Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“Where shall he seek succor now? What remains to him in this last eventful struggle? How shall the Emperor call back to life the legions by whose valor his great victories were gained, and Europe made a vassal at the foot of his throne?” Such was the thought that never left me day or night. Ever present before me was his calm brow, and his face paler, but not less handsome, than its wont. I could recall his rapid glance; the quick and hurried motion of his hand; his short and thick utterance, as words of command fell from his lips; and his smile, as he heard some intelligence with pleasure.

I could not sleep, – scarcely could I eat. A feverish excitement burned through my frame, and my parched tongue and hot hand told how the very springs of health were dried up within me. I walked with hurried steps from place to place; now muttering the words of some despatch, now fancying that I was sent with orders for a movement of troops. As I rode, I spurred my horse to a gallop, and in my heated imagination believed I was in presence of the enemy, and preparing for the fray. Great as my exhaustion frequently was, weariness brought no rest. Often I returned home at evening, overcome by fatigue; but a sleepless night, tortured with anxieties and harassed with doubts and fears, followed, and I awoke to pursue the same path, till in my weakened frame and hectic cheek the signs of illness could no longer be mistaken.

Terrified at the ravages a few weeks had made in my health, and fearful what secret malady was preying upon me, Darby, without asking any leave from me, left the house one morning at daybreak, and returned with the physician of the neighboring town. I was about to mount my horse, when I saw them coming up the avenue, and immediately guessed the object of the visit. A moment was enough to decide me as to the course to pursue; for well knowing how disposed the world ever is to stamp the impress of wandering intellect on any habit of mere eccentricity, I resolved to receive the doctor as though I was glad of his coming, and consult with him regarding my state. This would at least refute such a scandal, by enlisting the physician among the allies of my cause.

By good fortune, Dr. Clibborn was a man of shrewd common sense, as well as a physician of no mean skill.

In the brief conversation we held together, I perceived, that while he paid all requisite attention to any detail which implied the existence of malady, his questions were more pointedly directed to the possibility of some mental cause of irritation, – the source of my ailment. I could see, however, that his opinion inclined to the belief that the events of the trial had left their indelible traces on my mind; which, inducing me to adopt a life of isolation and retirement, had now produced the effects he witnessed.

I was not sorry at this mistake on his part. By suffering him to indulge in this delusive impression, I saved myself all the trouble of concealing my real feelings, which I had no desire to expose before him. I permitted him, therefore, to reason with me on the groundless notions he supposed I had conceived of the world’s feeling regarding me, and heard him patiently as he detailed the course of public duty, by fulfilling which I should occupy my fitting place in society, and best consult my own health and happiness.

“There are,” said he, “certain fixed impressions, which I would not so combat. It was but yesterday, for instance, I yielded to the wish of an old general officer, who has served upwards of half a century, and desires once more to put himself at the head of his regiment. His heart was bent on it. I saw that though he might consent to abandon his purpose, I was not so sure his mind might bear the disappointment; for the intellect will sometimes go astray in endeavoring to retrace its steps. So I thought it better to concede what might cost more in the refusal.”

The last words of the doctor remained in my head long after he took his leave, and I could not avoid applying them to my own case. Was not my impression of this nature? Were not my thoughts all centred on one theme as fixedly as the officer’s of whom he spoke? Could I, by any effort of my reason or my will, control my wandering fancies, and call them back to the dull realities amongst which I lived?

These were ever recurring to me, and always with the same reply. It is in vain to struggle against an impulse which has swallowed up all other ambitions. My heart is among the glittering ranks and neighing squadrons of France; I would be there once more; I would follow that career which first stirred the proudest hopes I ever cherished.

That same evening the mail brought the news that Eugène Beauharnais had fallen back on Magdeburg, and sent repeated despatches to the Emperor, entreating his immediate presence among the troops, whom nothing but Napoleon himself in the midst of them could restore to their wonted bravery and determination. The reply of Napoleon was briefly, —

“I am coming; and all who love me, follow me.”

How the words rang in my ears, – “Tous ceux qui m’aiment!” I heard them in every rustling of the wind and motion of the leaves against the window; they were whispered to my sense by every avenue of my brain; and I sat no longer occupied in reading as usual, but with folded arms, repeating word by word the brief sentence.

It was midnight. All was still and silent through the house; no servant stirred, and the very wind was hushed to a perfect calm. I was sitting in my library, when the words I have repeated seemed spoken in a low, clear voice beside me. I started up: the perspiration broke over my forehead and fell upon my cheek with terror; for I knew I was alone, and the fearful thought flashed on me, – this may be madness! For a second or two the agony of the idea was almost insupportable. Then came a resolve as sudden. I opened my desk, and took from it all the ready money I possessed; I wrote a few hurried lines to my agent; and then, making my way noiselessly to the stable, I saddled my horse and led him out.

In two hours I was nearly twenty miles on my way to Dublin. Day was breaking as I entered the capital. I made no delay there; but taking fresh horses, started for Skerries, where I knew the fishermen of the coast resorted.

“One hundred pounds to the man who will land me on the coast of France or Holland,” said I to a group that were preparing their nets on the shore.

A look of incredulity was the only reply. A very few words, however, settled the bargain. Ere half an hour I was on board. The wind freshened, and we stood out to sea.

“Let the breeze keep to this,” said the skipper, “and we’ll make the voyage quickly.”

Both wind and tide were in our favor. We held down Channel rapidly; and I saw the blue hills grow fainter and fainter, till the eye could but detect a gray cloud on the horizon, which at last disappeared in the bright sun of noon, and a wide waste of blue water lay on every side.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE LAST CAMPAIGN

The snow, half melted with the heavy rains, lay still deeply on the roads, and a dark, lowering sky stretched above, as I harried onwards, with all the speed I could, towards the east of France.

Already the Allies had passed the Rhine. Schwartzen-berg in the south, Blucher in the east, and Bernadotte on the Flemish frontier, were conveying their vast armies to bear down on him whom singly none had dared to encounter. All France was in arms, and every step was turned eastwards. Immense troops of conscripts, many scarce of the age of boyhood, crowded the highways. The veterans themselves were enrolled once more, and formed battalions for the defence of their native land. Every town and village was a garrison. The deep-toned rolling of ammunition wagons and the heavy tramp of horses sounded through the nights long. War, terrible war, spoke from every object around. Strongholds were strengthening, regiments brigading, cavalry organizing on all sides.

No longer, however, did I witness the wild enthusiasm which I so well remembered among the soldiers of the army. Here were no glorious outbreaks of that daring spirit which so marked the Frenchman, and made him almost irresistible in arms. A sad and gloomy silence prevailed: a look of fierce but hopeless determination was over all. They marched like men going to death, but with the step and bearing of heroes.

I entered the little town of Verviers. The day was breaking, but the troops were under arms. The Emperor had but just taken his departure for Châlons-sur-Marne. They told me of it as I changed horses, – not with that fierce pride which a mere passing glance at the great Napoleon would once have evoked; they spoke of him without emotion. I asked if he were paler or thinner than his wont: they did not know. They said that he travelled post, but that his staff were on horseback. From this I gathered that he was either ill, or in that frame of mind in which he preferred to be alone. While I was yet speaking, an officer of Engineers came up to the carriage, and called out, —

“Unharness these horses, and bring them down to the barracks. These, sir,” said he, turning towards me, “are not times to admit of ceremony. We have eighteen guns to move, and want cattle.”

“Enough, sir,” said I. “I am not here to retard your movements, but if I can, to forward them. Can I, as a volunteer, be of any service at this moment?”

“Have you served before? Of course you have, though. In what arm?”

“As a Hussar of the Guard, for some years.”

“Come along with me; I ‘ll bring you to the general at once.”

Re-entering the inn, the officer preceded me up stairs, and after a moment’s delay, introduced me into the presence of General Letort, then commanding a cavalry brigade.

“I have heard your request, sir. Where is your commission? Have you got it with you?”

I handed it to him in silence. He examined it rapidly; and then turning the reverse, read the few lines inscribed by the minister of war.

“I could have given you a post this day, sir, this very hour,” said he, “but for a blunder of our commissariat people. There’s a troop here waiting for a re-mount, but the order has not come down from Paris; and our officials here will not advance the money till it arrives, as if these were times for such punctilio. They are to form part of General Kellermann’s force, which is sadly deficient. Remain here, however, and perhaps by to-morrow – ”

“How much may the sum be, sir?” asked I, interrupting.

The general almost started with surprise at the abruptness of my question, and in a tone of half reproof answered, —

“The amount required is beside the matter, sir; unless,” added he, sarcastically, “you are disposed to advance it yourself.”

“Such was the object of my question,” said I, calmly, and determining not to notice the manner he had assumed.

“Parbleu!” exclaimed he, “that is very different. Twenty thousand francs, however, is a considerable sum.”

“I have as much, and something more, if need be, in my carriage, – if English gold be no objection.”

“No, pardie! that it is not,” cried he, laughing; “I only wish we saw more of it. Are you serious in all this?”

The best reply to his question was to hasten down stairs and return with two small canvas bags in my hands.

“Here are one thousand guineas,” said I, laying them on the table.

While one of the general’s aides-de-camp was counting and examining the gold, I repeated at his request the circumstances which brought me once again to France to serve under the banner of the Emperor.

“And your name, sir,” said he, as he seated himself to write, “is Thomas Burke, ci-devant captain of the Eighth Hussars of the Guard. Well, I can promise you the restoration of your old grade. Meanwhile, you must take command of these fellows. They are mere partisan troops, hurriedly raised, and ill organized; but I’ll give you a letter to General Damrémont at Chalons, and he ‘ll attend to you.”

“It is not a position for myself I seek, General,” said I. “Wherever I can best serve the Emperor, there only I desire to be.”

“I have ventured to leave that point to General Damrémont,” said he, smiling. “Your motives do not require much explanation. Let us to breakfast now, and by noon we shall have everything in readiness for your departure.”

Thus rapidly, and as it were by the merest accident, was I again become a soldier of the Emperor; and that same day was once more at the head of a squadron, on my way to Châlons. My troop were, indeed, very unlike the splendid array of my old Hussars of the Guard. They were hurriedly raised, and not over well equipped, but still they were stout-looking, hardy peasants, who, whatever deficiency of drill they might display, I knew well would exhibit no lack of courage before an enemy.

On reaching Châlons, I found that General Damrémont had left with the staff for Vitry only a few hours before; and so I reported myself to the officer commanding the town, and was ordered by him to join the cavalry brigade then advancing on Vitry.

Had I time at this moment, I could not help devoting some minutes to an account of that strange and motley mass which then were brigaded as Imperial cavalry. Dragoons of every class, heavy and light-armed, – grenadiers à cheval and hussars, cuirassiers, carbineers, and lancers, – were all, pell-mell, mixed up confusedly together, and hurried onwards; some to join their respective corps if they could find them, but all prepared to serve wherever their sabres might be called for. It was confusion to the last degree; but a tumult without enthusiasm or impulse. The superior officers, who were well acquainted with the state of events, made no secret of their gloomy forebodings; the juniors lacked energy in a cause where they saw no field for advancement; and the soldiers, always prepared to imbibe their feelings from their officers, seemed alike sad and dispirited.

What a change was this from the wild and joyous spirit which once animated every grade and class, – from the generous enthusiasm that once warmed each bold heart, and made every soldier a hero! Alas! the terrible consequences of long defeat were on all. The tide of battle that rolled disastrously from the ruined walls of the Kremlin still swept along towards the great Palace of the Tuileries. Germany had witnessed the destruction of two mighty armies; the third and last was now awaiting the eventful struggle on the very soil of their country. The tide of fugitives, which preceded the retiring columns of Victor and Ney, met the advancing bodies of the conscripts, and spread dismay and consternation as they went.

The dejection was but the shadow of the last approaching disaster.

On the night of the 27th January, the cavalry brigade with which I was received orders to march by the Forest of Bar on Brienne, where Blücher was stationed in no expectation of being attacked. The movement, notwithstanding the heavy roads, was made with great rapidity; and by noon on the following day we came up with the main body of the army in full march against the enemy.

Then once more did I recognize the old spirit of the army. Joyous songs and gay cheers were heard from the different corps we passed. The announcement of a speedy meeting with the Prussians had infused new vigor among the troops. We were emerging from the deep shade of the wood into a valley, where a light infantry regiment were bivouacked. Their fires were formed in a wide circle, and the cooking went merrily on, amid the pleasant song and jocund cries.

Our own brief halt was just concluded, when the bugles sounded to resume the march; and I stood for a moment admiring the merry gambols of the infantry, when an air I well remembered was chanted forth in full chorus. But my memory was not left long in doubt as to where and how these sounds were first heard. The wild uproar at once recalled both, as they sang out, —

“Hurrah for the Faubourg of St. Antoine!”

No sooner did I hear the words, than I spurred my horse forward and rode down towards them.

“What regiment’s yours, Comrade?” said I, to a fellow hurrying to the ranks.

“The Fifth, mon officier,” said he, “Voltigeurs of the Line.”

“Have you a certain François, a maître d’armes, still among you?”

“Yes, that we have. There he is yonder, beating time to the roulade.”

I looked in the direction he pointed, and there stood my old friend. He was advanced in front of a company, and with the air of a tambour-major he seemed as if he was giving time to the melody.

“Ah, sacré conscripts that ye are!” cried he, as with his fist clenched he gesticulated fiercely towards them; “can’t ye keep the measure? Once, now, and all together: —

“‘Picardy first, and then – .”

“Halloo, Maître François! can you remember an old friend?”

The little man turned suddenly, and bringing his hand to the salute, remained stiff and erect, as if on parade.

“Connais pas, mon capitaine,” was his answer, after a considerable pause.

“What! not know me! – me, whom you made one of your own gallant company, calling me ‘Burke of Ours’?”

“Ah, par la barbe de Saint Pierre! is this my dear comrade of the Eighth? Why, where have you been? They said you left us forever and aye.”

“I tried it, François; but it wouldn’t do.”

“Mille bombes!” said he; “but you ‘re back in pleasant times, – to see the Cossacks learning to drink champagne, and leave us to pay the score. Come along, however; take your old place here. You are free to choose now, and needn’t be a dragoon any longer; not but that your old general will be glad to see you again.”

“General d’Auvergne! Where is he now?”

“With the light cavalry brigade, in front; I saw him pass here two hours since.”

“And how looks he, François?”

“A little stooped, or so, more than you knew him; but his seat in the saddle seems just as firm. Ventrebleu! if he ‘d been a voltigeur, he ‘d be a good man these ten years to come.”

Delighted to learn that I was so near my dearest and oldest friend in the world, I shook Francois’s hand, and parted; but not without a pledge, that whenever I joined the infantry, the Fifth Voltigeurs of the Line were to have the preference.

As we advanced towards Brienne the distant thunder of large guns was heard; which gradually grew louder and more sustained, and betokened that the battle had already begun. The roads, blocked up with dense masses of infantry and long trains of wagons, prevented our rapid advance; and when we tried the fields at either side, the soil, cut up with recent rains, made us sink to the very girths of our horses. Still, order after order came for the troops to press forward, and every effort was made to obey the command.

It was five o’clock as we debouched into the plain, and beheld the fields whereon the battle had been contested; for already the enemy were retiring, and the French troops in eager pursuit. Behind, however, lay the town of Brienne, still held by the Russians, but now little better than a heap of smoking ruins, the tremendous fire of the French artillery having reduced the place to ashes. Conspicuous above all rose the dismantled walls of the ancient military college; the school where Napoleon had learned his first lesson in war, where first he essayed to point those guns which now with such fearful havoc he turned against itself. What a strange, sad Subject of contemplation for him who now gazed on it! On either side, the fire of the artillery continued till nightfall; but the Russians still held the town. A few straggling shots closed the combat; and darkness now spread over the wide plain, save where the watchfires marked out the position of the French troops.

A sudden flash of lurid flame, however, threw its gleam over the town, and a wild cheer was heard rising above the clatter of musketry. It was a surprise party of grenadiers, who had forced their way into the grounds of the old château, where Blücher held his headquarters. Louder and louder grew the firing, and a red glare in the dark sky told how the battle was raging. Up that steep street, at the top of which the venerable château stood, poured the infantry columns in a run. The struggle was short. The dull sound of the Russian drum soon proclaimed a retreat; and a rocket darting through the black sky announced to the Emperor that the position had been won.

The next day the Emperor fixed his headquarters at the château, and a battalion of the guard bivouacked in the park around it. I had sent forward the letter to Général Damrémont, and was wondering when and in what terms the reply might come, when the general himself rode up, accompanied by a single aide-de-camp.

“I have had the opportunity, sir, to speak of your conduct in the proper quarter,” said he, courteously; “and the result is, your appointment as major of the Tenth Hussars, or, if you prefer it, the staff.”

“Wherever, sir, my humble services can best be employed. I have no other wish.”

“Then take the regimental rank,” said he; “your brigade will see enough of hot work ere long. And now push forward to Mézières, where you’ll find your regiment. They have received orders to march to-morrow, early.”

I was not sorry to be relieved from the command of my irregular horse, who went by the title of “brigands” in the army generally; though, if the truth were to be told, the reproach on the score of honesty came ill from those who conferred it. Still, it was a more gratifying position to hold a rank in a regiment of regular cavalry, and one whose reputation was second to none in the service.

“I wish to present myself to the colonel in command, sir,” said I, addressing an officer, who with two or three others stood chatting at the door of a cottage.

“You ‘ll find him here, sir,” said he, pointing to the hut. But, as he spoke, the clank of a sabre was heard, and at the same instant a tall, soldierlike figure stooped beneath the low doorway, and came forth.

“The colonel of the Tenth, I presume?” said I, handing the despatch from General Damrémont.

“What! my old college friend and companion!” cried the colonel, as he stepped back in amazement. “Have I such good fortune as to see you in my regiment?”

“Can it be really so?” said I, in equal astonishment. “Are you Tascher?”

“Yes, my dear friend; the same Tascher you used to disarm so easily at college, – a colonel at last. But why are you not at the head of a regiment long since? Oh! I forgot, though,” said he, in some confusion; “I heard all about it. But come in here; I’ve no better quarters to offer you, but such as it is, make it yours.”

My old companion of the Polytechnique was, indeed, little altered by time, – careless, inconsiderate, and good-hearted as ever. He told me that he had only gained the command of the regiment a few weeks before; “and,” added he, “if matters mend not soon, I am scarcely like to hold it much longer. The despatches just received tell that the Allies are concentrating at Trannes; and if so, we shall have a battle against overwhelming odds. No matter, Burke; you have got into a famous corps, – they fight splendidly, and my excellent uncle, his Majesty, loves to indulge their predilection.”

I passed the day with Tascher, chatting over our respective fortunes; and in discussing the past and the future the greater part of the night went over. Before dawn, however, we were on the march towards Chaumière, whither the army was directed, and the Emperor himself then stationed.

It was the 1st of February, and the weather was dark, lowering, and gloomy. A cold wind drove the snowdrift in fitful gusts before it, and the deep roads made our progress slow and difficult. As our line of advance, however, was not that by which the other divisions were marching, it was already past noon before we knew that the enemy was but three leagues distant. On advancing farther, we heard the faint sounds of a cannonade; and then they grew louder and louder, till the whole air seemed tremulous with the concussion.

“A heavy fire, Colonel,” said a veteran officer of the regiment. “I should guess there are not less than eighty or a hundred guns engaged.”

“Press on, men! press on!” cried Tascher. “When his Majesty provides such music, it’s scarcely polite to be late.”

At a quick trot we came on, and about three o’clock debouched in the plain behind Oudinot’s battalions of reserve, which were formed in two dense columns, about a hundred yards apart.

“Hussars to the front!” cried an aide-de-camp, as he galloped past, and waved his cap in the direction of the space between the columns.