Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

As I knelt beside the rails of the altar, and heard the prayers which, with deep devotion, he uttered, I could not help feeling the contrast between that touching evidence of Christian charity and the tumultuous joy of the populace, whose frantic bursts of triumph were borne on the air.

‘And now come with me, Maurice,’ said he, as the Litany was concluded. ‘Here, in this little sacristy, we are safe from all molestation; none will think of us on such a day as this.’

And as he spoke he drew his arm around me, and led me into the little chamber where once the precious vessels and the decorations of the church were kept.

‘Here we are safe,’ said he, as he drew me to his side on the oaken bench, which formed all the furniture of the room. ‘To-morrow, Maurice, we must leave this, and seek an asylum in another land; but we are not friendless, my child – the brothers of the “Sacred Heart” will receive us. Their convent is in the wilds of the Ardennes, beyond the frontiers of France, and there, beloved by the faithful peasantry, they live in security and peace. We need not take the vows of their order, which is one of the strictest of all religious houses; but we may claim their hospitality and protection, and neither will be denied us. Think what a blessed existence will that be, Maurice, my son, to dwell under the same roof with these holy men, and to imbibe from them the peace of mind that holiness alone bestows; to awake at the solemn notes of the pealing organ, and to sink to rest with the glorious liturgies still chanting around you; to feel an atmosphere of devotion on every side, and to see the sacred relics whose miracles have attested the true faith in ages long past. Does it not stir thy heart, my child, to know that such blessed privileges may be thine?’

I hung my head in silence, for, in truth, I felt nothing of the enthusiasm with which he sought to inspire me. The père quickly saw what passed in my mind, and endeavoured to depict the life of the monastery as a delicious existence, embellished by all the graces of literature, and adorned by the pleasures of intellectual converse. Poetry, romance, scenery, all were pressed into the service of his persuasions; but how weak were such arguments to one like me, the boy whose only education had been what the streets of Paris afforded – whose notions of eloquence were formed on the insane ravings of ‘The Mountain,’ and whose idea of greatness was centred in mere notoriety!

My dreamy look of inattention showed him again that he had failed; and I could see, in the increased pallor of his face, the quivering motion of his lip, the agitation the defeat was costing him.

‘Alas! alas!’ cried he passionately, ‘the work of ruin is perfect; the mind of youth is corrupted, and the fountain of virtue denied at the very source. O Maurice, I had never thought this possible of thee, the child of my heart!’

A burst of grief here overcame him; for some minutes he could not speak. At last he arose from his seat, and wiping off the tears that covered his cheeks with his robe, spoke, but in a voice whose full round tones contrasted strongly with his former weak accents.

‘The life I have pictured seems to thee ignoble and unworthy, boy. So did it not appear to Chrysostom, to Origen, and to Augustine – to the blessed saints of our Church, the eldest-born of Christianity. Be it so. Thine, mayhap, is not the age, nor this the era, in which to hope for better things. Thy heart yearns for heroic actions – thy spirit is set upon high ambitions – be it so. I say, never was the time more fitting for thee. The enemy is up; his armies are in the field; thousands and tens of thousands swell the ranks, already flushed with victory. Be a soldier, then. Ay, Maurice, buckle on the sword – the battlefield is before thee. Thou hast made choice to seek the enemy in the far-away countries of heathen darkness, or here in our own native France, where his camp is already spread. If danger be the lure that tempts thee – if to confront peril be thy wish – there is enough of it. Be a soldier, then, and gird thee for the great battle that is at hand. Ay, boy, if thou feelest within thee the proud darings that foreshadow success, speak the word, and thou shalt be a standard-bearer in the very van.’

I waited not for more; but springing up, I clasped my arms around his neck, and cried, in ecstasy, ‘Yes! Père Michel, you have guessed aright, my heart’s ambition is to be a soldier, and I want but your blessing to be a brave one.’

‘And thou shalt have it. A thousand blessings follow those who go forth to the good fight. But thou art yet young, Maurice – too young for this. Thou needest time, and much teaching, too. He who would brave the enemy before us, must be skilful as well as courageous. Thou art as yet but a child.’

‘The general said he liked boy-soldiers,’ said I promptly; ‘he told me so himself.’

‘What general – who told thee?’ cried the père, in trembling eagerness.

‘General Lacoste, the Chef d‘État-major of the army of the Rhine; the same who gave me a rendezvous for to-morrow at his quarters.’

It was not till I had repeated my explanation again and again, nor, indeed, until I had recounted all the circumstances of my last night’s adventure, that the poor père could be brought to see his way through a mystery that had almost become equally embarrassing to myself. When he did, however, detect the clue, and when he had perceived the different tracks on which our minds were travelling, his grief burst all bounds. He inveighed against the armies of the Republic as hordes of pillagers and bandits, the sworn enemies of the Church, the desecrators of her altars. Their patriotism he called a mere pretence to shroud their infidelity. Their heroism was the bloodthirstiness of democratic cruelty. Seeing me still unmoved by all this passionate declamation, he adopted another tactic, and suddenly asked me if it were for such a cause as this my father had been a soldier?

‘No!’ replied I firmly; ‘for when my father was alive, the soil of France had not been desecrated by the foot of the invader. The Austrian, the Prussian, the Englishman, had not yet dared to dictate the laws under which we were to live.’

He appeared thunderstruck at my reply, revealing, as it seemed to him, the extent of those teachings, whose corruptions he trembled at.

‘I knew it, I knew it!’ cried he bitterly, as he wrung his hands. ‘The seed of the iniquity is sown – the harvest-time will not be long in coming! And so, boy, thou hast spoken with one of these men – these generals, as they call themselves, of that republican horde?’

‘The officer who commands the artillery of the army of the Rhine may write himself general with little presumption,’ said I, almost angrily.

‘They who once led our armies to battle were the nobles of France – men whose proud station was the pledge for their chivalrous devotion. But why do I discuss the question with thee? He who deserts his faith may well forget that his birth was noble. Go, boy, join those with whom your heart is already linked. Tour lesson will be an easy one – you have nothing to unlearn. The songs of the Girondins are already more grateful to your ear than our sacred canticles. Go, I say, since between us henceforth there can be no companionship.’

‘Will you not bless me, père,’ said I, approaching him in deep humility; ‘will you not let me carry with me thy benediction?’

‘How shall I bless the arm that is lifted to wound the Holy Church? – how shall I pray for one whose place is in the ranks of the infidel? Hadst thou faith in my blessing, boy, thou hadst never implored it in such a cause. Renounce thy treason – and not alone my blessing, but thou shalt have a ‘Novena’ to celebrate thy fidelity. Be of us, Maurice, and thy name shall be honoured where honour is immortality.’

The look of beaming affection with which he uttered this, more than the words themselves, now shook my courage, and, in a conflict of doubt and indecision, I held down my head without speaking. What might have been my ultimate resolve, if left completely to myself, I know not; but at that very moment a detachment of soldiers marched past in the street without. They were setting off to join the army of the Rhine, and were singing in joyous chorus the celebrated song of the day, ‘Le chant du départ.’ The tramp of their feet – the clank of their weapons – their mellow voices – but, more than all, the associations that thronged to my mind, routed every other thought, and I darted from the spot, and never stopped till I reached the street.

A great crowd followed the detachment, composed partly of friends of the soldiers, partly of the idle loungers of the capital. Mixing with these, I moved onward, and speedily passed the outer boulevard and gained the open country.

CHAPTER VI. ‘THE ARMY SIXTY YEARS SINCE’

I followed the soldiers as they marched beyond the outer boulevard and gained the open country. Many of the idlers dropped off here; others accompanied us a little farther; but at length, when the drums ceased to beat, and were slung in marching order on the backs of the drummers, when the men broke into the open order that French soldiers instinctively assume on a march, the curiosity of the gazers appeared to have nothing more to feed upon, and one by one they returned to the capital, leaving me the only lingerer.

To any one accustomed to military display, there was little to attract notice in the column, which consisted of detachments from various corps, horse, foot, and artillery; some were returning to their regiments after a furlough; some had just issued from the hospitals, and were seated in charrettes, or country cars; and others, again, were peasant boys only a few days before drawn in the conscription. There was every variety of uniform, and, I may add, of raggedness, too – a coarse blouse and a pair of worn shoes, with a red or blue handkerchief on the head, being the dress of many among them. The Republic was not rich in those days, and cared little for the costume in which her victories were won. The artillery alone seemed to preserve anything like uniformity in dress. They wore a plain uniform of blue, with long white gaiters coming half-way up the thigh; a low cocked-hat, without feather, but with the tricoloured cockade in front. They were mostly men middle aged, or past the prime of life, bronzed, weather-beaten, hardy-looking fellows, whose white moustaches contrasted well with their sun-burned faces. All their weapons and equipments were of a superior kind, and showed the care bestowed upon an arm whose efficiency was the first discovery of the republican generals. The greater number of these were Bretons, and several of them had served in the fleet, still bearing in their looks and carriage something of that air which seems inherent in the seaman. They were grave, serious, and almost stern in manner, and very unlike the young cavalry soldiers, who, mostly recruited from the south of France, many of them Gascons, had all the high-hearted gaiety and reckless levity of their own peculiar land. A campaign to these fellows seemed a pleasant excursion; they made a jest of everything, from the wan faces of the invalids to the black bread of the commissary; they quizzed the new ‘Tourlerous,’ as the recruits were styled, and the old ‘Grumblers,’ as it was the fashion to call the veterans of the army; they passed their jokes on the Republic, and even their own officers came in for a share of their ridicule. The Grenadiers, however, were those who especially were made the subject of their sarcasm. They were generally from the north of France, and the frontier country toward Flanders, whence they probably imbibed a portion of that phlegm and moroseness so very unlike the general gaiety of French nature; and when assailed by such adversaries, were perfectly incapable of reply or retaliation.

They all belonged to the army of the ‘Sambre et Meuse,’ which, although at the beginning of the campaign highly distinguished for its successes, had been latterly eclipsed by the extraordinary victories on the Upper Rhine and in Western Germany; and it was curious to hear with what intelligence and interest the greater questions of strategy were discussed by those who carried their packs as common soldiers in the ranks. Movements and manoeuvres were criticised, attacked, defended, ridiculed, and condemned, with a degree of acuteness and knowledge that showed the enormous progress the nation had made in military science, and with what ease the Republic could recruit her officers from the ranks of her soldiers.

At noon the column halted in the wood of Belleville; and while the men were resting, an express arrived announcing that a fresh body of troops would soon arrive, and ordering the others to delay their march till they came up. The orderly who brought the tidings could only say that he believed some hurried news had come from Germany, for before he left Paris the rappel was beating in different quarters, and the rumour ran that reinforcements were to set out for Strasbourg with the utmost despatch.

‘And what troops are coming to join us?’ said an old artillery sergeant, in evident disbelief of the tidings.

‘Two batteries of artillery and the voltigeurs of the 4th, I know for certain are coming,’ said the orderly, ‘and they spoke of a battalion of grenadiers.’

‘What! do these Germans need another lesson?’ said the cannonier. ‘I thought Fleurus had taught them what our troops were made of.’

‘How you talk of Fleurus!’ interrupted a young hussar of the south. ‘I have just come from the army of Italy, and, ma foi! we should never have mentioned such a battle as Fleurus in a despatch. Campaigning amongst dikes and hedges – fighting with a river on one flank and a fortress on t’other – parade manoeuvres – where, at the first check, the enemy retreats, and leaves you free, for the whole afternoon, to write off your successes to the Directory. Had you seen our fellows scaling the Alps, with avalanches of snow descending at every fire of the great guns – forcing pass after pass against an enemy, posted on every cliff and crag above us – cutting our way to victory by roads the hardiest hunter had seldom trod – I call that war.’

‘And I call it the skirmish of an outpost!’ said the gruff veteran, as he smoked away in thorough contempt for the enthusiasm of the other. ‘I have served under Kléber, Hoche, and Moreau, and I believe they are the first generals of France.’

‘There is a name greater than them all,’ cried the hussar, with eagerness.

‘Let us hear it, then – you mean Pichegru, perhaps, or Masséna?’

‘No, I mean Bonaparte!’ said the hussar triumphantly.

‘A good officer, and one of us,’ said the artilleryman, touching his belt to intimate the arm of the service the general belonged to. ‘He commanded the siege-train at Toulon.’

‘He belongs to all,’ said the other. ‘He is a dragoon, a voltigeur, an artillerist, a pontonnier – what you will – he knows everything, as I know my horse’s saddle, and cloak-bag.’

Both parties now grew warm; and as each was not only an eager partisan, but well acquainted with the leading events of the two campaigns they undertook to defend, the dispute attracted a large circle of listeners, who, either seated on the green sward, or lying at full length, formed a picturesque group under the shadow of the spreading oak-trees. Meanwhile, the cooking went speedily forward, and the camp-kettles smoked with a steam whose savoury odour was not a little tantalising to one who, like myself, felt that he did not belong to the company.

‘What’s thy mess, boy?’ said an old grenadier to me, as I sat at a little distance off, and affecting – but I fear very ill – a total indifference to what went forward.

‘He is asking to what corps thou belong’st?’ said another, seeing that the question puzzled me.

‘I Unfortunately I have none,’ said I. ‘I merely followed the march for curiosity.’

‘And thy father and mother, child – what will they say to thee on thy return home?’

‘I have neither father, mother, nor home,’ said I promptly.

‘Just like myself,’ said an old red-whiskered sapeur; ‘or if I ever had parents they never had the grace to own me. Come over here, child, and take share of my dinner.’

‘No, parbleu! I ‘ll have him for my comrade,’ cried the young hussar. ‘I was made a corporal yesterday, and have a larger ration. Sit here, my boy, and tell us how art called.’

‘Maurice Tiernay.’

‘Maurice will do; few of us care for more than one name, except in the dead muster they like to have it in full. Help thyself, my lad, and here’s the wine-flask beside thee.’

‘How comes it thou hast this old uniform, boy?’ said he, pointing to my sleeve.