
impossible to see what he was like, for the blood was streaming
down his forehead, from a blow he had just received.
Just as the boys came up, another blow from a stick fell on his
head; and this served to rouse him to desperation, for he turned
round, with one blow knocked down the fellow who had struck him,
and then commenced a furious attack upon his persecutors. For a
moment they drew back, and then closed upon him again. Blows from
sticks and hands rained upon him, but he struggled desperately. At
last, overwhelmed by numbers, he fell; and as he did so he raised a
wild shout, "Hurroo for ould Ireland."
"He is an Englishman, Percy," Ralph exclaimed; "he is not a
Prussian, at all. Come on!
"Here, Louis, Philippe, help; they are killing an Englishman."
Followed by their cousins--who had just arrived at the spot--the
boys made a rush through the crowd; and arrived in another moment
by the prostrate man, whom his assailants were kicking savagely.
The rush of the four boys--aided by the butt-end of their rifles,
which they used freely on the ribs of those who stood in their
way--cleared off the assailants for an instant; and the two
gendarmes--who had been hustled away--drawing their swords, again
took their place by the side of their insensible prisoner.
The mob had only recoiled for a moment; and now, furious at being
baulked of their expected prey, prepared to rush upon his
defenders; shouting, as they did so:
"Death to the spy!"
The moment's delay had, however, given time to the boys to fix
bayonets.
Illustration: Rescue of a Supposed Spy.
"Keep off," Ralph shouted, "or we run you through! The man is not a
spy, I tell you. He is an Englishman."
The noise was too great for the words to be heard and, with cries
of "Death to the spy!" the men in front prepared for a rush. The
leveled bayonets and drawn swords, however, for a moment checked
their ardor; but those behind kept up the cry, and a serious
conflict would have ensued, had not a party of five or six of the
franc tireurs come along at the moment.
These--seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets,
keeping the mob at bay--without asking any questions, at once burst
their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left,
heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put
an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two
of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to
the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as
a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.
Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and--the supposed spy
being laid down on the bench--cold water was dashed in his face;
and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.
"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me
entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly
blackguards!
"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.
"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be
afraid, you're safe now."
"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and
looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as
illegant English as I do, meself."
"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we
came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in
time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another
minute or two, and we should have been too late."
"God bless your honor!" the man--who had now thoroughly recovered
himself--said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely.
You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's
not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a
thick stick, Tim's the boy."
"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the
surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."
"Sure, and my head's all right, your honor It isn't a tap from a
Frenchman that would break the skull of Tim Doyle."
The gendarmes now intimated that, as the prisoner was restored, he
must go in at once before the Maire. The young Barclays accompanied
him, and acted as interpreters at the examination. The story was a
simple one, and the passport and other papers upon the Irishman
proved its truth conclusively.
Tim was an Irishman, who had come out as groom with an English
gentleman. His master had fallen ill at Lyons, had parted with his
horses and carriage, and returned to England. Tim had accepted the
offer of the horse dealer who had purchased the horses to remain in
his service, and had been with him six months when the war broke
out. He had picked up a little French, but had been several times
arrested in Lyons, as a spy; and his master had at last told him
that it was not safe for him to remain, and that he had better
return to England.
He had reached Dijon on that morning; but the train, instead of
going on, had been stopped, as large numbers of Mobiles were
leaving for Paris, and the ordinary traffic was suspended. Tim had
therefore passed the day strolling about Dijon. The hour had
approached at which he had been told that a train might leave, and
Tim had asked a passer by the way to the station.
His broken French at once aroused suspicion. A crowd collected in a
few minutes; and Tim was, in the first place, saved from being
attacked by the arrival of two gendarmes upon the scene. He had at
once told them that he was English, and had produced his passport;
and they had decided upon taking him to the Maire, for the
examination of his papers--but on the way the crowd, increased by
fresh arrivals, had determined to take the law into their own
hands; and only the arrival of the young Barclays, and their
cousins, had saved his life.
The Maire saw at once, upon examination of the papers, that the
story was correct; and pronounced that Tim was at liberty to go
where he pleased. The poor fellow, however--though he made light of
his wounds and bruises--was much shaken; and it would, moreover,
have been dangerous for him to venture again into the streets of
Dijon. Ralph therefore at once offered to take him out, and to give
him a night's shelter; an offer which the Irishman accepted, with
many thanks.
It was now getting dark and, accompanied by their cousins, the
Barclays were let out with Tim Doyle from a back entrance to the
Maine; and made their way unnoticed through the town; and arrived,
half an hour later, at home. Captain and Mrs. Barclay, upon hearing
the story, cordially approved of what the boys had done; and
Captain Barclay having--in spite of Tim's earnest remonstrance that
it was of no consequence in the world--put some wet rags upon the
most serious of the wounds, bandaged up his head, and sent him at
once to bed.
In the morning, when the lads started for drill, the Irishman was
still in bed; but when they returned to dinner, they found him
working in the garden, as vigorously as if the events of the
previous day had been a mere dream. When he saw them coming, he
stuck his spade into the ground and went forward to meet them.
"God bless your honors, but I'm glad to see you again; and to thank
you for saving my life, which them bastes had made up their minds
they were going to have. I ain't good at talking, your honors; but
if it's the last drop of my blood that would be of any use to you,
you'd be heartily welcome to it."
"I am very glad we arrived in time, Tim," Ralph said. "And it's
lucky for you that you shouted 'Hurrah for old Ireland!' as you
went down; for of course we had no idea you were a countryman and,
although we were disgusted at the brutality of that cowardly mob,
we could hardly have interfered between them and a German spy.
"What are you thinking of doing now? It will hardly be safe for you
to travel through France while this madness about spies lasts for,
with your broken French, you would be getting taken up continually."
"I'm not thinking of it at all, your honor," the Irishman said.
"The master has been telling me that your honors are starting for
the war, and so I've made up my mind that I shall go along wid ye."
The boys laughed.
"You are not in earnest, Tim?"
"As sure as the Gospels, your honor I've served five years in the
Cork Militia, and wore the badge as a marksman; and so I mean to
'list, and go as your honors' sarvint."
"But you can't do that, Tim, even if we would let you," Ralph
laughed. "There won't be any servants at all."
"Sure, your honor is mistaken, entirely," Tim said, gravely. "In
the sarvice, a soldier is always told off as a sarvint for each
officer."
"But we are not going as officers, Tim," Percy said. "We are going
as simple soldiers."
"What! Going as privates?" Tim Doyle said, in astonishment. "Does
your honor mane to say that you are going to shoulder a firelock,
and just go as privates?"
"That's it, Tim. You see, this is not a regular regiment; it is a
corps of irregulars, and more than half the privates are
gentlemen."
"Holy Mother!" ejaculated Tim, in astonishment, "did one ever hear
of the like?"
Then, after a pause:
"Then your honor will want a sarvint more than iver. Who is to
clean your boots, and to pipeclay your belts; to wash your linen,
to clean your firelock, and cook your dinners, and pitch your tent,
if you don't have a sarvint? The thing's against nature, entirely."
"We shall do it all ourselves, Tim--that is to say, as far as
cleaning the rifles, washing our linen, and cooking the dinner. As
for the other things, I don't suppose we shall ever have our boots
cleaned; we have no white belts to pipeclay, for they are made of
buff leather; and we shall not have to pitch tents, for we don't
take them with us, but shall, when necessary, sleep in the open
air."
Tim was too surprised to speak, for a time. At last, he said
doggedly:
"Sarvint or no sarvint, your honor, it is evident that it's rough
times you're going to have; and Tim Doyle will be there with you,
as sure as the piper."
"We should like you with us very much, Tim, if you make up your
mind to go," Ralph said; "but the corps is quite full. We have
refused dozens of recruits."
Tim looked downcast. At last he said:
"Well, your honor, it may be that they won't have me as a soldier;
but I'll go sure enough, if I die for it. There's no law to punish
a man for walking after a regiment of soldiers and, wherever your
regiment goes, sure enough I'll tramp after ye. There's many an odd
way I might make myself useful, and they'll soon get used to see me
about, and let me come and go into the camp."
No persuasion could alter Tim's determination and, as they felt
that having so attached a fellow near them might be of real
utility, and comfort, when the boys went down in the afternoon they
spoke to Captain Tempe about it. At first he said that it was
impossible, as he had already refused so many offers of service;
but upon hearing all the story, and thinking the matter over, he
said suddenly:
"By the bye, there is a way by which he might go with us. You know
I have ordered a light two-wheel cart, built very strong for the
mountains, to carry our spare ammunition, powder for blowing up
bridges, cooking pots, and stores. I have not engaged a driver as
yet. If your Irishman--who you say understands horses--likes to go
as a driver, to begin with, I will promise him the first vacant
rifle. I fear that he will not have long to wait, after we once get
near the enemy; and as he has already served, you say, he will be
better than a new recruit, and we can get a countryman to take his
place with the cart."
Upon their return in the evening with the news, Tim Doyle's joy
knew no bound; and he whooped and shouted, till Milly laughed so
that she had to beg of him to stop.
The next day, Tim went down with Captain Barclay and signed the
engagement. He remained with the captain during the time that the
latter was giving his instructions in musketry--entering upon his
duties in connection with the corps by going down to the butts, and
acting as marker--and then returned with him to the cottage; as it
was agreed that he had better remain there, quietly, until the
corps was ready to march--as, if he were to venture alone in the
town, he might at any time be subject to a repetition of the attack
upon the day of his arrival.
At the cottage he soon became a general favorite His desire to make
himself useful in any way, his fund of fun and good temper, pleased
everyone. Even Marie and Jeannette--the two servants, who could not
understand a word of what he said--were in a constant broad grin,
at the pantomime by which he endeavored to eke out his few words of
French. Milly became quite attached to him; and Captain and Mrs.
Barclay both felt cheered, and comforted, at the thought that this
devoted fellow would be at hand to look after and assist the boys,
in time of danger, suffering, or sickness.