LES VOLONTAIRES DE CLERMONT.
My handsome grey trooper was bestrode by a dapper little French
sous-lieutenant, who seemed to enjoy the ride amazingly, all the more
that I, a _sacré Anglais_, trudged by his side in my boots, secured
to the stirrup-leather by a cord.
Fords on the river there were none near; thus, as we were marched
off, we knew that all the courage of our comrades, and the skill and
energy of Colonel Preston, could avail us nothing. Of all my party I
was the most depressed; but big Hob Elliot was the most vituperative,
and swore at our bad luck and at our captors, in terms which
fortunately they did not understand.
"The devil!" he muttered; "if they discover 'twas I who encountered
their favourite Prince Xavier, and gave him that Lockerbie lick in
front of the 51st, they will shoot me off hand like a hoodiecrow."
"Unless we tell them, they can never know; and if they did, your
fears are unnecessary, Hob. The French are too brave to resent what
was done in fair fight."
"Gude wot, I did all I could to spare the puir body. My father, who
was a smith at Cannobie, in Liddesdale, used to say that 'mony a
stout trooper has been lost for lack of a nail;' but, by the horns o'
auld Clootie, here are ten of us and a cornet lost for lack of a
little prudence."
"Prudence--a nail--what the devil are you talking about, Hob?" said
I, angrily.
"Weel, sir, for lack of a nail the shoe was lost, and for lack of the
shoe the horse; and for want of his horse the trooper came to grief,
being overtaken in his boots and slain by the enemy. And all this
came aboot by the lack of a nail in his horse's shoe--sae quoth my
faither the smith."
"And thus, Hob, if I understand your parable, you think that for lack
of a little prudence you have all lost your liberty, and I my
promotion and liberty for years to come?"
"Just so. Had we gone threes about at the time I ventured to hint
it, we would have been on the other side of the river wi' auld
Geordie Preston just now. But as for years, sir, dinna speak o'
years," he exclaimed, clenching a huge bony hand that must often have
swung the great hammer in his father's forge, and at the village
games: "there is not a prison in a' France, e'en the _Basteel_
itsel', that will haud Hob Elliot gin he wants to win oot."
My anger at Shirley was deep--too deep for me to express to my
companions in misfortune. I remembered how he had withheld the
letter of Aurora, from the time we were quartered in Alphen, until
the morning of Minden; how, on this very day, he had smilingly warned
me to remember that the bridge of Freyenthal was undermined; how I
had seen him gesticulating with our unwilling men, and had witnessed
their most evident hesitation ere he snatched the match from one and
sprung the mine!
I saw more clearly than ever that he loved my cousin; that he viewed,
or thought he viewed in me a rival, and believed that he had now
fully provided for me for some time at least, if not for ever, as few
could tell what might be the dangers and contingencies of a military
imprisonment in France.
Then occurred an idea under which I writhed anew. That after
enduring perhaps years of captivity--years during which my comrades
of the Greys would be playing the great game of war and glory--years
that would see my brother subalterns all captains and field-officers,
I might be transmitted with others home to find myself a cornet
still, and a penniless one too, while, probably, Shirley the
poltroon, who had worked me as much evil (just as his brother had
done poor Charters) might be the husband of Aurora, and the
proprietor of my patrimony--of Netherwood, its hall and fields, wood
and wold!
With this chain of thought burning within me I turned fiercely and
looked back to the old tower of Freyenthal. Across the snow-clad
landscape it was distinctly visible, with a group of redcoats near
it; but I was not permitted to loiter, as a tug of the cord which
secured me to my horse warned me that the rider was impatient, and
compelled me to trudge on.
We soon reached the train of waggons which were halted in the ravine,
and amid the cracking of whips, and much noisy congratulation and
laughter, the escort of the Volontaires de Clermont resumed their
route, we knew not and cared not whither.
Among the officers who accompanied this party I observed one, a
fair-haired young man, of very prepossessing aspect, who checked his
horse for a moment, and regarded me attentively.
"Monsieur l'officier," said he, lifting his hat, "we have surely had
the pleasure of meeting before?"
"You were one of those who came with the flag of truce to Minden,"
said I, responding to his salute.
"Exactly, monsieur--for the body of Prince Xavier--ah, diable! a sad
business that was" (at the prince's name Hob Elliot looked about him
as if preparing to fight or flee). "I am M. Monjoy, of the French
Engineer department."
I bowed, on which he again uncovered his head, with that genuine
politeness and grace which were so charming in the French officers of
the old school.
"Monsieur le lieutenant," said he, turning sharply to the dapper
little subaltern who had assumed a right of property in my person,
and saying something--I know not what--rapidly in French. On this,
the cord which secured me to the stirrup-leather of my own saddle was
undone, and I was permitted to march at my ease; but the horse itself
my captor resolutely refused to give up.
I found the young engineer Monjoy a very pleasant companion. He was
grave, earnest, and rational--quite unlike Boisguiller and many other
French officers whom I had met. He held out hopes that I should soon
be exchanged (so much the worse for _you_, Major Shirley, thought I),
as we had so many of King Louis' officers in our hands, among the
5000 prisoners taken in the town of Minden. He said many other
cheering things, and insisted on sharing with me the contents of his
haversack (German sausage and biscuits) and of his canteen; and I
remained by his side, during a long, slow, and bitterly cold day's
march, which brought us to the little town of Ysembourg, whose prince
had been slain at the battle of Minden.
His castle, a famous old fortress, crowns the summit of a hill near
Corbach. The French standard was flying on it, and there, next
morning, we were conducted with several other prisoners, chiefly
Black Hussars of the Prussian army, under an escort of the
Volontaires de Clermont.
The morning was chilly and depressing; a dense frosty mist covered
all the ground; we were without cloaks, without breakfast, cold and
miserable; and gloomily we looked at each other as we trod up the
snow-clad hill, passing several ancient iron-mines, till we neared
the gate of the castle, at which stood two sentinels of the Regiment
de Bretagne, muffled in their greatcoats, all whitened by the
frost-rime, which seemed to have edged their three-cocked hats as
with silver lace.
While we were ascending, one of our escort suddenly perceived a ring
on my right hand. It was the emerald given to me by Jacqueline on
that morning when first we met--when I had saved her life near St.
Malo; and now the rascal demanded it at once and most peremptorily
too.
I declined to comply, on which, with great deliberation, he cocked
his piece, drew his thumb-nail across the edge of the flint, to
ensure its not missing fire, and deliberately placed the muzzle to my
head. Whether or not the fellow would have dared to shoot an officer
who was a prisoner of war, I cannot say, but on finding myself so
vehemently pressed I drew off the ring, which he at once clutched,
and put in his haversack, with a laugh and an oath, little foreseeing
how dear the bauble was to cost him.
At that moment a blow from behind stretched him on the earth. It was
dealt by the clenched hand of Hob Elliot, who, poor fellow, ran
imminent danger, for a dozen of fixed bayonets were directly levelled
at him breast high, and he would have been instantly immolated, had
not an officer of rank, accompanied by M. Gervais Monjoy, rushed
forward from the castle-gate, by their influence and authority to
stop the brawl.
In the officer I recognised the count who had come with Monjoy for
Prince Xavier's body, and who had been so deeply moved on beholding
his remains exhumed on the field.
To him I was about to prefer a complaint of the robbery, when he
hurriedly turned away, having other matters to attend to, and I was
left with the plunderer, who had divined my intention, and tapping
the butt of his firelock, gave me a threatening grimace, so much as
to say, "Beware!"
Soon after this I was conducted into an ante-room, and thus separated
from the rest of the prisoners, who were marched into the interior of
the castle.
As the ten men of the Greys left me, each came forward in succession
and saluted me as I shook hands with them all, and some said--
"God bless you, sir; I hope we shall soon meet again."
A hope--save in one instance--never realized by these worthy fellows,
as nine of them died in French prisons, I know not where or
how--probably at Bitsche or Verdun.
The room in which I found myself appeared to be a kind of
ante-chamber. Its windows were barred, and a sentinel with his
bayonet fixed paced to and fro monotonously outside. Within were
tables littered with letters, order-books, and several orderlies with
canes and sidearms were loitering about on forms and benches.
"Who commands here?" I inquired of one.
"Monseigneur le Duc de Broglie," replied the soldier, with a polite
bow; "this château of the prince of Ysembourg is his head-quarters,
and in a few minutes monsieur will have the honour of being brought
before him."
At that moment I heard a voice at some distance say, with a tone of
authority,
"Monsieur le Comte de Bourgneuf, _bring in your prisoner_."
At this unpleasant conjunction of names I felt my heart beat quick,
and then I saw the colonel of the Regiment de Bretagne, the
stern-looking bearer of the flag of truce, beckoning me follow him.
I did so, and in another moment found myself in the presence of the
famous Maréchal Duc de Broglie--the father of Jacqueline!