Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune. Lever Charles James
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.
‘It was one they gave me in the Temple,’ said I. ‘I was a rat du prison for some time.’
‘Thunder of war!’ exclaimed the cannonier, ‘I had rather stand a whole platoon-fire than see what thou must have seen, child.’
‘And hast heart to go back there, boy,’ said the corporal, ‘and live the same life again?’
‘No, I ‘ll never go back,’ said I. ‘I ‘ll be a soldier.’
‘Well said, mon brave– thou’lt be a hussar, I know.’
‘If nature has given thee a good head, and a quick eye, my boy, thou might even do better, and in time, perhaps, wear a coat like mine,’ said the cannonier.
‘Sacrebleu! cried a little fellow, whose age might have been anything from boyhood to manhood – for while small of stature, he was shrivelled and wrinkled like a mummy – ‘why not be satisfied with the coat he wears?’
‘And be a drummer, like thee?’ said the cannonier.
‘Just so, like me, and like Masséna – he was a drummer, too.’
‘No, no!’ cried a dozen voices together; ‘that’s not true.’
‘He’s right; Masséna was a drummer in the Eighth,’ said the cannonier; ‘I remember him when he was like that boy yonder.’
‘To be sure,’ said the little fellow, who, I now perceived, wore the dress of a tambour; and is it a disgrace to be the first to face the enemy?’
‘And the first to turn his back to him, comrade,’ cried another.
‘Not always – not always,’ said the little fellow, regardless of the laugh against him. ‘Had it been so, I had not gained the battle of Grandrengs on the Sambre.’
‘Thou gain a battle!’ shouted half a dozen, in derisive laughter.
‘What, Petit Pierre gained the day at Grandrengs!’ said the cannonier; ‘why, I was there myself, and never heard of that till now.’
‘I can believe it well,’ replied Pierre; ‘many a man’s merits go unacknowledged – and Kléber got all the credit that belonged to Pierre Canot.’
‘Let us hear about it, Pierre, for even thy victory is unknown by name to us poor devils of the army of Italy. How call’st thou the place?’
‘Grandrengs,’ said Pierre proudly. ‘It’s name will live as long, perhaps, as many of those high-sounding ones you have favoured us with. Mayhap, thou hast heard of Cambray?’
‘Never!’ said the hussar, shaking his head.
‘Nor of Mons, either, I’ll be sworn?’ continued Pierre.
‘Quite true, I never heard of it before.’
‘Voilà! exclaimed Pierre, in contemptuous triumph. ‘And these are the fellows that pretend to feel their country’s glory, and take pride in her conquests. Where hast thou been, lad, not to hear of places that every child syllables nowadays?’
‘I will tell you where I’ve been,’ said the hussar haughtily, and dropping at the same time the familiar ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ of soldier intercourse – ‘I’ve been at Montenotte, at Millesimo, at Mondove —
‘Allons, donc! with your disputes,’ broke in an old grenadier; ‘as if France was not victorious whether the enemies were English or German. Let us hear how Pierre won his battle at – at – ’
‘At