_27th._--Fine warm morning. Started early after an excellent
breakfast of coffee and _et ceteras_. Our orders were to rejoin
the grand column at Ugny l’Equippée; but we had not gone far from
Etreillers when two roads, branching off in different directions,
brought us to a halt. Lord Greenock came up just at the moment, and
blamed me for not bringing a guide from the village--“Better late
than never.” I took the hint, and sent Trumpeter Brown back with
orders to bring the first person he could lay hands on, _nolens
volens_. He went his way and brought back _a tailor_, escorting him
like a prisoner with his drawn sabre. Not knowing why he was thus
forcibly taken from his home, the poor tailor appeared terribly
alarmed--imploring mercy even with tears. When told, however, what
was expected of him, he soon became tranquil; so, sticking him at
the head of the column, we jogged on again. At Ugny l’Equippée we
rejoined the column and dismissed our tailor, slipping into the main
stream as heretofore. We now learned that the army was about to cross
the Somme, and soon felt that it was actually engaged in so doing
from our long and tedious halts--there being but one ford, which
made the operation a very slow one. As we drew near the river the
country improved somewhat, became more undulating and more wooded,
consequently prettier.
The Somme here is but a small stream; flat meadows extend some little
way on each side, and are bordered by moderate hills, running out
here and there into knolls. The point chosen for our passage was a
ford just above a mill on the road to Nesle. Péronne having been
taken yesterday by General Maitland’s brigade of Guards, the only
enemy we heard of in our vicinity was the garrison of Ham, and they
could scarcely have opposed our passage even had they not been shut
up by a brigade of light infantry and a troop of horse-artillery
(Ross’s), which had been sent to summon them. The different divisions
of cavalry, infantry, and artillery, winding down the swelling
knolls, some of which were prettily wooded, and the picturesque
groups of staff and other officers on the points of these knolls,
superintending the passage of their respective brigades, &c., formed
altogether an animated and pleasing picture, although not much could
be said for the beauty of the country on the opposite side of the
river, which looked cheerless enough. It was in one of those groups,
and the most picturesque of them--for they were German hussars--that
I recognised and shook hands with my friend General Victor Alten,
whom I had not seen for more than three years. An interesting
meeting, for he was surrounded by a number of other old acquaintances
of the 2d Hussars.
A foot-bridge at the mill enabled the infantry to file over; but we
had to ford, and got a tolerable wetting, for the water was up to
our saddle-skirts. On the other side, about a mile from the river,
we reached Nesle, the intervening country enclosed but not wooded,
consequently much more ugly and uninteresting than if it had been
open. Nesle is a dismal, dirty town, situated on an eminence of no
great elevation, and perfectly in character with the melancholy
country around it.
This is the first town we have marched through in France. I think it
must have been market-day, from the number of people in the streets;
yet not the slightest apprehension or agitation appeared; and, as we
passed along, the market-people merely turned up their heads, and the
shopkeepers came to their doors to gaze on us, much as if we had been
marching through Exeter, or any other English town accustomed to see
troops.
Since crossing the Somme, the army has marched more cautiously than
hitherto, consequently we have been all day with our brigade. At
Nesle we got on a chaussée, bordered on each side by large elms,
consequently forming a fine avenue; the country on either side
without enclosures and not interesting, although better wooded than
immediately about that town. Roye was ahead of us, but when within a
few miles of it the head of our column led off the chaussée, crossing
the fields by a by-road, and then another chaussée, Péronne to Paris,
until we gained the village of Goyencour, situated in a pretty,
because well-wooded, country. This village, like most of those we
have hitherto passed through, is composed of a number of farmhouses
scattered over a large space, and embowered amongst orchards and some
of the finest linden-trees I ever saw.
The Life Guards and my troop are all housed, so that we are fortunate
again. For my part, I am quartered on a small shop, which, however,
is very clean; and we have excellent beds, Newland and I. In front
of the house an open space affords good room to draw up our guns,
&c., adjoining which are the very pretty pleasure-grounds of a
handsome villa, seen through a stately avenue of lindens. This place
belongs to some lady, who it seems has taken to flight on hearing of
our approach, leaving, however, her butler and some other servants
behind; so that Lord Edward, who has taken up his quarters there,
is as comfortable as he could wish to be. I have just returned from
dining with him, and a better dinner, dessert, and wines,[1] it is
impossible to have enjoyed. What a treat in the midst of a campaign
to enjoy such a party. Besides his lordship’s personal staff, there
were the two colonels of the Life Guards. The front of the house,
having part of the pleasure-ground (it might almost be called a
park) in the fore, has the town of Roye in the distance; a pretty
terrace with aloes in vases and other choice shrubs occupies the
space immediately under the windows, which, opening to the ground,
admit one into a suite of elegantly-furnished rooms. Lord Edward
was perfectly at home, and did the honours as if the house were his,
and so did the butler and other servants. A quieter, better-ordered
dinner, and more excellent, I repeat, could not be.
Lord Edward had heard that, after a little show of resistance, Ham
had surrendered this morning; and we were speculating over our
first glass of wine on the probability of reaching Paris without
resistance, when an officer of the Life Guards came in to report
that a strong corps of cavalry had been seen amongst the woods about
a mile from the village. As his lordship knew positively that the
main body of the French force was retreating before the Prussians,
who had got a march ahead of us, he contented himself with ordering
out a strong detachment to reconnoitre, and we continued at table.
In the course of the evening the detachment returned, and a report
was brought in that they had ascertained that the cavalry seen was a
corps of about 600 men, composed of deserters from the French army;
and these people, taking advantage of the present state of affairs,
have been plundering and levying contributions in all the villages,
and even towns, throughout this country--that the inhabitants of
Amiens itself are greatly alarmed, and have been anxiously expecting
our arrival as their only protection against these brigands--a French
population actually hailing the arrival of their English invaders
with joy! Not knowing what these desperadoes may attempt, we have
doubled our guards. The division is ordered to be on the alert, and
patrols are established for the night. I shall undress and enjoy my
nice clean bed, nevertheless.
_28th._--A fine morning, after a quiet night, notwithstanding
the banditti. Marched early to Roye by a cross-road bordered by
apple-trees. Here we rejoined the main column, and got upon the
chaussée to Paris by Pont St Maxence, &c., a fine broad road as
usual, the middle paved (rather roughly) with a summer or unpaved
road on each side, the whole bordered by noble elms, and generally
a perfectly straight direction: tiresome this from the long vistas
which open on one from the summit of every elevation. The country
on either hand flat and covered with corn as usual, but had nothing
of the wearying sameness of that I so much complained of a day or
two ago; for here it was prettily broken by woods and villages, and
the distance, instead of terminating with the fringe of apple-trees,
presents an interesting range of blue hills. This day’s march,
however, has not been marked by any occurrence, either of scenery
or adventure, worthy of notice. Towards evening, when Lord Edward
was about to establish his night-quarters, he directed me to leave
the chaussée to take possession of a little place about a quarter
of a mile off; and here I am in Mortemer, perhaps one of the most
miserable hamlets in all the country. Its short straggling street
of poor cottages we found quite deserted, and they have taken away
everything that could be useful to us, leaving only the walls
and roofs. These cottages are built of rough limestone, and the
interiors we have found so filthy and full of vermin, that, one
and all, we have preferred to bivouac in the orchards ourselves,
and have put our horses into the houses; straw spread under guns
and ammunition-waggons, with the painted covers closing them in to
windward, forms no despicable sleeping-place. One of my drivers,
rummaging about, has discovered a vast quantity of excellent
household linen buried under the floor. Several other discoveries
of this sort have been made; but I have strictly forbidden anything
being touched, only leaving these _caches_ open that the natives
may know they have not deceived us, but are beholden to us for
our moderation. Had we depended on Mortemer, we should have gone
supperless to bed; but Mr Coates has been so successful in foraging
the neighbourhood, that both man and horse have fared sumptuously.
_29th._--Since yesterday the character of the country has been
insensibly changing: country-houses with extensive gardens and
pleasure-grounds, and a more careful style of architecture, seem to
indicate an approach to the capital. The villages, too, alas! in my
estimation, are changed for the worse--the large thatched farmhouses,
barns, &c., and rural cottages, scattered amongst orchards and
verdure, have given place to regular streets of three-storey houses.
Pieces of towns--surely not villages--these! Mortemer was an
exception. The scenery, too, has improved: features more bold and
varied, better wooded, and habitations more numerous. The chain of
blue hills seen yesterday continues to bound the southern horizon.
The first village we passed after leaving Mortemer was almost
entirely composed of respectable houses standing in gardens, and
having lofty iron railings (_grilles_) to the street. I think this
was Cuvilly. Hitchins and I breakfasted as usual, _en chemin_. We
find this a good plan, marching as we do so early. Each of us has
his cold salt-beef and biscuit in his havresack, and weak grog in
his canteen. The troop fairly started, we drop astern a little, the
Doctor produces the profits of his evening’s forage in the shape of
hard-boiled eggs, &c. I have seldom enjoyed anything more than these
ambulatory breakfasts in the cool refreshing air of a calm morning. A
cigar always concludes my repast, and prolongs the pleasure of it.
After travelling some distance through the sort of country just
spoken of, we again emerged upon a high and open tract of corn,
and in a hollow some way in front saw the neat village of Gournay,
forming a broad street of clean-looking buff cottages, all, I think,
slated. Here we stumbled upon the first traces of our allies the
Prussians, who bivouacked (at least some of their corps) last night
upon these heights. Of all disgusting objects in the world, there is
perhaps none more so than the deserted bivouac--the ground everywhere
covered with half-extinguished fires, broken jugs, &c., bits of rags,
shreds of uniforms, straw trampled in the miry soil, remnants of
food of all sorts, &c. In histories of war and warlike operations,
the pomp and glitter and excitement are all that present themselves
to our mind’s eye, whilst the bivouac, the battle-field encumbered
with carnage and misery, the hospital with its heartrending scenes,
the plundered cottage, the brutal outrage, and a thousand other
disgusting and harrowing episodes, are carefully slurred over if
touched upon, but more generally never produced. Up to this moment
I have actually not known with what part of the army we have
been marching. As far as I could see, we have had an apparently
interminable column ahead and astern of us; now, however, I find we
are with the advance.
A few paces from the highroad, and in the midst of the bivouac (at
the point from whence we obtain sight of Gournay) stood a monument
of Republican and Prussian revenge--pitiful revenge!--such as,
having enacted, a schoolboy would blush at--the mausoleum of some
illustrious lady, whom a long inscription, in the true French style
of mawkish sentiment, told us “had been lovely in person and elegant
in mind--that, soaring above superstition, she eschewed the folly
of laying her bones in _consecrated_ ground, choosing rather to
lie overshadowed in death by those trees of which she had been so
enamoured (_passionné_) whilst living,” &c. The monument was a stone
pyramid, standing in a small square space enclosed by an embankment,
and planted round with acacias. The Prussians had cut down the trees,
nearly levelled the embankment, and made a fruitless attempt at
destroying the pyramid itself. Descending from this eminence by a
long but gradual slope, we entered Gournay after crossing a little
stream tumbling from the heights. This certainly is the neatest and
cleanest place we have seen in France; pity it is, however, that
it stands so bare--scarcely a bush to be seen. I don’t know how
it happened, but when we reached Gournay we were ahead of almost
everybody. About the middle of the long village several well-dressed
persons were standing at the door of an auberge, attentively watching
our advance. As we approached they hurried forward to meet us,
eagerly demanding when the Duke of Wellington would come up. Now
I suspected the report which we heard yesterday--of Paris having
surrendered to the Prussians, and that Buonaparte had fled--might be
true, and that these people were deputies sent to avert the wrath
of the conqueror; so, addressing myself to the principal person,
a short, square-built, rather pursy man, wearing some decoration,
I asked if it were so, and when we might arrive there. My friend,
drawing himself up, and affecting an air of contempt, exclaimed
aloud, “_Paris se rendre?_--non, monsieur, n’y contez pas! il faut
passer sur les corps de 200,000 hommes, avant d’y arriver,” at the
same time coming close up, and tapping me on the knee, he whispered,
“_Mais si votre Duc de Vellintone traitera, il tient la bonté à
ses pieds, et fera tout ce qui lui plaira_.” I thanked him for the
confidence, told him I knew nothing about the Duke, which made him
stare, and rode on.[2]
Leaving Gournay, the country became more pleasing, because more
wooded, and the fields generally enclosed by hedges. This style of
scenery continued until it brought us to the valley of the Oise, by
far the most interesting part of France we had yet seen. How can I
describe my feelings when it first opened out before me? How, alas!
can I describe the scene itself? But to see and feel it aright
one must first have passed over the monotonous melancholy country
extending almost uninterruptedly from Nivelles to the Oise--must have
had the retina so imbued with the eternal brown and yellow of that
ocean of corn as to see everything of a yellow or jaundiced hue--then
he may imagine somewhat of the pleasurable relief with which the
eye rested for the first time on the lovely scenery and refreshing
verdure of this charming valley. The ground, descending by a gradual
slope on our side, ran into a vast succession of most beautiful
green meadows, everywhere adorned with magnificent elms, either
standing detached, or in groups, or in rows. Beyond these, at about
a mile from us, ran the Oise--a broad stream, sometimes exhibiting
its sparkling surface nearly on a level with the meadows, at others
encased between steep banks of some height. Immediately above the
river rose a bold range of hills, thickly wooded from the river-banks
to their summit. To the right and left this sort of scenery continued
until further view was shut out by the overlapping hills. The road by
which we travelled ran straight as a line across the meadows; and at
the point where it appeared to cross the river was a pretty-looking
little town, Pont St Maxence, partly on one bank, partly on the
other. If we were to be opposed, there I thought is the position in
which the French await us, and tough work we shall have of it. These
ideas occurred to me as we descended toward the meadows; and as the
corps in advance of us approached the town, I momentarily expected
to see flashes and smoke issuing from masked batteries in the
opposite woods; and it now struck me for the first time as a singular
circumstance that cavalry should be allowed to advance alone in
the face of such a position, for we had considerably outmarched the
infantry. Of course the Duke knew there would be no opposition; and
yet it was difficult to imagine what then had become of the French
force, which we knew was retiring before us--of the 200,000 men our
friend at Gournay had spoken of. No opposition was there. Instead of
finding the banks of the Oise garnished with cannon and bristling
with bayonets--instead of broken-up roads and inundated fields, woods
full of riflemen and the town of grenadiers--instead of all this,
we found a peaceable population in a lovely country, labourers in
their fields and fishermen on the rivers, whilst flocks and herds
pastured in quiet security on the verdant carpet which overspread
the plain. The little town of Pont St Maxence looked cheerful and
pretty as we approached it, lying partly on one side of the river,
partly on the other. The wooded hills rose abruptly over it, the
lower part of their slopes interspersed with pretty villas, standing
amongst vineyards and in gardens, with terraced walks overhanging the
scenery below. After marching all day in a hot sun, what a feeling of
coolness and enjoyment was conveyed in the appearance of the large
open windows and shady balconies, draperied with clematis and other
elegant creepers, of these sylvan villas! It appears that the bridge
had been broken down last year, and never repaired. To do this a
detachment of the staff corps was pushed forward either yesterday
or early this morning; but when we reached the end of the town they
had not yet rendered it passable, and we were ordered to take post
in the neighbouring splendid meadows, where, expecting to remain
all night, we commenced at once establishing ourselves. Several
troops of horse-artillery and some regiments of cavalry were already
up, and others of all arms were continually arriving. The horses,
unharnessed and watered, were already feeding, fires were lighted,
kettles on, and every one was congratulating himself on having halted
on so charming a spot. Thus settled, I strayed into the garden of a
neighbouring mill, full of fine currants and cherries, to which the
pretty _meunière_ not only bade me welcome, but even herself helped
me to the best fruit. I was just in the height of enjoyment of the
delicious coolness of the fruit, and the piquant badinage of my
companion, when suddenly the “boot-and-saddle” re-echoed through the
valley, and a confused hum of voices arose simultaneously from every
bivouac. With hurried thanks I took leave of my “Maid of the Mill,”
and hastened back to my people, expecting every moment a fire would
open upon us from the opposite woods, having no idea that so sudden
an alert could proceed from any other cause than the approach of the
enemy.
In a moment our horses were reharnessed, the nose-bags with the
unconsumed part of their feed attached again to the saddles,
officers’ baggage replaced on the mules, the kettles, with the
half-cooked messes in them, suspended under the carriages, and all
was ready to move. Corps after corps filed out of the meadows and
took the road to the town; we followed the general movement, which
we now learned was occasioned by the coming up of the infantry, who
were to occupy the ground we left, whilst the cavalry was to push
on beyond the river as long as daylight lasted. Still no word of an
enemy.
The broken bridge had been repaired by the staff corps in so
temporary a manner, that the very first detachment of hussars who
passed deranged it so much as to render it quite unsafe, and we had
to dismount at the entrance of the town and wait a full hour ere
it was again rendered passable. This bridge, with its right-lined
top, was to me an extraordinarily beautiful piece of architecture;
and there is a charm in this right-line which I could not have
imagined. The little town was all bustle, every auberge crammed with
officers enjoying the luxuries of the French cuisine and vintage.
At last the bridge was reported safe, and we recommenced our march,
regretting the necessity which prevented our seeing more of this
lovely place. Immediately on crossing, we turned to the right and
pursued a tolerably good road winding about the foot of the wooded
heights, which on the one hand rose immediately above us, whilst the
silver Oise glided tranquilly along its course on the other. About a
mile, or perhaps more, from Pont St Maxence, we quitted the river,
and turning up a beautiful ravine, the slopes of which were partly
covered with wood, partly with the rich foliage of the vineyards, we
pushed into the bosom of the hills, quitting with regret this sweet
river. It is impossible to imagine anything more beautiful than this
evening’s march. The picturesque scenery of the ravine; the clearness
and serenity of the sky; the warm colouring thrown over the one side
of the ravine by the declining sun opposed to the deep purply tones
of the other; the various and varied picturesque military groups
reposing on the turf by the way-side, or winding along amongst the
vineyards, altogether formed a picture, or rather a succession of
pictures, perfectly ravishing. Never shall I forget this evening!
The sun had set some time when we reached the village of Verneuil,
which was to be the termination of this day’s journey. Seated in the
bosom of the hills, now veiled in a purply obscurity, intermingled
with that yellowish hazy light always succeeding a warm sunset, the
place looked beautiful. Several corps had already halted--some had
taken possession of the houses, barns, &c., others bivouacked amongst
the vineyards. Immediately about the village were large gardens
enclosed by stone walls, and it was some time before I could make up
my mind to invade these. There was no alternative, however. We could
not remain in the road; the only fields I saw were covered with rich
crops of wheat ready for the sickle, and even these could not be
approached but through the gardens. The great gates of one of these
were immediately forced open, and, trampling under foot artichokes,
asparagus, &c., and flowers, we reached the field after a struggle
through the _eschalots_ of an intervening vineyard, which, with the
vines and their fruit, were miserably crushed beneath our gun-wheels
and horses’ feet. I could not but regret this devastation, though it
could not be avoided. The wheat shared the fate of the artichokes,
and we soon established ourselves on it, surrounded as with a wood by
the tall stalks of what was still standing.
What a splendid Rembrandt-like picture presented itself from this
spot: the valley buried in hazy obscurity; the whitened dwellings,
just made out, scattered over the slopes of the hills, whose bold
outlines, one of them crowned by a ruined castle, cut strongly
against the glowing but gradually fading tints of the clearest sky.
In the farm just by we have found stabling for our own horses and
lodging for some of our people. But the evening is so fine that I
infinitely prefer the field. Seated on the ground with a lantern by
my side, I scribble my notes in comfort; but an attempt has just
been made to turn us out even from this humble abode--an officer
of hussars with an order from General Grant to quit the ground
immediately, as he wants it for his hussars. Good man! he thinks a
9-pounder or its ammunition waggon as easily moved as a hussar and
his horse. It proved, however, a mere bugbear--he wanted the house
and stables; and his emissary having full power to treat, the affair
is amicably arranged by our giving up the stable.
_30th._--Fine morning again. Quitted with regret this lovely
country, and climbing the hills by a steep gravelly road, gained the
plateau--covered with corn as usual, but here diversified by a pretty
sprinkling of trees. Lieutenant Breton, who slept at the farmhouse
last night, gives a bad account of our hussars, who, not content with
living at free quarters, completely sacked it this morning before
they marched--one of their officers taking away a beautiful pony in
spite of the old farmer’s entreaties, who begged with tears in his
eyes that it might be spared, since it was a pet of the whole family.
The pony, however, marched.
After marching some distance on this plateau by very good gravelly
cross-roads, we rejoined the chaussée from Pont St Maxence to Senlis,
and soon after began descending towards the latter place, which is
separated from the former by this ridge of hills, covered in most
parts by the forest of Balatte. Though not to be compared to Pont St
Maxence in point of situation, yet Senlis stands in a pretty country,
well wooded, surrounded by fine meadows, watered by the little
crystal Nonette. Just beyond the town, on the Paris side, commences
the forest of Pontarme, a continuation of that of Chantilly. Senlis
being the first place of any importance through which we have passed,
was of course approached with much interest, and this was heightened
by its picturesque appearance: antique walls, pierced by an arched
gateway, the summit decayed and irregular, fringed with verdure.
Spires, and lofty houses showing themselves above it, appeared to
advantage through the foliage of the trees, which ran scattering and
in clumps up to the very gate, through which crowds of peasantry,
with little carts and asses laden with the produce of their farms,
were passing to the market. When we passed in our turn, we found
the street so thronged that it was with difficulty we could get
along, for the market was held in it. The passage of our column,
threading its way through the crowd of stalls and baskets of poultry,
vegetables, &c., did not seem to excite any very lively emotion, or
to interrupt the business of the day. Some of the more idle, or more
curious, left their stalls to get a nearer look at _les Anglais_.
Nothing like apprehension was visible even among the women, and the
boys were as bold and familiar as usual. Here and there I heard a
shout of “Vive le Roi!” once or twice it looked in earnest. To try
the sincerity of this versatile people, I stooped in passing near
some of the most vociferous, and in a subdued tone treated them to
“Vive l’Empereur!” The result was always the same--staring first
at me, then at each other, with a sly expression of countenance,
some one of them, slapping me on the thigh, would reply in the same
tone, “Mais oui, monsieur, vive l’Empereur--vive Napoleon! C’est
bon, monsieur, c’est bon--vive l’Empereur!” seemingly delighted at
being able to express their true sentiments. This might have been
mere fun, certainly, but I thought them in earnest. I found this the
case everywhere. To us they were never backward in avowing their
attachment to Buonaparte or their hatred of the Bourbons, of _Louis
le Cochon_. The animated scene in the streets prevented me paying
much attention to the town. The impression I retain of it is, that
it is gloomy and the streets narrow; but that there are many most
respectable-looking houses, some of them very prettily situated
amongst shrubbery, and particularly one just as we left the town
and crossed the Nonette--the long open windows of which enabled us
to peep into spacious and handsomely-furnished apartments, looking
most deliciously cool. Just beyond the town we overtook the rear
of the Prussian baggage, escorted by a corps of lancers, whose
simple and serviceable costume pleased me much: plain blue frocks,
buttoned close up to the throat,[3] and drab trousers or overalls;
not a particle of ornament, nor a superfluous article about their
appointments. I think they are the most soldier-like looking fellows
I have ever seen. This is our first meeting with any of their army
since the 18th. Continuing our route through the forest of Pontarme,
we soon came out on a more open but still well-wooded country--the
chaussée constantly bordered and overshadowed by lofty elms, the
cross-roads by apple, pear, and cherry trees, all now loaded with
fruit. Here a sudden and disagreeable change took place in the aspect
of the towns and villages. We had got on the route of the Prussian
army, which was everywhere marked by havoc and desolation. What a
contrast! In Senlis, a few miles back, all was peace, plenty, and
confidence,--here traces of war in its most horrid form, desolation
and desertion. The inhabitants had everywhere fled, and we found
naught but empty houses. Troops and their usual followers were the
only human beings we saw now. The village of Loures,[4] where we
arrived about noon, presented a horrid picture of devastation. A
corps of Prussians halted there last night, and, excepting the walls
of the houses, have utterly destroyed it. The doors and windows torn
out and consumed at the bivouac-fire--a similar fate seems to have
befallen furniture of every kind, except a few chairs, and even
sofas, which the soldiers had reserved for their own use, and left
standing about in the gardens and orchards, or, in some places,
had given a parting kick to, for many had fallen forward on the
embers of the bivouac-fires, and lay partially consumed. Clothes
and household linen, beds, curtains, and carpets, torn to rags, or
half-burned, lay scattered about in all directions. The very road
was covered with rags, feathers, fragments of broken furniture,
earthenware, glass, &c. Large chests of drawers, _armoires_, stood
about broken or burned. The very floors had been pulled up and the
walls disfigured in every possible way. It were needless to add that
no human being was to be seen amidst this desolation. It was with
no small pleasure I found we were not to halt amid this disgusting
scene, as I expected, but to move on somewhat farther; and with still
greater pleasure I received the order to quit the chaussée for the
village of Chenevière,[5] about a mile to the left. This removing us
out of the Prussian line of march, we hoped to find things somewhat
better. The village, like most others we have seen, consisted of a
number of farmhouses with their barns and outbuildings, &c., all
standing amidst orchards and gardens--the whole surrounded by corn,
corn, corn! The place, I should think, has not been visited by the
Prussians, for no pillage or destruction is to be seen; but it is
deserted--not a soul except our soldiers to be seen. Besides our
brigade of cavalry, two or three other troops of horse-artillery
are here, so that the place is pretty full; and as we are among the
latest arrivals, we have not got under cover, but are bivouacking in
a very nice orchard, separated from the village street by some large
open sheds; but as the weather is fine, and probably from habit,
my people have _littered themselves down_ as usual under their guns
instead of profiting by these--this they are enabled to do very
comfortably here, for there is no want of straw. The people, in their
retreat, seem to have taken little with them, except their animals,
so that we have all kinds of pots and pans, jugs, basins, &c., _ad
libitum_. In short, we should be pretty comfortable but for one want,
and that a most important one. The weather is dreadfully hot, and we
have scarcely any water; there is but one good well in the place,
and that has been surrounded by a crowd ever since we arrived. It is
impossible to imagine what a gloom this throws over everything: were
it not for the abundance of ripe cherries growing along the roadsides
(not of the best flavour, but juicy), we must have suffered to-day
terribly from thirst in this burnt-up plain. The corn (standing) is
almost bleached--it should have been cut long ago.