The Invasion of France in 1814

"Where is thy pipe?"

"In my waistcoat pocket."

"Good, I have found it. And the tobacco?"

"In my trousers."

"All right. Fill his pipe, Dubois. He is a plucky fellow; it gives one pleasure to see a man like that. We are going to take off thy arm in a trice."

"Is there no way of saving it, Monsieur Lorquin, to bring up my poor children? It is their only resource."

"No; it is no use; the bone is smashed. Light the pipe, Dubois. Now, Nicolas, smoke away."

The unhappy fellow began, though evidently without relish.

"Is all ready?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," replied Nicolas, in a husky voice.

"Good. Attention, Dubois! Sponge away."

And he made a rapid turn in the flesh with a great knife. Nicolas ground his teeth. The blood spurted up, and Dubois bound up something tightly. The saw grated for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the boards.

"That is what I call a well-performed operation," said Lorquin.

Nicolas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. David Schlosser, of Walsch, who had held him, let go. They bound up the stump with linen, and, all unaided, Nicolas went to lie down on the straw.

"One more finished! Sponge the table well, Dubois, and let us go on to another," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large bowl.

Each time that he said, "Let us go on to another," the wounded moved uneasily, terrified by the screams they heard and the glittering knives they saw. But what was to be done? Every room in the farm, the granary, and the lofts was full. They were thus obliged to operate under the eyes of those who would soon in their turns come beneath the painful knife.

The operation had taken but a few seconds. Materne and his sons looked on for the same reason as one looks at other horrible things, – to know what they are like. Then in the corner, under the old china clock, they saw a heap of amputated limbs.

Nicolas's arm had already been cast among them, and a ball was now being extracted from the shoulder of a red-whiskered mountaineer of the Harberg. They opened deep gashes in his back; his flesh quivered, and the blood coursed down his powerful limbs.

The dog Pluto, behind the doctor, looked on with an attentive air, as though he understood, and from time to time stretched himself and yawned loudly.

Materne could look on no longer.

"Let us get out of this," said he.

Hardly were they outside the door, when they heard the doctor exclaim, "I have got the ball!" which must indeed have been satisfactory to the man from the Harberg.

Once outside, Materne, inhaling the cold air with, delight, exclaimed: "Only think that the same might have happened to us!"

"True," said Kasper; "to get a ball in one's head is nothing; but to be cut up in that style, and then to beg one's bread for the rest of one's days!"

"Bah! I should do the same as old Rochart," said Frantz. "I should die quietly. The old fellow was right. When one has done one's duty, why should one be afraid?"

Just then the hum of voices was heard on their right.

"It is Marc Divès and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.

"Yes; they must be just returning from throwing up breastworks behind the pine-wood, to protect the cannon," added Frantz.

They listened again; the footsteps came nearer.

"Thou must be very much bothered with these three prisoners," said Hullin, roughly. "Since thou returnest to the Falkenstein to-night to get ammunition, what prevents thee from taking them away?"

"Where are they to be put?"

"Why, in the communal prison of Abreschwiller, to be sure. We cannot keep them here."

"All right, I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they try to escape on the way, I am to use my sword?"

"Just so."

By this time they had reached the door, and Hullin, perceiving Materne, could not suppress a shout of enthusiasm: "Ah! Is it thou, old fellow? I have been searching for thee an hour. Where the devil wert thou?"

"We have been carrying poor Rochart to the ambulance, Jean-Claude."

"Ah! it is a sad affair, isn't it?"

"Yes; it is sad."

There was a moment's pause, and the satisfaction of the worthy man again became visible.

"It is not at all lively," said he; "but what is to be done when one goes to the war? You are not hurt any of you?"

"No; we are all three safe and sound."

"So much the better. Those who are left can boast of being lucky."

"True," cried Marc Divès, laughing. "At one time I thought Materne was going to give way. Without those cannon-balls at the finish, things would have gone badly."

Materne colored, and glanced sideways at the smuggler.

"Perhaps so," said he, dryly; "but without the cannon-balls at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end. Old Rochart, and fifty other brave men, would still have had their arms and legs, and our victory would not have been clouded."

"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, anticipating a dispute between the two brave fellows, neither of whom was remarkable for his conciliatory disposition. "Leave that alone. Every one has done his duty; and that is the chief thing."

Then, addressing Materne: "I have just sent a flag of truce to Framont, to bid the Germans carry away their wounded. In an hour, I dare say, they will be here. Our sentries must be warned to let them approach if they come without arms and with torches. If in any other way, let them be received with a volley."

"I will go at once," answered the old hunter.

"Materne, thou wilt afterward sup at the farm with thy boys."

"Agreed, Jean-Claude."