PAINFUL SCENES
The Germans, huddled together in Grandfontaine, fled in crowds in the
direction of Framont, on foot and on horseback, hurrying, dragging
along their ammunition-wagons, strewing the road with their knapsacks,
and looking behind as though they feared to find the partisans at their
heels.
In Grandfontaine they destroyed everything out of sheer revenge; they
smashed in doors and windows, maltreated the people, demanded food and
drink indiscriminately. Their shouts and curses, the commands of their
officers, the murmurs of the townsfolk, the artillery rolling over the
bridge of Framont, the shrill cries of the wounded horses, were heard
as a confused murmur at the breastworks.
The hill-side was covered with arms, shakos, and dead; in fact, with
all the signs of a great rout. In front was Marc Dives's cannon
directed down the valley, ready to fire in case of a fresh attack.
All was finished, and finished well. Yet no shout of triumph rose from
the intrenchments: the losses of the mountaineers, in this last
assault, had been too great for that. There was something solemn in
this silence succeeding to the uproar; all these men who had escaped
the carnage, looked grave, as though astonished to see each other
again. Some few called a friend, others a brother, who did not answer;
and then they searched for them in the trenches, along the breastworks,
or on the slopes, calling "Jacob, Philip, is it thou?"
Night came on; and the gray shadow creeping over everything, added
mystery to these fearful scenes. The people came and went among the
wrecks of the battle without recognizing each other.
Materne, having wiped his bayonet, called hoarsely to his
boys:--"Kasper! Frantz!" and seeing them approach in the darkness, he
asked, "Is that you?"
"Yes, we are here."
"Are you safe? are you wounded?"
"No."
The old hunter's voice became hoarser and more trembling still:--"Then
we are all three united once more," said he, in a low tone.
And he, whom none would have thought to be so tender, embraced his sons
warmly. They could hear his chest heaving with suppressed sobs. They
were both much moved, and said to each other,--"We never dreamed that
he loved us so much!"
But the old man, soon recovering from his emotion, called out, "It was
a hard day, though, my boys. Let us have something to drink, for I am
thirsty."
Then, casting one last look on the dark slopes, and seeing that Hullin
had placed sentinels at short distances apart, they proceeded toward
the farmhouse.
As they were picking their way carefully through the trenches,
encumbered with the dead, they heard a stifled voice, which said to
them, "Is it thou, Materne?"
"Ah! forgive me, my poor old Rochart," replied the hunter, bending over
him, "if I touched thee. What, art thou still here?"
"Yes, I cannot get away, for I have no longer any legs to carry me."
They remained silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter
continued,--"Thou wilt tell my wife that in a bag behind the closet,
there are five pieces of six. I have saved them up, in case we either
of us fell ill. I no longer need them."
"That is to say--that is to say--But thou mayst recover still, my poor
old fellow. We will carry thee away."
"No; it is not worth the trouble: I cannot last more than an hour. It
would only make me linger."
Materne, without answering, signed to Kasper to place his carbine with
his own, so as to form a stretcher, and Frantz placed the old
wood-cutter upon them, notwithstanding his moans. In this way they
arrived at the farm.
All the wounded who during the combat had had strength to drag
themselves to the ambulance were now assembled there; and Doctor
Lorquin and his comrade Dubois, who had arrived during the day, had
work enough to do. But all was far from being over yet.
As Materne, his boys, and Rochart were traversing the dark alley under
the lantern, they heard to their left a cry which made their blood run
cold, and the old wood-cutter, half dead, called out, "Why do you take
me there? I will not go; I will not have anything done to me."
"Open the door, Frantz," said Materne, his face streaming with
perspiration. "Open it! Be quick!"
Frantz having pushed open the door, they beheld in the centre of the
low room with its large brown beams, Colard's son stretched out full
length on a great kitchen-table, a man at each arm and a bucket beneath
him. Doctor Lorquin, his shirtsleeves turned up to his elbows, and a
short saw in his hand, was cutting off the poor fellow's leg, while
Dubois stood by with a large sponge. The blood trickled into the pail.
Colard was as white as death.
Catherine Lefevre was there with a roll of lint on her arm. She seemed
calm; but her teeth were clinched, and she fastened her eyes on the
ground as though determined to witness nothing.
"It is finished," said the doctor, turning round; and perceiving the
new-comers, "Ha! it is you, Father Rochart!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it is I; but I will not let any one touch me. I would rather die
as I am."
The doctor lifted up a candle, looked at him, and made a grimace.
"It is time to see to you, my poor old fellow. You have lost much
blood, and if we wait longer it will be too late."
"So much the better! I have suffered enough in my life."
"As you like. Let us pass on to another."
He cast his eyes over a long line of straw mattresses at the end of the
room; the two last were empty, but covered with blood. Materne and
Kasper laid the old wood-cutter down on the last, while Dubois,
approaching another wounded man, said, "Nicolas, it is thy turn!"
Nicolas Cerf raised his pale face and his eyes glistened with fright.
"Let him have a glass of brandy," said the doctor.
"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."
"Where is thy pipe?"
"In my waistcoat pocket."
"Good, I have found it. And the tobacco?"
"In my trousers."
"All right. Fill his pipe, Dubois. He is a plucky fellow; it gives
one pleasure to see a man like that. We are going to take off thy arm
in a trice."
"Is there no way of saving it, Monsieur Lorquin, to bring up my poor
children? It is their only resource."
"No; it is no use; the bone is smashed. Light the pipe, Dubois. Now,
Nicolas, smoke away."
The unhappy fellow began, though evidently without relish.
"Is all ready?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," replied Nicolas, in a husky voice.
"Good. Attention, Dubois! Sponge away."
And he made a rapid turn in the flesh with a great knife. Nicolas
ground his teeth. The blood spurted up, and Dubois bound up something
tightly. The saw grated for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on
the boards.
"That is what I call a well-performed operation," said Lorquin.
Nicolas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips.
David Schlosser, of Walsch, who had held him, let go. They bound up
the stump with linen, and, all unaided, Nicolas went to lie down on the
straw.
"One more finished! Sponge the table well, Dubois, and let us go on to
another," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large bowl.
Each time that he said, "Let us go on to another," the wounded moved
uneasily, terrified by the screams they heard and the glittering knives
they saw. But what was to be done? Every room in the farm, the
granary, and the lofts was full. They were thus obliged to operate
under the eyes of those who would soon in their turns come beneath the
painful knife.
The operation had taken but a few seconds. Materne and his sons looked
on for the same reason as one looks at other horrible things,--to know
what they are like. Then in the corner, under the old china clock,
they saw a heap of amputated limbs.
Nicolas's arm had already been cast among them, and a ball was now
being extracted from the shoulder of a red-whiskered mountaineer of the
Harberg. They opened deep gashes in his back; his flesh quivered, and
the blood coursed down his powerful limbs.
The dog Pluto, behind the doctor, looked on with an attentive air, as
though he understood, and from time to time stretched himself and
yawned loudly.
Materne could look on no longer.
"Let us get out of this," said he.
Hardly were they outside the door, when they heard the doctor exclaim,
"I have got the ball!" which must indeed have been satisfactory to the
man from the Harberg.
Once outside, Materne, inhaling the cold air with, delight, exclaimed:
"Only think that the same might have happened to us!"
"True," said Kasper; "to get a ball in one's head is nothing; but to be
cut up in that style, and then to beg one's bread for the rest of one's
days!"
"Bah! I should do the same as old Rochart," said Frantz. "I should
die quietly. The old fellow was right. When one has done one's duty,
why should one be afraid?"
Just then the hum of voices was heard on their right.
"It is Marc Dives and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.
"Yes; they must be just returning from throwing up breastworks behind
the pine-wood, to protect the cannon," added Frantz.
They listened again; the footsteps came nearer.
"Thou must be very much bothered with these three prisoners," said
Hullin, roughly. "Since thou returnest to the Falkenstein to-night to
get ammunition, what prevents thee from taking them away?"
"Where are they to be put?"
"Why, in the communal prison of Abreschwiller, to be sure. We cannot
keep them here."
"All right, I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they try to escape on
the way, I am to use my sword?"
"Just so."
By this time they had reached the door, and Hullin, perceiving Materne,
could not suppress a shout of enthusiasm: "Ah! Is it thou, old fellow?
I have been searching for thee an hour. Where the devil wert thou?"
"We have been carrying poor Rochart to the ambulance, Jean-Claude."
"Ah! it is a sad affair, isn't it?"
"Yes; it is sad."
There was a moment's pause, and the satisfaction of the worthy man
again became visible.
"It is not at all lively," said he; "but what is to be done when one
goes to the war? You are not hurt any of you?"
"No; we are all three safe and sound."
"So much the better. Those who are left can boast of being lucky."
"True," cried Marc Dives, laughing. "At one time I thought Materne was
going to give way. Without those cannon-balls at the finish, things
would have gone badly."
Materne colored, and glanced sideways at the smuggler.
"Perhaps so," said he, dryly; "but without the cannon-balls at the
beginning, we should not have needed those at the end. Old Rochart,
and fifty other brave men, would still have had their arms and legs,
and our victory would not have been clouded."
"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, anticipating a dispute between the two brave
fellows, neither of whom was remarkable for his conciliatory
disposition. "Leave that alone. Every one has done his duty; and that
is the chief thing."
Then, addressing Materne: "I have just sent a flag of truce to Framont,
to bid the Germans carry away their wounded. In an hour, I dare say,
they will be here. Our sentries must be warned to let them approach if
they come without arms and with torches. If in any other way, let them
be received with a volley."
"I will go at once," answered the old hunter.
"Materne, thou wilt afterward sup at the farm with thy boys."
"Agreed, Jean-Claude."
And he went off.
Hullin then bade Frantz and Kasper light great bivouac fires; Marc was
at once to feed his horses, so that he might go without delay to
procure ammunition. Seeing them hurrying away, Hullin turned into the
farm.