Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

‘The Austrians would seem to have been as much deceived as ourselves, sir,’ said an old artillery sergeant to me, as I strolled along the walls at nightfall. ‘The pickets last night were close to the glacis, but see, now they have fallen back a gunshot or more.’

‘But they had time enough since to have resumed their old position,’ said I, half doubting the accuracy of the surmise.

‘Time enough, parbleu! I should think so too! but when the white-coats manoeuvre, they write to Vienna to ask, “What’s to be done next?”’

This passing remark, in which, with all its exaggeration, there lay a germ of truth, was the universal judgment of our soldiers on those of the Imperial army; and to the prevalence of the notion may be ascribed much of that fearless indifference with which small divisions of ours attacked whole army corps of the enemy. Bonaparte was the first to point out this slowness, and to turn it to the best advantage.

‘If our general ever intended a sortie, this would be the night for it, sir,’ resumed he; ‘the noise of those mountain streams would mask the sounds of a march, and even cavalry, if led with caution, might be in upon them before they were aware.’

This speech pleased me, not only for the judgment it conveyed, but as an assurance that our expedition was still a secret in the garrison.

On questioning the sergeant further, I was struck to find that he had abandoned utterly all hope of ever seeing France again; such, he told me, was the universal feeling of the soldiery. ‘We know well, sir, that Massena is not the man to capitulate, and we cannot expect to be relieved’ And yet with this stern, comfortless conviction on their minds – with hunger, and famine, and pestilence on every side – they never uttered one word of complaint, not even a murmur of remonstrance. What would Moreau’s fellows say of us? What would the army of the Meuse think? These were the ever-present arguments against surrender; and the judgment of their comrades was far more terrible to them than the grapeshot of the enemy.

‘But do you not think, when Bonaparte crosses the Alps, he will hasten to our relief?’

‘Not he, sir! I know him well. I was in the same troop with him, a bombardier at the same gun. Bonaparte will never go after small game where there’s a nobler prey before him. If he does cross the Alps, he’ll be for a great battle under Milan; or, mayhap, march on Venice. He’s not thinking of our starved battalions here; he’s planning some great campaign, depend on it. He never faced the Alps to succour Genoa.’

How true was this appreciation of the great general’s ambition, I need scarcely repeat; but so it was at the time; many were able to guess the bold aspirings of one who, to the nation, seemed merely one among the numerous candidates for fame and honours.

It was about an hour after my conversation with the sergeant, that an orderly came to summon me to Colonel de Barres quarters; and with all my haste to obey, I only arrived as the column was formed. The plan of attack was simple enough. Three Voltigeur companies were to attempt the assault of the Monte Facoio, under De Barre; while, to engage attention, and draw off the enemy’s force, a strong body of infantry and cavalry was to debouch on the Chiavari road, as though to force a passage in that direction. In all that regarded secrecy and despatch our expedition was perfect; and as we moved silently through the streets, the sleeping citizens never knew of our march. Arrived at the gate, the column halted, to give us time to pass along the walls and descend the glen, an operation which, it was estimated, would take forty-five minutes; at the expiration of this they were to issue forth to the feint attack.

At a quick step we now pressed forward towards the angle of the bastion, whence many a path led down the cliff in all directions. Half a dozen of our men, well acquainted with the spot, volunteered as guides, and the muskets being slung on the back, the word was given to ‘move on,’ the rallying-place being the plateau of the orange-trees I have already mentioned.

‘Steep enough this,’ said De Barre to me, as, holding on by briers and brambles, we slowly descended the gorge; ‘but few of us will ever climb it again.’

‘You think so?’ asked I, in some surprise.

‘Of course, I know it,’ said he. ‘Vallence, who commands the battalions below, always condemned the scheme; rely on it, he’s not the man to make himself out a false prophet. I don’t pretend to tell you that in our days of monarchy there were neither jealousies nor party grudges, and that men were above all small and ungenerous rivalry; but, assuredly, we had less of them than now. If the field of competition is more open to every one, so are the arts by which success is won; a preeminence in a republic means always the ruin of a rival If we fail, as fail we must, he’ll be a general.’

‘But why must we fail?’

‘For every reason; we are not in force; we know nothing of what we are about to attack; and, if repulsed, have no retreat behind us.’

‘Then why – ?’ I stopped, for already I saw the impropriety of my question.

‘Why did I advise the attack?’ said he mildly, taking up my half-uttered question. ‘Simply because death outside these walls is quicker and more glorious than within them. There’s scarcely a man who follows us has not the same sentiment in his heart. The terrible scenes of the last five weeks have driven our fellows to all but mutiny. Nothing indeed maintained discipline but a kind of tigerish thirst for vengeance – a hope that the day of reckoning would come round, and one fearful lesson teach these same white-coats how dangerous it is to drive a brave enemy to despair.’

De Barre continued to talk in this strain as we descended, every remark he made being uttered with all the coolness of one who talked of a matter indifferent to him. At length the way became too steep for much converse, and slipping and scrambling we now only interchanged a chance word as we went. Although two hundred and fifty men were around and about us, not a voice was heard; and, except the occasional breaking of a branch, or the occasional fall of some heavy stone into the valley, not a sound was heard. At length a long, shrill whistle announced that the first man had reached the bottom, which, to judge from the faintness of the sound, appeared yet a considerable distance off. The excessive darkness increased the difficulty of the way, and De Barre continued to repeat – ‘that we had certainly been misinformed, and that even in daylight the descent would take an hour.’

It was full half an hour after this when we came to a small rivulet, the little boundary line between the two steep cliffs. Here our men were all assembled, refreshing themselves with the water, still muddy from recent rain, and endeavouring to arrange equipments and arms, damaged and displaced by many a fall.

‘We ‘ve taken an hour and twenty-eight minutes,’ said De Barre, as he placed a firefly on the glass of his watch, to see the hour. ‘Now, men, let us make up for lost time. En avant!

‘En avant!,’ was quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and never was a word more spirit-stirring to Frenchmen! With all the alacrity of men fresh and ‘eager for the fray,’ they began the ascent, and such was the emulous ardour to be first, that it assumed all the features of a race.

A close pine wood greatly aided us now, and, in less time than we could believe it possible, we reached the plateau appointed for our rendezvous. This being the last spot of meeting before our attack on the fort, the final dispositions were here settled on, and the orders for the assault arranged. With daylight, the view from this terrace, for such it was in reality, would have been magnificent, for even now, in the darkness, we could track out the great thoroughfares of the city, follow the windings of the bay and harbour, and, by the lights on board, detect the fleet as it lay at anchor. To the left, and for many a mile, as it seemed, were seen twinkling the bivouac fires of the Austrian army; while directly above our heads, glittering like a red star, shone the solitary gleam that marked out the ‘Monte Faccio.’

I was standing silently at De Barre’s side, looking on this sombre scene, so full of terrible interest, when he clutched my arm violently, and whispered – ‘Look yonder; see, the attack has begun.’

The fire of the artillery had flashed as he spoke, and now, with his very words, the deafening roar of the guns was heard from below.

‘I told you he’d not wait for us, Tiernay. I told you how it would happen!’ cried he; then suddenly recovering his habitual composure of voice and manner, he said, ‘Now for our part, men; forwards!’

And away went the brave fellows, tearing up the steep mountain-side, like an assault party at a breach. Though hidden from our view by the darkness and the dense wood, we could hear the incessant din of large and small arms; the roll of the drums summoning men to their quarters, and what we thought were the cheers of charging squadrons.

Such was the mad feeling of excitement these sounds produced, that I cannot guess what time elapsed before we found ourselves on the crest of the mountain, and not above three hundred paces from the outworks of the fort. The trees had been cut away on either side, so as to offer a species of glacis, and this must be crossed under the fire of the batteries, before an attack could be commenced. Fortunately for us, however, the garrison was too confident of its security to dread a coup de main from the side of the town, and had placed all their guns along the bastion, towards Borghetto, and this De Barre immediately detected. A certain ‘alert’ on the walls, however, and a quick movement of lights here and there, showed that they had become aware of the sortie from the town, and gradually we could see figure after figure ascending the walls, as if to peer down into the valley beneath.

‘You see what Vallence has done for us,’ said De Barre bitterly; ‘but for him we should have taken these fellows, en flagrant délit, and carried their walls before they could turn out a captain’s guard.’

As he spoke a heavy crashing sound was heard, and a wild cheer. Already our pioneers had gained the gate, and were battering away at it; another party had reached the walls, and thrown up their rope-ladders, and the attack was opened. In fact, Giorgio had led one division by a path somewhat shorter than ours, and they had begun the assault before we issued from the pine wood.

We now came up at a run, but under a smart fire from the walls, already fast crowding with men. Defiling close beneath the wall, we gained the gate, just as it had fallen beneath the assaults of our men. A steep covered way led up from it, and along this our fellows rushed madly; but suddenly from the gloom a red glare flashed out, and a terrible discharge of grape swept all before it. ‘Lie down!’ was now shouted from front to rear, but even before the order could be obeyed another and more fatal volley followed.

Twice we attempted to storm the ascent; but wearied by the labour of the mountain pass – worn out by fatigue – and, worse still, weak from actual starvation, our men faltered! It was not fear, nor was there anything akin to it; for even as they fell under the thick fire their shrill cheers breathed stern defiance. They were utterly exhausted, and failing strength could do no more! De Barre took the lead, sword in hand, and with one of those wild appeals that soldiers never hear in vain, addressed them; but the next moment his shattered corpse was carried to the rear. The scaling party, alike repulsed, had now defiled to our support; but the death-dealing artillery swept through us without ceasing. Never was there a spectacle so terrible as to see men, animated by courageous devotion, burning with glorious zeal, and yet powerless from very debility – actually dropping from the weakness of famine! The staggering step – the faint shout – the powerless charge – all showing the ravages of pestilence and want!

Some sentiment of compassion must have engaged our enemies’ sympathy, for twice they relaxed their fire, and only resumed it as we returned to the attack. One fearful discharge of grape, at pistol range, now seemed to have closed the struggle; and as the smoke cleared away, the earth was seen crowded with dead and dying. The broken ranks no longer showed discipline – men gathered in groups around their wounded comrades, and, to all seeming, indifferent to the death that menaced them. Scarcely an officer survived, and, among the dead beside me, I recognised Giorgio, who still knelt in the attitude in which he had received his death-wound.

I was like one in some terrible dream, powerless and terror-stricken, as I stood thus amid the slaughtered and the wounded.

‘You are my prisoner,’ said a gruff-looking old Groat grenadier, as he snatched my sword from my hand by a smart blow on the wrist; and I yielded without a word.

‘Is it over?’ said I; ‘is it over?’

‘Yes, parbleu! I think it is,’ said a comrade, whose cheek was hanging down from a bayonet wound. ‘There are not twenty of us remaining, and they will do very little for the service of the “Great Republic’”

CHAPTER XXXVIII. A ROYALIST ‘DE LA VIEILLE ROCHE’

On a hot and sultry day of June I found myself seated in a country cart, and under the guard of two mounted dragoons, wending my way towards Kuffstein, a Tyrol fortress, to which I was sentenced as a prisoner. A weary journey was it; for in addition to my now sad thoughts I had to contend against an attack of ague, which I had just caught, and which was then raging like a plague in the Austrian camp. One solitary reminiscence, and that far from a pleasant one, clings to this period. We had halted on the outskirts of a little village called ‘Broletto,’ for the siesta, and there, in a clump of olives, were quietly dozing away the sultry hours, when the clatter of horsemen awoke us; and on looking up, we saw a cavalry escort sweep past at a gallop. The corporal who commanded our party hurried into the village to learn the news, and soon returned with the tidings that ‘a great victory had been gained over the French, commanded by Bonaparte in person; that the army was in full retreat; and this was the despatch an officer of Melas’ staff was now hastening to lay at the feet of the emperor.’

‘I thought several times this morning,’ said the corporal, ‘that I heard artillery; and so it seems I might, for we are not above twenty miles from where the battle was fought.’

‘And how is the place called?’ asked I, in a tone sceptical enough to be offensive.

‘Marengo,’ replied he; ‘mayhap, the name will not escape your memory.’

How true was the surmise, but in how different a sense from what he uttered it! But so it was; even as late as four o’clock the victory was with the Austrians. Three separate envoys had left the field with tidings of success; and it was only late at night that the general, exhausted by a disastrous day, and almost broken-hearted, could write to tell his master that ‘Italy was lost.’

I have many a temptation here to diverge from a line that I set down for myself in these memoirs, and from which as yet I have not wandered – I mean, not to dwell upon events wherein I was not myself an actor; but I am determined still to adhere to my rule, and, leaving that glorious event behind me, plod wearily along my journey.

Day after day we journeyed through a country teeming with abundance: vast plains of corn and maize, olives and vines, everywhere – on the mountains, the crags, the rocks, festooned over cliffs, and spreading their tangled networks over cottages; and yet everywhere poverty, misery, and debasement, ruined villages, and a half-naked, starving populace, met the eye at every turn. There was the stamp of slavery on all, and still more palpably was there the stamp of despotism in the air of their rulers.

If any spot can impress the notion of impregnability it is Kuffstein. Situated on an eminence of rock over the Inn, three sides of the base are washed by that rapid river. A little village occupies the fourth; and from this the supplies are hoisted up to the garrison above by cranes and pulleys – the only approach being by a path wide enough for a single man, and far too steep and difficult of access to admit of his carrying any burthen, however light. All that science and skill could do is added to the natural strength of the position, and from every surface of the vast rock itself the projecting mouths of guns and mortars show resources of defence it would seem madness to attack.

Three thousand men, under the command of General Urleben, held this fortress at the time I speak of, and by their habits of discipline and vigilance showed that no over-security would make them neglect the charge of so important a trust. I was the first French prisoner that had ever been confined within the walls, and to the accident of my uniform was I indebted for this distinction. I have mentioned that in Genoa they gave me a staff-officer’s dress and appointments, and from this casual circumstance it was supposed that I should know a great deal of Masséna’s movements and intentions, and that by judicious management I might be induced to reveal it.

General Urleben, who had been brought up in France, was admirably calculated to have promoted such an object were it practicable. He possessed the most winning address as well as great personal advantages, and although now past the middle of life, was reputed one of the handsomest men in Austria. He at once invited me to his table, and having provided me with a delightful little chamber, from whence the view extended for miles along the Inn, he sent me stores of books, journals, and newspapers, French, English, and German, showing by the very candour of their tidings a most flattering degree of confidence and trust.

If imprisonment could ever be endurable with resignation, mine ought to have been so. My mornings were passed in weeding or gardening a little plot of ground outside my window, giving me ample occupation in that way, and rendering carnations and roses dearer to me, through all my after-life, than without such associations they would ever have been. Then I used to sketch for hours, from the walls, bird’s-eye views, prisoner’s glimpses, of the glorious Tyrol scenery below us. Early in the afternoon came dinner; and then, with the general’s pleasant converse, a cigar, and a chess-board, the time wore smoothly on till nightfall.

An occasional thunderstorm, grander and more sublime than anything I have ever seen elsewhere, would now and then vary a life of calm but not unpleasant monotony; and occasionally, too, some passing escort, on the way to or from Vienna, would give tidings of the war; but except in these, each day was precisely like the other, so that when the almanac told me it was autumn, I could scarcely believe a single month had glided over. I will not attempt to conceal the fact, that the inglorious idleness of my life, this term of inactivity at an age when hope, and vigour, and energy were highest within me, was a grievous privation; but, except in these regrets, I could almost call this time a happy one. The unfortunate position in which I started in life gave me little opportunity, or even inclination for learning. Except the little Père Michel had taught me, I knew nothing. I need not say that this was but a sorry stock of education, even at that period, when, I must say, the sabre was more in vogue than the grammar.

I now set steadily about repairing this deficiency. General Urleben lent me all his aid, directing my studies, supplying me with books, and at times affording me the still greater assistance of his counsel and advice. To history generally, but particularly that of France, he made me pay the deepest attention, and seemed never to weary while impressing upon me the grandeur of our former monarchies, and the happiness of France when ruled by her legitimate sovereigns.

I had told him all that I knew myself of my birth and family, and frequently would he allude to the subject of my reading, by saying, ‘The son of an old “Garde du Corps” needs no commentary when perusing such details as these. Your own instincts tell you how nobly these servants of a monarchy bore themselves – what chivalry lived at that time in men’s hearts, and how generous and self-denying was their loyalty.’

Such and such like were the expressions which dropped from him from time to time; nor was their impression the less deep when supported by the testimony of the memoirs with which he supplied me. Even in deeds of military glory the Monarchy could compete with the Republic, and Urleben took care to insist upon a fact I was never unwilling to concede – that the well born were ever foremost in danger, no matter whether the banner was a white one or a tricolour.

‘Le bon sang ne peut pas mentir’ was an adage I never disputed, although certainly I never expected to hear it employed to the disparagement of those to whom it did not apply.

As the winter set in I saw less of the general. He was usually much occupied in the mornings, and at evenings he was accustomed to go down to the village, where, of late, some French émigré families had settled – unhappy exiles, who had both peril and poverty to contend against! Many such were scattered through the Tyrol at that period, both for the security and the cheapness it afforded. Of these, Urleben rarely spoke; some chance allusion, when borrowing a book or taking away a newspaper, being the extent to which he ever referred to them.

One morning, as I sat sketching on the walls, he came up to me and said, ‘Strange enough, Tiernay, last night I was looking at a view of this very scene, only taken from another point of sight; both were correct, accurate in every detail, and yet most dissimilar – what a singular illustration of many of our prejudices and opinions! The sketch I speak of was made by a young countrywoman of yours – a highly gifted lady, who little thought that the accomplishments of her education were one day to be the resources of her livelihood. Even so,’ said he, sighing, ‘a marquise of the best blood of France is reduced to sell her drawings!’

As I expressed a wish to see the sketches in question, he volunteered to make the request if I would send some of mine in return; and thus accidentally grew up a sort of intercourse between myself and the strangers, which gradually extended to books and music, and, lastly, to civil messages and inquiries of which the general was ever the bearer.

What a boon was all this to me! What a sun-ray through the bars of a prisoner’s cell was this gleam of kindness and sympathy! The very similarity of our pursuits, too, had something inexpressibly pleasing in it, and I bestowed ten times as much pains upon each sketch, now that I knew to whose eyes it would be submitted.

‘Do you know, Tiernay,’ said the general to me, one day, ‘I am about to incur a very heavy penalty in your behalf – I am going to contravene the strict orders of the War Office, and take you along with me this evening down to the village.’

I started with surprise and delight together, and could not utter a word.

‘I know perfectly well,’ continued he, ‘that you will not abuse my confidence. I ask, then, for nothing beyond your word, that you will not make any attempt at escape; for this visit may lead to others, and I desire, so far as possible, that you should feel as little constraint as a prisoner well may.’

I readily gave the pledge required, and he went on – ‘I have no cautions to give you, nor any counsels – Madame d’Aigreville is a Royalist.’

‘She is madame, then!’ said I, in a voice of some disappointment.

‘Yes, she is a widow, but her niece is unmarried,’ said he, smiling at my eagerness. I affected to hear the tidings with unconcern, but a burning flush covered my cheek, and I felt as uncomfortable as possible.

I dined that day as usual with the general, adjourning after dinner to the little drawing-room, where we played our chess. Never did he appear to me so tedious in his stories, so intolerably tiresome in his digressions, as that evening. He halted at every move – he had some narrative to recount, or some observation to make, that delayed our game to an enormous time; and at last, on looking out of the window, he fancied there was a thunderstorm brewing, and that we should do well to put off our visit to a more favourable opportunity.