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Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II. Lever Charles James
Читать онлайн.Название Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II
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Автор произведения Lever Charles James
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I found this information but too correct. Lines of dead men lay beside their horses, ranged as they stood in battle, while before them lay the bodies of the Russian Guard, their gorgeous uniform all slashed with gold, marking them out amid the dull russet costumes of their comrades. In many places were they intermingled, and showed where a hand-to-hand combat had been fought; and I saw two clasped rigidly in each other’s grasp, who had evidently been shot by others while struggling for the mastery.
“I told you, mon lieutenant, it was useless to come here; this was à la mort while it lasted; and if it had continued much longer in the same fashion, it’s hard to say which of us had been going over the field now with lanterns.”
Too true, indeed! Not one wounded man did we meet with, nor did one human voice break the silence around us. “Perhaps,” said I, “they may have already carried up the wounded to the village yonder; I see a great blaze of light there. Bide forward, and learn if it be so.”
When I had dismissed the orderly, I dismounted from my horse, and walked carefully along the ridge of ground, anxious to ascertain if any poor fellow still remained alive amid that dreadful heap of dead. A low brushwood covered the ground in certain places; and here I perceived but few of the cavalry had penetrated, while the infantry were all tirailleurs of the Russian Guard, bayoneted by our advancing columns. As I approached the lake the ground became more rugged and uneven; and I was about to turn back, when my eye caught the faint glimmering of a light reflected in the water. Picketing my horse where he stood, I advanced alone towards the light, which I saw now was at the foot of a little rocky crag beside the lake. As I drew near, I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear the deep tones of a man’s voice, as if broken at intervals by pain, while in his accents I thought I could trace a tone of indignant passion rather than of bodily suffering.
“Leave me, leave me where I am,” cried he, peevishly. “I thought I might have had my last few moments tranquil, when I staggered thus far.”
“Come, come, Comrade!” said another, in a voice of comforting; “come, thou wert never faint-hearted before. Thou hast had thy share of bruises, and cared little about them too. Art dry?”
“Yes; give me another drink. Ah!” cried he, in an excited tone, “they can’t stand before the cuirassiers of the Guard. Sacrebleu! how proud the Petit Caporal will be of this day!” Then, dropping his voice, he muttered, “What care I who’s proud? I have my billet, and must be going.”
“Not so, mon enfant; thou’lt have the cross for thy day’s work. He knows thee well; I saw him smile to-day when thou madest the salute in passing.”
“Didst thou that?” said the wounded man, with eagerness; “did he smile? Ah, villain! how you can allure men to shed their heart’s blood by a smile! He knows me! That he ought, and, if he but knew how I lay here now, he ‘d send the best surgeon of his staff to look after me.”
“That he would, and that he will; courage, and cheer up.”
“No, no; I don’t care for it now. I’ll never go back to the regiment again; I could n’t do it!”
As he spoke the last words his voice became fainter and fainter, and at last was lost in a hiccup; partly, as it seemed, from emotion, and partly from bodily suffering.
“Qui vive?” cried his companion, as the clash of my sabre announced my approach.
“An officer of the Eighth Hussars,” said I, in a low voice, fearing to disturb the wounded man, as he lay with his head sunk on his knees.
“Too late, Comrade! too late,” said he, in a stifled tone; “the order of route has come. I must away.”
“A brave cuirassier of the Guard should never say so while he has a chance left to serve his Emperor in another field of battle.”
“Vive l’Empereur! vive l’Empereur!” shouted he, madly, as he lifted his helmet and tried to wave it above his head. But the exertion brought on a violent fit of coughing, which choked his utterance, while a torrent of red blood gushed from his mouth, and deluged his neck and chest.
“Ah, mon Dieu! that cry has been his death,” said the other, wringing his hands in utter misery.
“Where is he wounded?” said I, kneeling down beside the sick man, who now lay, half on his face, upon the grass.
“In the chest, through the lung,” whispered the other. “He doesn’t know the doctor saw him; it was he told me there was no hope. ‘You may leave him,’ said he; ‘an hour or two more are all that ‘s left him;’ as if I could leave a comrade we all loved. My poor fellow, it is a sad day for the old Fourth when thou art taken from them!”
“Ha! was he of the Fourth, then?” said I, remembering the regiment.
“Yes, parbleu! and though but a corporal, he was well known throughout the army. Pioche – ”
“Pioche!” cried I, in agony; “is this Pioche?”
“Here,” said the wounded man, hearing the name, and answering as if on parade, – “here, mon commandant! but too faint, I ‘m afraid, for duty. I feel weak to-day,” said he, as he pressed his hand upon his side, and then slowly sank back against the rock, and dropped his arms at either side.
“Come,” said I, “we must lose no time. Let us carry him to the rear. If nothing else can be done, he ‘ll meet with care – ”
“Hush! mon lieutenant! don’t let him hear you speak of that. He stormed and swore so much when the ambulance passed, and they wanted to bring him along, that it brought on a coughing fit, just like what you saw, and he lay in a faint for half an hour after. He vows he ‘ll never stir from where he is. Truth is, Commandant,” said he, in the lowest whisper, “he is determined to die. When his squadron fell back from the Russian square, he rode on their bayonets, and cut at the men while the artillery was playing all about him. He told me this morning he ‘d never leave the field.”
“Poor fellow! what was the meaning of this sad resolution?”
“Ma foi! a mere trifle, after all,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders, and making a true French grimace of contempt. “You ‘ll smile when I tell you; but he takes it to heart, poor fellow. His mistress has been false to him, – no great matter that, you ‘d say, – but so it is, and nothing more. See how still he lies now! is he sleeping?”
“I fear not; he looks exhausted from loss of blood. Come, we must have him out of this; here comes my orderly to assist us. If we carry him to the road I ‘ll find a carriage of some sort.”
I said this in a tone of command, to silence any scruples he might still have about obeying his comrade in preference to the orders of an officer. He obeyed with the instinct of discipline, and proceeded to fold his cloak in such a manner that we could carry the wounded man between us.
The poor corporal, too weak to resist us, faint from bleeding and semi-stupid, suffered himself to be lifted upon the cloak, and never uttered a word or a cry as we bore him along between us.
We had not proceeded far when we came up with a convoy, conducting several carts with the wounded to the convent of Reygern, which had now been fitted up as an hospital. On one of these we secured a place for our poor friend, and walked along beside him towards the convent. As we went along I questioned his comrade closely on the point; and he told me that Pioche had resolved never to survive the battle, and had taken leave of his friends the evening before.
“Ah, parbleu!” added he, with energy, “mademoiselle is pretty enough, – there ‘s no denying that; but her head is turned by flattery and soft speeches. All the gay young fellows of the hussar regiment, the aides-de-camp, – ay, and some of the generals, too, – have paid her so much attention that it could not be expected she’d care for a poor corporal. Not but that Pioche is a brave fellow and a fine soldier. Sapristi! he ‘d be