RESCUE.
A dull and pricking pain over all my stiffened limbs, as the blood
slowly and laboriously forced its way through vein and artery; a dim
light in my aching eyes, as if the dawn were just stealing upon the
night; a confused sense of sounds and voices growing more distinct
and palpable, were the first sensations of returning animation I
experienced.
I respired with difficulty, and with that respiration life and energy
came back to me. I found myself stretched at length upon a grassy
bank, on which the warm sunshine played. My arms were free; the
straps that bound them once lay beside me cut and severed, with the
unexploded petard--unexploded because it had been drenched in the
water of the mountain stream, from which I had been rescued with
difficulty by my friends; but chiefly by the bravery and exertions of
the valiant border baronet, Sir Quentin Home of Redden, and and the
Chevalier Livingstone d'Angoulême, who plunged their chargers in
below that part of the stream in which I was struggling, and
succeeded in getting me landed, as the former said, 'Like a huge
salmon grilse from the Tweed.'
I found myself surrounded by the familiar faces of nine cuirassiers
of the Scottish Guard, led by old Patrick Gordon; and their surprise
to find that the rescued man, the escaped prisoner, whom they had
just fished from the river, was one of themselves--Arthur Blane--was
great indeed. Revived by a good dose of brandy from Patrick's flask,
and by some dry garments which they gave me from their valises (for
these cavaliers were all cap-a-pie, and in marching order), I looked
up to the crag over which I had rolled in my terror and agony of
soul; and on seeing that it was at least fifty feet high, and that I
was safe and sound, wind and limb, and save a tremulous sensation,
not a whit the worse of the whole affair, I thanked heaven for my
release from Phalsbourg, and for my escape from all the perils that
followed it.
Mounted on Livingstone's horse, being as yet unable to walk, unless
slowly and laboriously, we proceeded down the valley, and on looking
back, from time to time, I saw the dark tower of Phalsbourg
apparently rise higher among the mountains, as we descended.
'We will return anon, Arthur,' said our grim Marechal de Logis, 'and
bring to a severe reckoning this Count de Bitche and his garrison of
outlaws: I suppose they are all ragamuffins sprung from the
barricades, as we say in Paris.'
'And how about your siege of Zaberne?' I asked, surprised to find
myself conversing calmly, and among friends too, after all that had
passed.
A cloud came over all their faces at the question.
'It fell this morning,' said Gordon.
'And Hepburn--'
'Alas! he fell with it. A shot killed him yesterday; but his death
filled the troops with fury, so we carried the place by assault this
morning. The King of France has lost a faithful soldier, and old
Scotland a gallant son. Rest him, heaven!' said Gordon, looking
upward, with tears in his eyes; 'for there, in his bloody harness at
Zaberne, lies cold and still a heart that never knew fear!'
'But the fear of God?' added Livingstone.
'Right, chevalier; Hepburn was pious as he was brave. He was the
first soldier in Christendom, and we may never see his like again.'
Hepburn's fall shocked and grieved me, the more that he had died
before I could announce to him that Louis XIII. had raised him to
that rank so coveted by every chevalier in his army--marechal of
France; and conversing of his worth and bravery, rather than of my
more recent adventures, which lay, perhaps, nearer my heart, we rode
sadly and thoughtfully towards Zaberne.
I found the town breached and battered by cannon-shot; the houses
riddled, the streets in ruin; encumbered by fallen masonry and
unburied bodies. The soldiers were sullen and full of fury,
especially the Scottish regiments, for the fall of their beloved
commander, who was solemnly interred in the cathedral of Toul, where
a magnificent monument was erected to his memory.*
* Demolished by the revolutionists in 1793, his tomb was restored by
order of the Emperor Napoleon III. in 1851, as a letter from the curé
of the cathedral informed the author.--See Note at end.
We buried the other dead in one huge grave--friend and foe--and threw
in their weapons with them. Still enough they lay in that ghastly
trench, as we heaped the earth over them; though their uniforms were
on and their weapons at hand, the strife of their gallant hearts was
over; but if ever men went to heaven, they will be the brave fellows
who died with Hepburn at Zaberne.