Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

CHAPTER XLIV. THE CANTEEN

The Emperor returned that night to Elchingen, accompanied by a numerous staff, among whom was the General d’Auvergne. I remember well the toilsome ascent of the steep town, which, built on a cliff above the Danube, was now little better than a heap of ruins, from the assault of Ney’s division two days before. Scrambling our way over fallen houses and massive fragments of masonry, we reached the square that forms the highest point of the city; from thence we looked down upon the great plain, with the majestic Danube winding along for miles. In the valley lay Ulm, now sad and silent: no watch-fires blazed along its deserted ramparts, and through its open gates there streamed the idle tide of soldiers and camp followers, curious to see the place which once they had deemed almost impregnable. The quartier-général was established here, and the different staffs disposed of themselves, as well as they were able, throughout the houses near: most of these, indeed, had been deserted by their inhabitants, whose dread of the French was a feeling ministered to by every artifice in the power of the Austrian Government. As for me, I was but a young campaigner, and might from sheer ignorance have passed my night in the open air, when by good fortune I caught sight of my old companion, Pioche, hurrying along a narrow street, carrying a basket well stored with bottles on his arm.

“Ah, mon lieutenant, you here! and not supped yet, I ‘d wager a crown?”

“You’d win it too, Pioche; nor do I see very great chance of my doing so.”

“Come along with me, sir; Mademoiselle Minette has just opened her canteen in the flower-market. Such it was once, they tell me; but there is little odor left there now, save such as contract powder gives. But no matter you ‘ll have a roast capon and sausages, and some of the Austrian wine; I have just secured half a dozen bottles here.”

I need scarcely say that this was an invitation there was no declining, and I joined the corporal at once, and hurried on to mademoiselle’s quarters. We had not proceeded far, when the noise of voices speaking and singing in a loud tone announced that we were approaching the canteen.

“You hear them, mon lieutenant!” said Pioche, with a look of delight; “you hear the rogues. Par Saint Jaaques, they know where to make themselves merry. Good wine for drinking, lodging for nothing, fire for the trouble of lighting it, are brave inducements to enjoy life.”

“But it ‘s a canteen; surely mademoiselle is paid?”

“Not the first night of a campaign, I suppose,” said he, with a voice of rebuke. “Parbleu! that would be a pretty affair! No, no; each man brings what he can find, drinks what he is able, and leaves the rest; which, after all, is a very fair stock-in-trade to begin with. And so now, mon lieutenant, to commence operations regularly, just sling this ham on your sabre over your shoulder, and take this turkey carelessly in your hand, – that ‘s it. Here we are; follow me.”

Passing through an arched gateway, we entered a little courtyard where several horses were picketed, the ground about them being strewn with straw knee-deep; cavalry saddles, holsters, and sheepskins lay confusedly on every side, along with sabres and carbines; a great lamp, detached from its position over the street entrance, was suspended from a lance out of a window, and threw its light over the scene. Stepping cautiously through this chaotic heap, we reached a glass door, from within which the riotous sounds were most audibly issuing. Pioche pushed it open, and we entered a large room, full fifty feet in length, at one end of which, under a species of canopy, formed by two old regimental colors, sat Mademoiselle Minette, – for so I guessed to be a very pretty brunette, with a most decidedly Parisian look about her air and toilette; a table, covered with a snow-white napkin, was in front of her, on which lay a large bouquet and an open book, in which she appeared to be writing as we came in. The room on either side was filled by small tables, around which sat parties drinking, card-playing, singing or quarrelling as it might be, with a degree of energy and vociferation only campaigning can give an idea of.

The first thing which surprised me was, that all ranks in the service seemed confusedly mixed up together, there being no distinction of class whatever; captains and corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, colonels, and tambourmajors, were inextricably commingled, hobnobbing, handshaking, and even kissing in turn, that most fraternal and familiar “tu” of dearest friendship being heard on every side.

Resisting a hundred invitations to join some party or other as he passed up the room, Pioche led me forward towards Mademoiselle Minette, to present me in due form ere I took my place.

The honest corporal, who would have charged a square without blinking, seemed actually to tremble as he came near the pretty vivandiére; and when, with a roguish twinkle of her dark eye, and a half smile on her saucy lip, she said, “Ah, c’est toi, gros Pioche?” the poor fellow could only mutter a “Oui, Mademoiselle,” in a voice scarce loud enough to be heard.

“And monsieur,” said she, “whom I have the honor to see?”

“Is my lieutenant. Mademoiselle; or he is aide-de-camp of my general, which comes to the same thing.”

With a few words of gracious civility, well and neatly expressed mademoiselle welcomed me to the canteen, which, she said, had often been graced by the presence of General d’Auvergne himself.

“Yes, by Saint Denis!” cried Pioche, with energy; “Prince Murat, and Maréchal Davoust, too, have been here.”

Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added something that called a faint blush to mademoiselle’s cheek as she replied, “You think so, do you?” Then, turning to me, asked if I were not disposed to sup.

“Yes, that he is,” interrupted Pioche; “and here is the materiel;” – with which he displayed his pannier of bottles, and pointed to the spoils which, following his directions, I carried in my hands.

The corporal having despatched the fowls to the kitchen, proceeded to arrange a little table at a short distance from where mademoiselle sat, – an arrangement, I could perceive, which called forth some rather angry looks from those around the room, and I could overhear more than one muttered Sacre! as to the ambitious pretensions of the “gros Pioche.”

He himself paid little if any attention to these signs of discontent, but seemed wholly occupied in perfecting the table arrangements, which he did with the skill and despatch of a tavern waiter.

“Here, mon lieutenant, this is your place,” said he, with a bow, as he placed a chair for me at the head of the board; and then, with a polite obeisance to the lady, he added, “Avec permission, Mademoiselle,” and took his own seat at the side.

A very appetizing dish made its appearance at this moment; and notwithstanding my curiosity to watch the proceedings of the party, and my admiration for mademoiselle herself, hunger carried the day, and I was soon too deeply engaged in the discussion of my supper to pay much attention to aught else. It was just then that, forgetting where I was, and unmindful that I was not enjoying the regular fare of an inn, I called out, as if to the waiter, for “bread.” A roar of laughter ran through the room at my mistake, when a dark-whiskered little fellow, in an undress frock, stuck his small sword into a loaf, and handed it to me from the table where he sat.

There was something in the act which rather puzzled me, and might have continued longer to do so, had not Pioche whispered me in a low voice, “Take it, take it.”

I reached out my hand for the purpose, when, just as I had caught the loaf, with a slight motion of his wrist he disengaged the point of the weapon, and gave me a scratch on the back of my hand. The gesture I made called forth a renewed peal of laughing; and I now perceived, from the little man’s triumphant look at his companions, that the whole thing was intended as an insult. Resolving, however, to go quietly in the matter, I held out my hand when it was still bleeding, and said, —

“You perceive, sir?”

“Ah, an accident, morbleu!, said he, with a careless shrug of his shoulders, and a half leer of impertinent indifference.

“So is this also,” replied I, as, springing up, I seized the sword he was returning to its scabbard, and smashed the blade across my knee.

“Well done, well done!” cried twenty voices in a breath; while the whole room rose in a confused manlier to take one side or other in the contest, several crowding around the little man, whose voice had suddenly lost its tone of easy impertinence, and was now heard swearing away, with the most guttural intonation.

“What kind of swordsman are you?” whispered Pioche, in my ear.

“Sufficiently expert to care little for an enemy of his caliber.”

“Ah, you don’t know that,” replied he; “it’s François, the maïtre d’armes of the Fourth.”

“You must not fight him, Monsieur,” said mademoiselle, as she laid her hand on mine, and looked up into my face with a most expressive glance.

“They are waiting for you without, mon lieutenant,” said an old sergeant-major, touching his cap as he spoke.

“Come along,” said Pioche, with a deeply-muttered oath; “and, by the blood of Saint Louis, it shall be the last time Maitre Francois shows his skill in fence, if I cost them the fire of a platoon to-morrow.”

I was hurried along by the crowd to the court, a hundred different advisers whispering their various counsels in my ears as I went.

“Take care of his lunge in tierce, – mind that,” cried one.

“Push him outside the arm, – outside, remember; take my advice, young man,” said an old sous-officier, – “close on him at once, take his point where he gives it, and make sure of your own weapon.”

“No bad plan either,” cried two or three. “Monsieur Auguste is right; Francois can’t bear the cold steel, and if he sees it close, he loses his head altogether.”

The courtyard was already cleared for action; the horses picketed in one corner, the straw removed, and a blaze of light from all the lamps and candles of the supper-room showed the ground as clearly as at noonday. While my antagonist was taking off his coat and vest, – an operation I did not choose to imitate, – I took a rapid survey of the scene, and notwithstanding the rush of advisers around me, was sufficiently collected to decide on my mode of acting.

“Come, mon lieutenant, off with your frock,” said an officer at my side; “even if you don’t care for the advantage of a free sword-arm, those fellows yonder won’t believe it all fair, if you do not strip.”

“Yes, yes, take it off,” said a fellow in the crowd, “your fine epaulettes may as well escape tarnishing; and that new coat, too, will be all the better without a hole in it.”

I hastily threw off my coat and waistcoat, when the crowd fell back, and the maitre d’armes advancing into the open space with a light and nimble step, cried out, “En garde, Monsieur!” I stood my ground, and crossed my sword with his.

For a few seconds I contented myself with merely observing my adversary, who handled his weapon not only with all the skill of an accomplished swordsman, but with a dexterity that showed me he was playing off his art before his companions.

As if to measure his distance, he made two or three slight passes over the guard of my sword, and then grating his blade against mine with that peculiar motion which bodes attack, he fixed his eyes on mine, to draw off my attention from his intended thrust. The quickness and facility with which his weapon changed from side to side of mine, the easy motion of his wrist, and the rigid firm ness of his arm, all showed me I was no match for him, – although one of the best of my day at the military school, – and I did not venture to proceed beyond mere defence. He saw this, and by many a trick endeavored to induce an attack, – now dropping his point carelessly, to address a monosyllable to a friend near; now throwing open his guard, as if from negligence.

At length, as if tired with waiting, he called out, “Que cela finisse!” and rushed in on me.

The rapidity of the assault, for a second or so, completely overcame me; and though I defended myself mechanically, I could neither follow his weapon with my eye nor anticipate his intended thrust. Twice his point touched my sword-arm above the wrist, and by a slight wound there, saved my lungs from being pierced. At last, after a desperate rally, in which he broke in on my guard, he made a fearful lunge at my chest. I bent forward, and received his blade in the muscles of my back, when, with a wheel round, I smashed the sword in me, and buried my own up to the hilt in his body. He fell bathed in blood; and I, staggering backwards, was caught in Pioche’s arms at the moment when all consciousness was fast leaving me.

A few minutes after I came to myself, and found that I was lying on a heap of straw in the yard, while two regimental surgeons were most industriously engaged in trying to stop the hemorrhage of my wounds.

With little interest in my own fate, I could not help feeling anxious about my antagonist. They shook their heads mournfully in reply to my question, and desired me to be as calm as possible, for my life hung on a very thread. The dressing completed, I was carried into the house, and laid on a bed in a small, neat-looking chamber, which I heard, as they carried me along, mademoiselle had kindly placed at my disposal. She herself assisted to place the pillow beneath my head, and then with noiseless gesture closed the curtains of the window, and took her seat at the bedside.

The moment the others had left the room, I turned to ask for’ the maitre d’armes. But she could only say that his companions of the Fourth had carried him away to the ambulance, refusing all offers of aid except from the surgeons of their own corps.

“They say,” added she, with a naïve simplicity, “that François is not made like other folk, and that the only doctors who understand him are in the Fourth Regiment. However that may be, it will puzzle them sadly this time; you have given him his coup de congé.”

“I hope not, sincerely,” said I, with a shudder.

“And why not?” cried mademoiselle, in astonishment. “Is it not a good service you render to the whole brigade? Would not the division be all the happier if such as he, and Pichot, and the rest of them – ”

“Pichot, – Amédée Pichot?”

“Yes, Amédée Pichot, to be sure. But what’s that knocking outside? Ah, there ‘s Pioche at the window!”

Mademoiselle arose and walked towards the door; but before she reached it, it was opened, and General d’Auvergne entered the room.

“Is he here?” asked he, in a low voice.

“Yes, General,” said mademoiselle, with a courtesy, as she placed the chair for him to sit down. “He is much better. I ‘ll wait outside till you want me,” added she, as she left the room and closed the door.

“Come, come, my boy,” said the kind old man, as he took my hand in his, “don’t give way thus. I have made many inquiries about this affair, and they all tend to exculpate you. This fellow François is the mauvaise tete of the regiment, and I only wish his chastisement had come from some other hand than yours.”

“Will he live. General?” asked I, with a smothering fulness in my throat as I uttered the words.

“Not if he be mortal, I believe. The sword pierced his chest from side to side.”

I groaned heavily as I heard these words; and burying my head beneath the clothes, became absorbed in my grief. What would I not have endured then of insult and contumely, rather than suffer the terrible load upon my conscience of a fellow-creature’s blood, shed in passion and revenge! How willingly would I have accepted the most despised position among men to be void of this crime!

“It matters not,” cried I, in my despair – “it matters not how I guide my path, misfortunes beset me at every turn of the way – ”