Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ terror-struck, I continued to gaze at the countenances over which the lurid torchlight cast a horrid glare, a strong hand grasped my collar, and by a jerk swung me up to a seat on one of the caissons; and at the same time a deep voice said, ‘Come, youngster, this is more in thy way than mine,’ and a black-bearded sapeur pushed a drum before me, and ordered me to beat the générale. Such was the din and uproar that my performance did not belie my uniform, and I beat away manfully, scarcely sorry, amid all my fears, at the elevated position from which I now surveyed the exciting scene around me.

      As we passed, the shops were closed on either side in haste, and across the windows of the upper storeys beds and mattresses were speedily drawn, in preparation for the state of siege now so imminent. Lights flickered from room to room, and all betokened a degree of alarm and terror. Louder and louder pealed the ‘Marseillaise,’ as the columns deployed into the open Place, from which every street and lane now poured its crowds of armed men. The line was now formed by the artillery, which, to the number of sixteen pieces, ranged from end to end of the square, the dense crowd of horse and foot forming behind, the mass dimly lighted by the waving torches that here and there marked the presence of an officer. Gradually the sounds of the ‘Marseillaise’ grew fainter and fainter, and soon a dreary silence pervaded that varied host, more terrible now, as they stood speechless, than in all the tumultuous din of the wildest uproar. Meanwhile, from the streets which opened into the Place at the farthest ends, the columns of the National Guard began to move up, the leading files carrying torches; behind them came ten pieces of artillery, which, as they issued, were speedily placed in battery, and flanked by the heavy dragoons of the Guard; and now, in breathless silence, the two forces stood regarding each other, the cannoniers with lighted matches in their hands, the dragoons firmly clasping their sabres – all but waiting for the word to plunge into the deadliest strife. It was a terrible moment – the slightest stir in the ranks – the rattling of a horse’s panoply – the clank of a sabre – fell upon the heart like the toll of a death-bell. It was then that two or three horsemen were seen to advance from the troops of the Convention, and, approaching the others, were speedily lost among their ranks. A low and indistinct murmur ran along the lines, which each moment grew louder, till at last it burst forth into a cry of ‘Vive la Convention!’ Quitting their ranks, the men gathered around a general of the National Guard, who addressed them in words of passionate eloquence, but of which I was too distant to hear anything. Suddenly the ranks began to thin; some were seen to pile their arms, and move away in silence; others marched across the Place, and took up their position beside the troops of the National Guard; of the cannoniers, many threw down their matches, and extinguished the flame with their feet, while others again, limbering up their guns, slowly retired to the barracks.

      As for myself, too much interested in the scene to remember that I was, in some sort, an actor in it, I sat upon the caisson, watching all that went forward so eagerly, that I never noticed the departure of my companions, nor perceived that I was left by myself. I know not how much later this discovery might have been deferred to me had not an officer of the Guard ridden up to where I was, and said, ‘Move up, move up, my lad; keep close to the battery.’ He pointed at the same time with his sabre in the direction where a number of guns and carriages were already proceeding.

      Not a little flattered by the order, I gathered up reins and whip, and, thanks to the good drilling of the beasts, who readily took their proper places, soon found myself in the line, which now drew up in the rear of the artillery of the Guard, separated from the front by a great mass of horse and foot. I knew nothing of what went forward in the Place; from what I gathered, however, I could learn that the artillery was in position, the matches burning, and everything in readiness for a cannonade. Thus we remained for above an hour, when the order was given to march. Little knew I that, in that brief interval, the whole fortunes of France – ay, of humanity itself – had undergone a mighty change – that the terrible reign of blood, the tyranny of Robespierre, had closed, and that he who had sent so many to the scaffold now lay bleeding and mutilated upon the very table where he had signed the death-warrants.

      The day was just beginning to dawn as we entered the barracks of the Conciergerie, and drew up in a double line along its spacious square. The men dismounted, and stood ‘at ease,’ awaiting the arrival of the staff of the National Guard, which, it was said, was coming; and now the thought occurred to me of what I should best do, whether make my escape while it was yet time, or remain to see by what accident I had come there. If a sense of duty to the Père Michel urged me on one side, the glimmering hope of some opening to fortune swayed me on the other. I tried to persuade myself that my fate was bound up with his, and that he should be my guide through the wild waste before me; but these convictions could not stand against the very scene in which I stood. The glorious panoply of war – the harnessed team – the helmeted dragoon – the proud steed in all the trappings of battle! How faint were the pleadings of duty against such arguments! The père, too, designed me for a priest. The life of a seminarist in a convent was to be mine! I was to wear the red gown and the white cape of an acolyte! – to be taught how to swing a censer, or snuff the candles of the high altar – to be a train-bearer in a procession, or carry a relic in a glass-case! The hoarse bray of a trumpet that then rung through the court routed these ignoble fancies, and as the staff rode proudly in, my resolve was taken. I was determined to be a soldier.

      The day, I have said, was just breaking, and the officers wore their dark-grey capotes over their uniforms. One, however, had his coat partly open, and I could see the blue and silver beneath, which, tarnished and worn as it was, had to my eyes all the brilliancy of a splendid uniform. He was an old man, and by his position in advance of the others showed that he was the chief of the staff. This was General Lacoste, at that time en mission from the army of the Rhine, and now sent by the Convention to report upon the state of events among the troops. Slowly passing along the line, the old general halted before each gun, pointing out to his staff certain minutiæ, which, from his gestures and manner, it was easy to see were not the subject of eulogy. Many of the pieces were ill slung, and badly balanced on the trucks; the wheels, in some cases, were carelessly put on, their tires worn, and the iron shoeing defective. The harnessing, too, was patched and mended in a slovenly fashion; the horses lean and out of condition; the drivers awkward and inexperienced.

      ‘This is all bad, gentlemen,’ said he, addressing the officers, but in a tone to be easily heard all around him, ‘and reflects but little credit upon the state of your discipline in the capital. We have been now seventeen months in the field before the enemy, and not idle either; and yet I would take shame to myself if the worst battery in our artillery were not better equipped, better horsed, better driven, and better served, than any I see here.’

      One who seemed a superior officer here appeared to interpose some explanation or excuse, but the general would not listen to him, and continued his way along the line – passing around which he now entered the space between the guns and the caissons. At last he stopped directly in front of where I was, and fixed his dark and penetrating eyes steadily on me. Such was their fascination that I could not look from him, but continued to stare as fixedly at him.

      ‘Look here, for instance,’ cried he, as he pointed to me with his sword, ‘is that gamin yonder like an artillery-driver? or is it to a drummer-boy you intrust the caisson of an eight-pounder gun? Dismount, sirrah, and come hither,’ cried he to me, in a voice that sounded like an order for instant execution. ‘This popinjay dress of yours must have been the fancy of some worthy shopkeeper of the ‘Quai Lepelletier’; it never could belong to any regular corps. Who are you?’

      ‘Maurice Tiernay, sir,’ said I, bringing my hand to my cap in military salute.

      ‘Maurice Tiernay,’ repeated he, slowly, after me. ‘And have you no more to say for yourself than your name?’

      ‘Very little, sir,’ said I, taking courage from the difficulty in which I found myself.

      ‘What of your father, boy? – is he a soldier?’

      ‘He was, sir,’ replied I, with firmness.

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