Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

“The better fortune mine, that I fell into the hands of a kind as well as a brave soldier, – the Corporal Pioche.”

“Sacristi! You know me then!” cried he, thunderstruck.

“To be sure I do. Could I be an aide-de-camp to the General d’Auvergne, and not have heard of Pioche?”

“An aide-de-camp of the general,” said he, starting back, as he carried his hand to the salute. “Pardon, mon officier; but you know that duty – ”

“Quite true; it was all my own indiscretion. And now, Pioche, if you ‘ll keep me company here till daybreak – it cannot be far off now – the light will soon satisfy you that my account of myself is a true one.”

“Willingly, sir,” said the gruff cuirassier. “My patrol is, to watch the parterres from the pavilion to the allée yonder; and, if you please, we ‘ll take up our quarters on this bench.”

They who know not the strange mixture of deference and familiarity of which the relation between officer and soldier is made up in the French service, will perhaps wonder a the tone of almost equality in which we conversed. But such is the case: the Revolutionary armies acknowledged no other gredations of rank than such as the service conferred, nor any degree of superiority save that derivable from greater ability of more daring heroism; and although the troops more implicitly obeyed the commands of their officers, the occasion of discipline over a perfect feeling of equality remained amongst all, whether they wore the epaulets of colones or carried a musket in the ranks. With time, and the changes the Consulate had introduced, much of this excessive familiarity was suppressed; still it was no uncommon thing to hear the humble rank and file address the general of division as “thou,” – the expression of closest friendship, probably dating from the hours of schoolboy attachment. Nor was the officer of rank thought less of because in the hours of off-duty, he mixed freely with those who had been his companions through life, and talked with them as brothers. It is probable that in no other nation such a course could have been practised without a total subversion of all respect and the ruin of all habits of order. The Frenchman is, however, essentially military; not merely warlike, like the inhabitants of Great Britain, – his mind ever inclines to the details of war as an art. It is in generalship he glories, not the mere conflict of force; and the humblest soldier in the army takes an interest in the great game of tactics, which in any other people would be quite incredible. Hence he submits to the control which otherwise he could not endure; for this, he yields to command at the hands of one, who, although his equal in all other respects, he here acknowledges as his superior. He knows, too, that the grade of officer is open to merit alone, and he feels that the epaulette may be his own one day. Such causes as these, constantly in operation, could not fail to raise the morale of an army; nor can we wonder that from such a source were derived many, if not most, of the great names that formed the marshals of France. Again, to this military spirit the French owe the perfection of their tirailleur force, – the consummate skill of independent parties, of which every campaign gave evidence. Napoleon found this spirit in the nation, and spared nothing to give it its fullest development. He quickly saw to what height of enthusiasm a people could be brought, to whom a cross or a decoration, an epaulette or a sabre of honor, were deemed the ample rewards of every daring and of every privation; and never in any age or in any country was chivalry so universally spread over the wide surface of a people. With them, rank claimed no exception from fatigue or suffering. The officer fared little better than the soldier on a march; in a battle, he was only more exposed to danger. By daring only could he win his way upwards; and an emulative ardor was continually maintained, which was ever giving to the world instances of individual heroism far more brilliant than all the famed achievements of the crusaders.

This brief digression, unnecessary perhaps to many of my readers, may serve to explain to others how naturally our conversation took the easy tone of familiar equality; nor will they be surprised at the abrupt question of the cuirassier, as he said, —

“Mille tonnerres! lieutenant! was it from your liking the post of danger you selected that bench yonder?”

“The choice was a mere accident.”

“An accident, morbleu!” said he, with a low laugh. “That was what Lasalle called it at the Adige, when the wheel came off the eight-pounder in the charge, and the enemy carried off the gun. ‘An accident!’ said the Petit Caporal to him, – I was close by when he said it, – ‘will your friends in Paris call it an accident if the “ordre du jour” to-morrow condemn you to be shot?’ I know him well,” continued Pioche; “that I do. I was second bombardier with him at Toulon, – ay, at Cairo too. I mind well the evening he came to our quarters; poor enough we were at the time, – no clothes, no rations: I was cook to our division; but somehow there was little duty in my department, till one day the vivandiere’s ass, (a brave beast he was too, before provisions fell short), – a spent shot took him in the flank, and killed him on the spot.

“Sacristi!” what damage it did! All the canteens were smashed to atoms; horn goblets and platters knocked to pieces; but worst of all, a keg of true Nantz was broached, and every drop lost. Poor Madame Gougon! she loved that ass as if he had been one of the regiment; and though we all offered her assignats on our pay, for a month each, to give us the carcass, she wouldn’t do it. No, faith! she would have him buried, and with funeral honors! Parbleu! it was a whim; but the poor thing was in grief, and we could not refuse her. I commanded the party,” continued Pioche, “and a long distance we had to march, lest the shots might be heard in the quartier-général. Well, we had some trouble in getting the poor soul away from the grave. Sacristi! she took it so much to heart, I thought she ‘d have masses said for him. But we did succeed at last, and before dawn we were all within the camp as if nothing had happened. The whole of that day, however, the ass was never out of our minds. It was not grief; no, no! don’t think that. We were all thinking of what a sin it was to have him buried there, – such a fine beast as he was, – and not a pound of meat to be had if you were to offer a nine-pounder gun for it. ‘He is never the worse for his funeral,’ said I; ‘remember, boys, how well preserved he was in brandy before he was buried: let’s have him up again!’ No sooner was night come, than we set off for the place where we laid him, and in less than two hours I was busily employed in making a delicious salmi of his haunch. Mille bommbes! I think I have the smell of it before me; it was gibier, and the gravy was like a purie. We were all pleasantly seated round the fire, watching every turn of the roast, when – crack! – I heard the noise of the patrol bringing his gun to the present, and before we had time to jump up, the Petit Caporal was upon us; he was mounted on a little dark Arab, and dressed in his gray surtout.

“‘What ‘s all this here?’ cried he, pulling up short, while the barb sniffed the air, just as if he guessed what the meat was. ‘Who has stolen this sheep?’

“‘It is not a sheep, Général,’ said I, stepping forward, and trying to hide the long ladle I was basting with.

“‘Not a sheep; then it is an ox, mayhap, or a calf,” said he again, with an angry look.

“‘Neither, Général,’ said I; ‘it was a – a – a beast of our division.’

“‘A beast of your division! What does that mean? No trifling, mind! out with it at once. What’s this? Where did it come from?’

“‘An ass, may it please you, sir,’ said I, trembling all over, for I saw he was in a rare passion. And as he repeated the word after me, I told him the whole story, and how we could not suffer such capital prog to be eaten by any other than good citizens of the Republic.

“While I was telling him so much, the rest stood round terrified; they could not even turn the joint, though it was burning; and, to say truth, I thought myself we were all in a bad way, when suddenly he burst into a fit of laughing, and said, —

“‘What part of France do these fellows come from?’

“‘Alsace, mon général,’ was the answer from every one.

“‘I thought so, I thought so,’ said he; ‘Sybarites, all.’

“‘No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud’s brigade,’ said I. And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could not be angry with the old Fourth.”

“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his campaigns.

“Ma foi! there were few who saw service from ‘92 to ‘97 had not their share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. ‘Where ‘s the adjutant of the Sixth?’ ‘Dead, mon général.’ ‘Where ‘s the colonel of the Voltigeurs?’ ‘Badly wounded.’ ‘Carry him this sabre of honor.’ ‘Who fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the drapeau?’ ‘One of my fellows. General; here he is.’ ‘And what is your name, my brave fellow?’”

The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few seconds’ pause, added in altered tone, “Sacristi! they were fine times!”

“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I, impatiently. “Who was he?”

“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and devotion struggled powerfully together.

“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”

“‘Ah, Pioche,’ said he, gayly, ‘my old friend of Toulouse!’

“‘Yes, Général,’ said I, ‘we ‘ve had some warm work together.’

“‘True, Pioche, and may again perhaps. But you’ve been made a corporal since that; what am I to do for you now?’

“This was a puzzling question, and I did not know how to answer it, and he repeated it before I could make up my mind.

“‘Is there nothing, then, in which I can be of use to Corporal Pioche?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, ‘there is.’

“‘Speak it out, man, then; what is it?’

“‘I wish, then, you ‘d rate the commissary-general of our division for one blunder he’s ever making. The powder they serve us out is always wet, and our bread is as hard as mitraille. Neither bayonets nor teeth will last forever, you know, Général.’ And he burst out a-laughing before I finished.

“‘Rest assured, Pioche, I’ll look to this,’ said he; and he kept his word.”

“But why didn’t you ask for promotion?” said I. “What folly, was it not, to throw away such a chance? You might have been an officer ere this.”

“No,” replied he, with a sorrowful shake of the head; “that was impossible.”

“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”

“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then – ”

“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the moment.

“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was silent.

The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow’s heart, and would have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the corroding sorrow of his life, – the grief that left its impress on his stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier. Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I made an effort to break it, and happily with success.

“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve, to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection, too, hereafter.”

“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round quickly, as a faint smile played about his features – “do you think so? Sacristi! I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I’ve been alone. And then I ‘ve almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman’s, when he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other times, – ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”

“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the remembrance of his own regrets.

“It is a good while past now, – I forget the year exactly, – but we were marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to Paris not to send down any more ‘savants,’ but a good, honest man, with common sense and active habits. But, parbleu, birds of that feather must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them. Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and slouched beavers. The officers couldn’t say a word, you know, all this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to shoes, – a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood fluttering in the wind.

“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade, – it was an inspection; for, parbleu! though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres. Scarcely had the general – it was Bonaparte himself – got halfway down the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: ‘Bread! shoes! caps! biscuits!’

“‘What do I hear?’ said Bonaparte, standing up in his stirrups, and frowning at the line. ‘Who are the malcontents that dare to cry out on parade? Let them stand out; let me see them.’

“And at once more than half the regiment of grenadiers sprang forward, and shouted louder than before, ‘Bread! bread! let us have food and clothing! If we are to fight, let us not die of hunger!’

“‘Grenadiers of the Fourth,’ cried he, in a terrible voice, ‘to your ranks! Second division, and third!’ shouted he, with his hand up, ‘form in square! – carry arms! – present arms! front rank, kneel! Kneel!’ said he, again louder; for you know we never did that in those days. However, every word was obeyed, and down dropped the leading files on their knees; and there we were rooted to the ground. Not a man spoke; all silent as death.

“He then advanced to the front of the staff, and pointing his hand to a convoy of wagons that could just be seen turning the angle of the road, with white flags flying, to show what they were, called out, ‘Commissary-general, distribute full rations and half ammunition to the young regiments; half rations and full ammunition to the veterans of Egypt!’ A shout of applause burst out; but he cried louder than before, ‘Silence in the ranks!’ Then, taking off his chapeau, he stood bareheaded before us; and in a voice like the bugle that blows the charge, he read from a large paper in his hand, ‘In the name of the French Republic, one and indivisible. The Directory of the nation decrees, that the thanks of the Government be given to the Grenadiers of the Fourth, who have deserved well of their country. Vive la République!’

“‘Vive la République!’ shouted the whole square in a roar, like the sea itself. Who thought more of hardships or hunger then? Our only desire was when we were to meet the enemy; and many a jest and many a laugh went round as we loaded our pouches with the new ammunition.

“‘Who’s that fellow yonder?’ said Bonaparte, as he rode slowly down the line. ‘I should know him, I think. Is n’t that Pioche?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, saluting him; ‘it is what remains of poor Pioche, —parbleu! very little more than half, though.’

“‘Ah, glutton!’ said he, laughing, ‘I ought to have guessed you were here; one such gourmand is enough to corrupt a whole brigade.’

“‘Pioche is a good soldier, citizen-general, ‘said my captain, who was an old schoolfellow of mine.

“‘I know it, Captain,’ said the general.

“‘You were in Excelmans’s dragoons, Pioche, if mistake not?’

“Two years and ten months, citizen-general.’

“‘Why did you leave them, and when?’

“‘At Monte Bello, with the colonel’s permission.’

“‘And the reason?’

“‘Morbleu! it was a fancy I had. They killed two horses under me that day, and I saw I was not destined for the cavalry.’

“‘Ha, ha!’ said he, with a sly laugh; ‘had they been asses, the thing might have been different, eh?’

“‘Yes, mon général,’ said I, growing red, for I knew what he meant.

“‘Come, Pioche, you must go back again to your old corps; they want one or two like you, – though, parbleu! you ‘ll ruin the Republic in remounts.’

“‘As you please it, Général.’

“‘Well, what shall I do for you besides? Any more commissaries to row, eh? Methinks no bad time to gratify you in that way.’

“‘Ah, mon général if you would only hang up one now and then.’

“‘So I intend, the next time I hear of any of my soldiers being obliged to eat the asses of the vivandiéres.’ And with that he rode on, laughing, though none, save myself, knew what he alluded to; and, ma foi, I was not disposed to turn the laugh against myself by telling. But there goes the réveil, and I must leave you, mon lieutenant; the gates will be open in a few minutes.”

“Good-by, Pioche,” said I, “and many thanks for your pleasant company. I hope we shall meet again, and soon.”

“I hope so, mon lieutenant; and if it be at a bivouac fire, all the better.”

The gallant corporal made his military salute, wheeled about, stiff as if on parade, and departed; while I, throwing my cloak over my arm, turned into the broad alley and left the garden.

CHAPTER XLI. A STORY OF THE YEAR ‘92

I FOUND everything in the rue de rohan as I had left it the day before. General d’Auvergne had not been there during my absence, but a messenger from Versailles brought intelligence that the Court would arrive that evening in Paris, and in all likelihood the general would accompany them.

My day was then at my disposal, and having dressed, I strolled out to enjoy all the strange and novel sights of the great capital. They who can carry their memories back to Paris at that period may remember the prodigious amount of luxury and wealth so prodigally exhibited; the equipages, the liveries, the taste in dress, were all of the most costly character; the very shops, too, vied with each other in the splendor and richness of their display, and court uniforms and ornaments of jewelry glittered in every window. Hussar jackets in all their bravery, chapeaux covered with feather trimming and looped with diamonds, sabres with ivory scabbards encrusted with topaz and turquoise, replaced the simple costumes of the Revolutionary era as rapidly as did the high-sounding titles of “Excellence” and “Monseigneur” the unpretending designation of “citoyen.” Still, the military feature of the land was in the ascendant; in the phrase of the day, it was the “mustache” that governed. Not a street but had its group of officers, on horseback or on foot; regiments passed on duty, or arrived from the march, at every turn of the way. The very rabble kept time and step as they followed, and the warlike spirit animated every class of the population. All these things ministered to my enthusiasm, and set my heart beating stronger for the time when the career of arms was to open before me. This, if I were to judge from all I saw, could not now be far distant. The country for miles around Paris was covered with marching men, their faces all turned eastward; orderlies, booted and splashed, trotted rapidly from street to street; and general officers, with their aides-de-camp, rode up and down with a haste that boded preparation.

My mind was too full of its own absorbing interests to make me care to visit the theatre; and having dined in a café on the Boulevard, I turned towards the general’s quarters in the hope of finding him arrived. As I entered the Rue de Rohan, I was surprised at a crowd collected about the door, watching the details of packing a travelling carriage which stood before it. A heavy fourgon, loaded with military chests and boxes, seemed also to attract their attention, and call forth many a surmise as to its destination.

“Le Petit Caporal has something in his head, depend upon it,” said a thin, dark-whiskered fellow with a wooden leg, whose air and gesture bespoke the old soldier; “the staff never move off, extra post, without a good reason for it.”

“It is the English are about to catch it this time,” said a miserable-looking, decrepit creature, who was occupied in roasting chestnuts over an open stove. “Hot, all hot! messieurs et mesdames! real ‘marrons de Nancy,’ – the true and only veritable chestnuts with a truffle flavor. Sacristi! now the sea-wolves will meet their match! It is such brave fellows as you, monsieur le grenadier, can make them tremble.”

The old pensioner smoothed down his mustache, and made no reply.

“The English, indeed!” said a fat, ruddy-faced woman, with a slight line of dark beard on her upper lip. “My husband ‘s a pioneer in the Twenty-second, and says they’re nothing better than poltroons. How we made them run at Arcole! Wasn’t it Arcole?” said she, as a buzz of laughter ran through the crowd.

“Tonnerre de guerre” cried the little man, “if I was at them!”

A loud burst of merriment met this warlike speech; while the maimed soldier, apparently pleased with the creature’s courage, smiled blandly on him as he said, “Let me have two sous’ worth of your chestnuts.”

Leaving the party to their discussion, I now entered the house, and edging my way upstairs between trunks and packing-cases, arrived at the drawing-room. The general had just come in; he had been the whole morning at Court, and was eating a hurried dinner in order to return to the Tuileries for the evening reception. Although his manner towards me was kind and cordial in the extreme, I thought he looked agitated and even depressed, and seemed much older and more broken than before.

“You see, Burke, you ‘ll have little time to enjoy Paris gayeties; we leave to-morrow.”

“Indeed, sir! So soon?”

“Yes; Lasalle is off already; Dorsenne starts in two hours; and we three rendezvous at Coblentz. I wished much to see you,” continued he, after a minute’s pause; “but I could not get away from Versailles even for a day. Tell me, have you got a letter I wrote to you when at Mayence? I mean, is it still in existence?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, somewhat astonished at the question.

“I wrote it hurriedly,” added he, with something of confusion in his manner; “do let me see it.”

I unlocked my writing-desk at once, and handed him his own letter. He opened it hastily, and having thrown his eyes speedily across it, said, and in a voice far more at ease than before, —

“That will do. I feared lest perhaps – But no matter; this is better than I thought.”

With this he gave the letter back into my hands, and appeared for some moments engaged in deep thought; then, with a voice and manner which showed a different channel was given to his thoughts, he said, —