Mary Brander was, as usual, called before daylight by Margot, and was
dressing when a sound like the rumbling of a heavy wagon, caused her to
pause suddenly, and then hurry to the window and throw it open.
"They have begun again," she exclaimed, "and the firing is heavier than
it was before. It comes from the east. It must be Trochu's force engaged
again."
She hastily completed her toilet, drank off the coffee Margot had got
ready for her, and then started on her way to the ambulance.
"It is louder than ever," she exclaimed. "It must be a terrible battle."
The roar of the cannon never ceased. The windows and doors were all open
as she went along, and women in various states of dishabille were
talking excitedly to each other from the former across the street; while
the men, equally excited, were discussing the battle in groups. All
agreed that the forts in the loop of the Marne were engaged. This caused
some disappointment.
"We can't be so far out as we thought," one said, "or we should be
beyond range of the guns."
"Perhaps the Germans are attacking us," an old man suggested, but the
idea was received with derision, and Mary caught no more of the
conversation as she hurried along.
It was an absolute relief to her when she entered the ambulance, for the
continued roar of the guns and the thought of what was going on were
well nigh intolerable to her nerves, and her hands were shaking as she
removed her bonnet and cloak. Even the quiet hospital tents shared in
the excitement outside. The patients whose hurts were comparatively
slight were sitting up in their beds discussing the battle eagerly.
Others more seriously hurt raised their heads to listen, while some
lying apparently unconscious moaned and moved uneasily, muttering
occasionally incoherent words, the quiver in earth and air arousing a
dim sense of battle and danger.
"More work for us," Dr. Swinburne said, as he passed her, while she was
trying to soothe a restless patient into quiet again.
"I am afraid so, Doctor, and by the sound it will be even worse than the
last."
"The loss is not always proportionate to the noise," he said,
cheerfully, "the forts may be merely preparing a way for a general
advance. They said it was to begin this morning."
As before it was not until evening that the wounded began to come in.
Those who were first brought were sombre and depressed. It was the
Germans who were attacking; the French had been surprised and badly
beaten. But later on the news was better. Champigny had been nobly
defended, the French had rallied, and, after hard fighting, the
Prussians were driven back and all the ground lost recovered. Some of
the wounded had been among those who had defended Champigny. To these
Mary put the question she had asked of others who were not too severely
wounded to be able to talk. "Who had taken part in the fight?" The
mobiles and the line had all been engaged.
"But there were no National Guards, Nurse."
"Had they seen any Franc-tireurs?"
Hitherto the answer to the question had been, no; but the men from
Champigny gave a different answer.
Yes, a corps had fought there; they did not know who they were. They
were dressed in gray. Whoever they were they fought like tigers. It was
they, they all agreed, who saved Champigny.
"The Prussians were advancing," one said, "and we could not have held
out much longer. They were advancing by the road, and through the
gardens; it was all over with us, when the men in gray came up."
"I was at the barricade," one said, "there were not twenty of us left
there when a company arrived. If they had fought in a hundred battles
they could not have done better. They had their colonel with them. A
fine old militaire. He was killed by my side. The Prussians never got a
foot further, for though we were hard pressed again and again we held
our ground till the cowards, who had run, began to come back again. It
was hot, mademoiselle. I can tell you it was a rain-storm of bullets,
and their shell fell every moment among us, and it would have been all
up with them if the batteries had not silenced their guns."
"I was in one of the houses," his comrade put in; "we were doing our
best to prevent the Prussians coming up through the gardens behind, but
there were but few of us, and they were some hundreds strong. If they
had gone on they would have caught us all in a trap, and we were just
going to warn the others to fall back when we saw the Franc-tireurs come
running up. They were smart fellows as well as brave ones. They knocked
loopholes through a wall in no time and clung to it for an hour, at
least. Then the Prussians were reinforced heavily. The Franc-tireurs
fell back to the next wall, and when the Prussians rushed forward, they
gave it them hotly while we took them in flank from the houses; they
must have a hundred and fifty men left behind them when they rushed back
to the wall they had advanced from.
"And did the Franc-tireurs suffer much?" Mary asked.
"I should say they lost more than half their number. When they formed up
after the fighting was over and the Prussians driven back, we gave them
a hearty cheer. I believe there were three companies of them when they
came up, and altogether there were not more than a strong company
paraded. You must not think that all the others were killed,
mad'moiselle," seeing by Mary's face that the news was terrible to her.
"Of those who didn't parade you may reckon that two-thirds were only
wounded."
"Not so many as that," the other, who had not observed Mary's face,
said, "they were not the fellows to fall out for a slight wound. Why,
the best part of those who paraded had hurts, and I fancy some of them
were serious, though they did their best to make light of it, and waved
their caps when we cheered them. You may be sure that those who were
missing must have been hard hit indeed."
"Imbecile beast," his comrade growled, as Mary moved silently away,
"could you not see by her face that the girl had friends in that corps?
Didn't you notice how pleased she looked when we praised their bravery
and how white her face came, when I said what their losses were. I tried
to comfort her by making out that most of the missing might be only
wounded, and then, imbecile that you are, you break in with your talk
and as good as tell her that if they ain't all dead, they are likely to
be so before long."
"I would have bit my tongue out before I would have said so," the other
said, penitently, "but I did not notice her looks. Do you think I would
have said it if I had, just as she had been bandaging our wounds, too,
like a little mother."
The Franc-tireurs remained in the village all night, and as soon as they
fell out had scattered over the whole ground, collected the dead and
laid them together and brought the wounded into the houses.
The soldier's estimate was not far wrong; the number of the dead
exceeded that of the wounded and most of these were very seriously hurt.
Of those found lying behind the walls many had been killed outright,
being struck on the head by bullets through the loopholes, behind which
they were firing; but of those hit during the retreat, or when at last
they took the offensive, many of the wounds, though of a disabling, were
not of a fatal nature. The company on the other side of the village had
not been pressed so severely, but the Prussian shell had fallen thickly
there, and a large proportion of the wounds were caused by fragments of
shell or stone. The company which held the barricade had comparatively
few wounded, but had lost half their number by bullets through the head
as they fired over its crest.
It was hard work, indeed, for the surgeons and nurses that night. For
many nothing could be done, they were beyond the reach of surgical aid;
but not only was there the work of bandaging wounds, but of giving drink
and soup to all that could take them, of writing down last messages to
friends from those among the dying who retained their consciousness, or
in aiding Dr. Swinburne and his assistant in their work, and in
temporarily bandaging the wounds of those for whom nothing else could be
done till daylight. At eight o'clock next morning an ambulance wagon
drew up to the door and an orderly came in to the doctor with a message.
"I have six wounded here. The surgeon told me to tell you that one of
them had particularly wished to be brought up to your ambulance, and as
the others all belonged to the same corps I was to leave them here."
"I will see if there is room," the doctor said, and calling one of the
gentlemen who aided in the service of the ambulance, asked him, "Do you
know, Wilson, how many have died in the night?"
"Eight or ten, Doctor."
"Well, get Phillips and Grant to help you to carry out six of them; lay
them in that empty tent for the present. As soon as you have done that
bring the six wounded in from the wagon outside."
In a few minutes the injured men were brought in.
"Ah, they are Franc-tireurs," the doctor said.
"They are Franc-tireurs des Écoles," the orderly, who had accompanied
them, said; "the surgeon said they were all students. They deserve good
treatment, Doctor, for no men could have fought better than they did.
Everyone says that they saved Champigny."
"Put them together, Wilson, if you can, or at any rate in pairs. They
are students of the University, the art schools, and so on. If there are
not two empty beds together put them anywhere for the present; we can
shift the beds about in a day or two when we get breathing-time."
"There are two vacant beds in No. 2 marque, Doctor."
The doctor stepped to the litter that had just been carried in. Its
occupant was sensible.
"Is there any one of your comrades you would prefer to be placed in the
bed next to you?" he asked in French.
"Yes, Doctor," he replied in English. "The tall fellow who was next to
me in the wagon. I am a countryman of yours, and he is an Englishman,
and we are in the same art school."
"An American?" Dr. Swinburne replied. "I am glad, indeed, they brought
you here. You may be sure that we will do everything we can to make you
comfortable. I will attend to you directly I have seen the others
brought in."
Mary Brander's heart gave a bound as she saw the wounded man brought in,
for she recognized the uniform at once. A glance, however, at the dark
head reassured her. As soon as the stretcher was laid down by the bed
which-was the last in the line, and the wounded man was lifted on to it
she went as usual with a glass of weak spirits and water to his side.
"Will you drink, monsieur," she asked, in French.
"I am an American," he said, with a faint smile, "as I suppose you are."
"No, I am English, which is nearly the same thing."
"I must trouble you to hold it to my lips," he said, "for as you see my
right arm is useless, my collar-bone is broken, I believe, and my
shoulder-blade smashed. However, it might be worse."
She held a glass to his lips. As he drank a sudden thought struck her.
"Are you Arnold Dampierre?" she asked.
"That is certainly my name," he said, "though I cannot think how you
guess it."
"I have heard of you from a friend of mine, Cuthbert Harrington. Can you
tell me, sir, if he is hurt?"
"Then you must be Miss Brander. Yes, I am sorry to say he is hurt. I
don't know how badly," he went on hurriedly, as he saw the look of pain
in her face. "I did not see him until we were put in the wagon next to
each other, and he was not much up to talking, and in fact its motion
was too much for him and he fainted, but no doubt he will soon come
round. They are bringing him into the next bed. Perhaps it will be
better for you if you were to let one of the other nurses attend to him
until he comes round a bit."
But Mary shook her head silently. She had been trembling as she asked
the question, but she stood stiff and rigid as Cuthbert was brought up.
She gave one short gasp when she saw his face as they lowered the litter
to the ground. Then she hurried to the table on which the glasses were
standing, poured some brandy into a tumbler, and was turning when the
surgeon entered the tent. She put down the glass, hurried up to him, and
laid a fluttering hand on his arm.
"Come, Doctor; please come quickly."
A momentary flash of surprise crossed his face. However, he said nothing
but quickened his steps and stood by the pallet on to which Cuthbert had
just been lifted. A shade passed over his face; he put his hand on
Cuthbert's wrist, then knelt down and placed his ear over his heart.
"Is he dead?" Mary asked in a whisper, as he rose to his feet again.
"No, no, my dear, I hope he is worth many dead men yet; he has fainted
from the jolting of the wagon just as many others that you have seen
have done. Fetch that brandy you have just poured out. He is hard hit,"
and he pointed to a bloodstained patch in his shirt just above the
waistband of his trousers. "There is no doubt about that, but we shall
know more about it presently."
As she hurried off to fetch the brandy the doctor's lips tightened.
"It is fifty to one against him," he muttered, "still, I have seen men
live with similar wounds."
He took the glass from Mary's hands as she returned and poured a little
between Cuthbert's lips. Then he listened to the heart's beating again.
"It is stronger already," he said, encouragingly to Mary. "Now, my dear,
you had better go out for a few minutes and get a little fresh air. Ask
Mrs. Stanmore to come here. I must try and find out where the bullet has
gone." As she moved away he went on, "Wait here a minute, Wilson, I
shall want to turn him over directly. Now for the wound. Ah! I thought
so!" as he removed a lightly fastened bandage and lifted a pad of lint
beneath it.
"There has been no bleeding since he was taken up. No doubt he fell
forward at first. Now turn him over. Ah, the bullet has gone right
through! He must have been hit by a shot fired at close quarters. Well,
that will save us trouble and the chances of complications. It is now a
simple question of how much damage it did as it passed through. Ah, Mrs.
Stanmore," he went on as the nurse came up with a tray of bandages and
other necessaries, "I find that there is not much to do here."
He took two small pieces of lint and rolled them up, poured a few drops
of carbolic acid on to them, placed one in each orifice, put pads of
lint over them, and passed a bandage twice round the body to keep them
in place.
"Thank you, Wilson, that will do for the present. Please pour a little
strong brandy and water down his throat, Mrs. Stanmore. Now I will see
to the next man. How are you hurt? In the shoulder, I see, by your
bandages."
"I was lying down behind a wall, Doctor, and raised myself slightly to
fire through a loophole when a bullet came through. I heard the surgeon
say that it had smashed the collar-bone, and had gone out through the
bone behind. I don't know what he called it, but it is what I should
call the shoulder-bone."
"Well, in that case you are in luck," the surgeon said, "if it had
glanced more downwards you would have been a dead man five minutes after
you were hit. Do you feel comfortable at present?"
"As comfortable as I can expect."
"Then in that case I won't disturb the bandages. They are all tight now,
and the man who bandaged you evidently knew what he was about, which is
more than I can say for some of those who have sent me in specimens of
their handiwork. For the present there is nothing for you to do but to
lie quiet. I will have a look at you again later, there are so many
cases that must be attended to at once."
"I am in no hurry, I can assure you, Doctor. I suffered too much when
they bandaged me to want a repetition of it until it is absolutely
necessary."
The doctor nodded and then hurried off to visit the men who had been
carried off into the other marquees. As he pushed aside the flaps at the
entrance he stopped abruptly, for a few yards away Mary Brander was
lying insensible on the ground, now covered with a light sprinkle of
snow that had fallen in the morning.
"Poor little girl!" he said, as he raised her in his arms, and carried
her into his own tent and placed her in a rocking-chair, "this affair
coming on the top of the work last night has been too much for her." He
went into the next marque.
"Miss Betham," he said to one of the nurses, "Miss Brander has just
broken down; she has fainted. You will find her in a chair in my tent.
Take a bottle of salts and a little brandy. When she comes round make
her lie down on the bed there, tell her that my orders are absolute,
that she is to keep quiet for a time. She is not to go to work in the
wards again and she is not to leave my tent until I have seen her. There
is no getting a conveyance, and she won't be fit to walk home for some
time."
An hour later Dr. Swinburne snatched a moment from his work and looked
in at his tent. Mary sprang up from the bed as he entered.
"That is right, my dear," he said, "I see you are active again. I am
sure you will be glad to hear that the patient you called me to has
recovered consciousness. The bullet passed right through him, which is a
good sign. So that trouble is disposed of. As to the future I can say
nothing as yet. Of course it depends upon what damage the ball did on
its way through. However, I am inclined to view the case favorably. I
can only judge by his face, and, although it is, of course, white and
drawn, there is not that ashen sort of pallor which is almost a sure
sign of injury to vital parts."
"Then you think there is some hope, Doctor," she asked, with her hands
lightly clasped before her.
"Honestly, I think there is. He must, of course, be kept absolutely free
from anything like agitation, and if you think your presence is likely
to agitate him in the slightest degree, I should say that when you come
to work again you had better exchange into one of the other wards."
"It will not agitate him in the least, Doctor," she said, after a
moment's pause, "I can answer for that. We are old friends, for he has
known me since I was a little child; we are more like cousins than
anything else, and if he knows which ambulance he is in, I am sure he
will be surprised if I do not come to him."
"I think it is likely he will guess," Dr. Swinburne said, "when he hears
the nurses speaking English; and, indeed, it seems that either he or one
of the others particularly asked to be sent here. If it is as you say,
your presence may do him good rather than harm, and you can go to him
for a short time; but remember that you are not fit for nursing and that
the sooner you are able to get home again the better. You have been on
duty more than twenty-four hours and it has been a terribly trying time
for you all."
Mary nodded.
"I really feel better now, Doctor. I have been very anxious about Mr.
Hartington ever since I knew that his corps had gone out, and I think
suspense is harder to bear than anything. You will see I shan't break
down again."
"If you do, Miss Brander, remember I shall have to take your name off
the list of nurses. We have enough to do and think about here without
having fainting young ladies on our hands." He spoke gravely, but Mary
saw he was not really in earnest.
"I never thought," she said, "that I should come under the category of a
fainting young lady, and I feel humiliated. Then I may go in, Doctor?"
"Yes, if you are sure of yourself and are certain that it won't agitate
him."
A minute later she stood by Cuthbert's side. He was lying on his back
with his eyes open. A hospital rug had been thrown over him. As she
bent over him his eyes fell on her face and he smiled faintly.
"I was wondering whether you had heard I was here," he said, in a voice
so low that she could scarce hear it. "Well, you see, I brought my eggs
to a bad market, and your friends, the Prussians, have given me a lesson
I would not learn from you. But we beat them fairly and squarely, there
is a satisfaction in that."
"There does not seem much consolation in it, Cuthbert," she said,
quietly.
"There is to me," he said, "that shows you are not a soldier. To a
soldier it makes all the difference as he lies wounded, whether he has
shared in a victory or suffered in a defeat."
"Then I am very glad that you have won if it makes any difference to
you, Cuthbert. Now you know you have to lie very still, and I am sure
talking is very bad for you."
"I don't suppose it makes any difference one way or the other, Mary. A
few hours, perhaps, but whether it is to-day or to-morrow is
immaterial."
"You must not talk like that, Cuthbert, and you must not think so. The
doctor says that although, of course, you are badly wounded, he thinks
there is every hope for you."
"So the surgeon said who dressed my wounds last night, Mary, but I knew
that he did not really think so."
"But I am sure Dr. Swinburne does think so, Cuthbert. I am certain that
he was not trying to deceive me."
"Well, I hope that he is right," Cuthbert replied, but with the
indifference common to men in extreme weakness. "I should certainly like
to give the finishing touches to those two pictures. There is nothing
else to show for my life. Yes, I should like to finish them. You are
looking bad yourself," he added, suddenly, "all this is too much for
you."
"I am only tired," she said, "and of course it has been trying work for
the last twenty-four hours."
"Well, you must go home and get some rest. If I had been going soon I
should have liked you to have stopped with me till I went, but if, as
you say, the doctor thinks I may last for a time it does not matter, and
I would rather know that you were getting a rest than that you were
wearing yourself out here. What o'clock is it now?"
"It is just two. Please don't worry about me. If I were to break down
there are plenty to take my place, but I am not going to. Anyhow I shall
wait to hear what Dr. Swinburne says when he next comes round, and then
if the report is favorable I shall go home for the night and be here
again the first thing in the morning. Are you in much pain, Cuthbert?"
"No, I am in no pain at all. I just feel numbed and a little drowsy, and
my feet are cold."
Mary went away, filled a tin bottle with hot water and placed it at his
feet, and then covered them over with another rug.
"Now you must not talk any more, Cuthbert. Your hands are cold, let me
put the rug over them. There, you look more comfortable. Now shut your
eyes and try to get to sleep until the doctor comes round."
Cuthbert closed his eyes at once. Mary went about the ward doing her
work for the next two hours, returning at frequent intervals to the
bedside, and seeing with satisfaction that he was sleeping quietly. At
four o'clock the surgeon came in. She was occupied in serving out some
soup to the patients and did not go round with him. She had finished her
work when he returned to where she was standing near the entrance.
"I did not wake him," he said, in answer to her look, "but his pulse is
stronger, and the action of his heart regular. There is certainly a good
chance for him. My hopes that there is no vital injury are strengthened.
He will, I hope, sleep for hours, perhaps till morning. By that time I
may be able to give a more decided opinion. Now, I think you had better
be off at once. I can see you have recovered your nerve, but there will
be a dozen fresh nurses here in a few minutes, and I shall clear you all
out. Do you feel strong enough to walk home?"
"Oh, yes, Doctor, I may come in the first thing in the morning, mayn't
I?"
"Yes, if you feel equal to it. It is possible," he thought to himself,
as he went to the next marquee, "that the poor fellow only regards her
as a cousin, but I am greatly mistaken if she has not very much warmer
feelings towards him, though she did so stoutly declare that they were
but old friends."
Mary, putting on her bonnet and cloak, went out. As she did so, a man,
in the uniform of the Franc-tireurs, and a young woman approached.
"Pardon, mademoiselle," he said, lifting his cap as he came up to her,
"is it possible for friends to visit the wounded?"
Mary glanced at the speaker's companion and at once recognized her. It
was the face of which she had seen so many drawings in Cuthbert's
sketch-book.
"It is not possible to-day," she said, "except in extreme cases. There
have been many applicants, but they have all been refused."
"I fear this is an extreme case," René, for it was he, urged. "It is a
comrade of mine, and the surgeon told me after examining him that he was
hit very seriously. This lady is his fiancée."
"I know who you mean," Mary said, after a moment's silence, "but she
could not see him even if she were his wife. He is asleep now and
everything depends upon his sleep being unbroken."
"If I could only see him I would not wake him," the woman wailed, while
René asked--
"Can you tell us if there are any hopes for him?"
"The surgeon says there are some hopes," Mary said, coldly, "but that
everything depends upon his being kept perfectly quiet. However, I have
no power in the matter. I am off duty now, and you had better apply to
Mrs. Stanmore. She is in charge of the ward. It is the farthest of the
three marquees."
"What is that woman to him?" Minette exclaimed, passionately, as Mary
walked on. "She loves him or she hates him. I saw her look at me as you
spoke first, and her face changed. She knew me though I did not know
her."
"Oh, that is all fancy, Minette. How can she know Arnold? She is tired
and worn out. Parbleu, they must have had terrible work there since the
sortie began. It is getting dark, but it is easy to see how pale and
worn out she looked. For my part I would rather go through that fight in
the garden again than work for twenty-four hours in a hospital."
"She knows him," the girl said, positively.
"Well, let us go on. This woman may give you leave to go in."
But Mrs. Stanmore was also firm in her refusal.
"We cannot allow even the nearest relatives to enter," she said, "we are
all taken up by duty and cannot have strangers in the wards; but if the
patient is likely to die and wishes to see a friend or relative in the
city we send for him or her. If you will give me your name and address I
will see that you are sent for should the patient ask for you. The rule
I can assure you is absolute, and I have no power whatever to grant
permission to anyone except in the case I have named."
Minette went away raving, and it needed indeed all René's remonstrances
and entreaties to induce her to leave.
"It is clear," he said, "that he cannot be near death; were he so he
would assuredly ask for you. So after all it is good news that you have
received, and as I told you all along, though the surgeon said that it
was a serious wound, he did not say that it was likely to be fatal, as
he did in the case of Cuthbert Hartington. These army surgeons do not
mince matters, and there was no reason why he should not have said at
once to me that the American was likely to die if he thought it would be
so."
"I will go to see him to-morrow," she said, with an angry stamp of her
foot. "If the women try to prevent me I will tear their faces. If the
men interfere to stop me I will scream so loud that they will be forced
to let me in. It is abominable to keep a woman from the bedside of the
man she loves."
"It is of no use you talking in that wild way, Minette," René said,
sternly; "how do you suppose a hospital is to be managed if every sick
man is to have women sitting at his bed. It is childish of you to talk
so, and most ungrateful. These foreigners are supporting this ambulance
at their own expense. The ladies are working like slaves to succor our
wounded and you go on like a passionate child because, busy as they
are, they are obliged to adhere to their regulations. At any rate I will
come here with you no more. I am not going to see these kind people
insulted."