Henty George Alfred
The Young Franc Tireurs, and Their Adventures in the Franco-Prussian War
There was a heavy firing now heard and, a moment after, half a dozen shots were fired through the window. Then there was a rush of soldiers towards the door, which Ralph had purposely left open.
"We surrender," Ralph shouted, in German, coming forward to meet them. "We are French officers."
"Don't fire," a voice said, and then a young officer came forward.
"You are not franc tireurs?" he asked, for the light was still insufficient to enable him to distinguish uniforms.
"We are officers of the army, upon General Cambriels' staff. This man is an orderly.
"Here are our swords. We surrender, as prisoners of war."
The German officer bowed.
"Keep your swords, for the present, gentlemen. I am not in command."
At this moment, another officer came up.
"Who have we here, Von Hersen? Why do you make prisoners?"
"They are two staff officers, major."
"Hem," said the major, doubtfully.
"Well, if you are an officer," he continued, "order your men to cease their resistance."
The franc tireurs, most of whom had taken refuge in the same cottage, were still defending themselves desperately; and were keeping up a heavy fire, from the windows.
"I will order them to surrender, at once," Ralph said, quietly; "if you give me your word that they shall be treated as prisoners of war."
"I will do nothing of the sort, sir," the German answered.
"Then I shall certainly not advise them to surrender," Ralph said, firmly. "I have no authority, whatever, over them; but if I give advice, it would be that they should sell their lives as dearly as possible."
The officer swore a deep German oath, and strode off. For five more minutes the fight continued round the cottage, many of the Germans falling; then a rush was made, there was a fierce contest inside the house–shouts, shrieks, cries for mercy–and then all was still.
The young Barclays and Tim were now told to sit down near a tree, at a short distance off; with two sentries, with loaded rifles, standing over them. The German soldiers took from the houses what few articles they fancied, and then set fire to them; sitting down and eating their breakfast as the flames shot up. At a short distance from where the Barclays were sitting was a group of some eight or ten franc tireurs, and six or seven peasants, guarded by some soldiers.
Near them the German major and two lieutenants were talking. One of the young men appeared to take little interest in the conversation; but the other was evidently urging some point, with great earnestness; and the major was equally plainly refusing his request, for he stamped his foot angrily, and shook his head.
"What a type that major is, of the brutal species of German," Ralph said. "One used to meet them, sometimes. Their officers are either particularly nice fellows, mere machines, or great brutes; apparently we have a specimen of each of them, here."
The officers passed near enough for the Barclays to catch what they were saying.
The young lieutenant was very pale.
"For the last time, major, I implore you."
"For the last time, Lieutenant von Hersen," the major said, brutally, "I order you to do your duty and, by Heavens, if you speak another word, I will put you in arrest!"
The young lieutenant turned silently away, called up twenty men, and ordered them to place the franc tireurs and the peasants against a wall.
"This is horrible, Ralph," Percy said. "That scoundrel is going to shoot them, in cold blood."
"I protest against this execution," Ralph said, in a loud tone, advancing towards the major, "as a cold-blooded murder, and a violation of all the rights of war."
"Hold your tongue, sir," the German major said, turning to him furiously, "or, by Heavens, I will put you up there, too!"
"You dare not," Ralph said, firmly. "Outrage, as you do, every law of civilization and humanity; you dare not shoot an officer of the army, in cold blood."
The major turned black with passion.
"By Heavens!" he exclaimed.
But the officer who had not–hitherto–interposed, threw himself before him.
"Pardon me, major," he said, respectfully, "but the Frenchman is right. It would bring discredit upon the whole army to touch these prisoners of war.
"In the other matter, I have nothing to say. The order has been published that franc tireurs, and peasants sheltering them, shall be shot; and it is not for me to discuss orders, but to obey them–but this is a matter affecting all our honors."
The major stood, for a moment, irresolute; but he knew well that the German military authorities would punish, probably with death, the atrocity which he meditated; and he said hoarsely, to some of the men near:
"Tie their arms behind their backs, and take them farther into the wood."
Ralph, his brother, and Tim Doyle were hurried into the wood by their guards but–strict as is the discipline of the German army–they could see that they disapproved, in the highest degree, of the conduct of their commanding officer.
They were still near enough to see what was passing in the village. Not a man of the franc tireurs begged his life, but stood upright against the wall. Two of the peasants imitated their example, as did a boy of not over thirteen years of age. Two other lads of the same age, and a peasant, fell on their knees and prayed piteously for life.
The young officer turned round towards the major in one, now mute, appeal. It was in vain.
"Put your rifles within a foot of their heads," the lieutenant said. "Fire!"
When the smoke cleared away, the soldiers were standing alone; and the peasants and franc tireurs lay, in a confused mass, on the ground.
The lieutenant walked up to the major with a steady step, but with a face as pale as ashes.
"I have done my duty, Major Kolbach; your orders are obeyed."
Then, without another word, he drew out his revolver, put it rapidly to his temple, and blew out his brains [an historical fact].
Brutal as Major Kolbach was, he started back in horror as the young lieutenant fell dead at his feet; while a cry of surprise and consternation broke from the men. The major did not say a word, but turned away and paced up and down, with disturbed steps; while the other lieutenant bent over the body of his comrade and, seeing that he was dead, in a hushed voice ordered the men who had run up to dig a grave, under the trees, and bring him there.
When this was done he ordered the men to fall in–placing the Barclays, and Tim in their midst–and then went up to the major and saluted, saying coldly that the men were ready to march. The major nodded, signed to the orderly who was holding his horse to approach, vaulted into the saddle, and rode along the road back toward the main body of the army. The lieutenant gave the word, and the column marched off; leaving behind it the still smoking houses, and the still warm bodies of some sixty men.
There was a general gloom over the faces of the men; and no one could suppose, from their air, that they were returning from a successful expedition, in which they had annihilated a body of enemy fifty strong, with the loss of only five or six of their own men. Discipline was, however, too strict for a word of blame, or even of comment to be spoken; and not a sound was heard but the heavy, measured tramp as the troops marched back through the forests. The major rode on, moodily, some forty or fifty yards ahead of the main body.
They had not gone half a mile before there was a shot fired in the wood, close to the road. The major gave a start, and nearly fell from his horse; then recovered himself, and turned to ride back to the column, when there was another shot, and he fell off his horse, heavily, to the ground.
The column had instinctively halted, and the lieutenant gave the word, "Load."
A shout of triumph was heard in the wood, "Thirty-one!" and then all was still.
"That's the old fellow who saved my life, ten days ago, Percy," Ralph said; "and by Jove! much obliged to him as I was, then, I do think that I am more grateful now."
Finding that the shots were not repeated, some twenty or thirty skirmishers were sent into the woods; but returned, in ten minutes, without finding any trace of the man who had shot the major.
The lieutenant now took the command. There was a continuation of the halt, for ten minutes, while the major was hastily buried by the roadside; a rough cross being put up to mark the spot, and a deep cross cut made in the two nearest trees so that, even if the cross were overthrown, the place of the burial might be found afterwards, if necessary. Then the corps marched on again.
The first use which the lieutenant made of his authority–even before giving directions for the burial–was to order the cords of the prisoners to be cut. Then the corps continued its march and, by the brightened faces of the men, it could be seen easily enough how unpopular their late commander had been; and that they cherished but slight animosity against the slayer. In a short time they struck up one of their marching songs and–prisoners as they were–the Barclays could not but admire the steady, martial bearing of the men, as they strode along, making the woods echo with the deep chorus.
In three hours' march they reached the village which the troops had left, the evening before, to surprise the franc tireurs; having, as Ralph had learned from the lieutenant in command, received information from a spy of their arrival at the village, late at night; and having started at once, under his guidance.
Here a considerable German force was assembled. The prisoners were not unkindly treated; but Tim Doyle was, of course, separated from them. Some astonishment was expressed at their youth; but it was assumed that they had been pupils at Saint Cyr or the Polytechnic, many of whom received commissions owing to the impossibility of finding officers for the immense new levies. Several of the officers came in to chat with them and, as these had been also engaged in the fights, ten days before, there were many questions to ask, upon either side.
The boys learned that they would be sent on, next day; would be marched to Luneville, and sent thence by train.
"They are a fine set of fellows," Ralph said, when their last visitor had left them. "Good officers, unquestionably; and when they are nice, capital fellows. I can't make out why they should be so brutal, as soldiers; for they are undoubtedly a kindly race."
"No doubt," Percy said, but he was thinking of other matters, and not paying much attention to his brother.
"Do you think we have any chance of making our escape, Ralph?"
"Oh, we shall escape, fast enough," Ralph answered, confidently. "With our knowledge of German, and looking so young, there can be no great difficulty about it, when we once get to the end of our journey; but it's no use our thinking about it, at present. We shall be a good deal too closely looked after. I only hope they will send us to Mayence, or Coblentz; and not to one of the fortresses at the other end of Germany.
"Mind, we must not give our parole."
The next day, when they were summoned to start, they found that there were fifty or sixty other prisoners who had been brought in, from other directions. Some belonged to line regiments; but the greater portion, by far, were Mobiles who, in the retreat of General Cambriels, had been cut off or left behind and, after hiding in the woods for some days, were being gradually found and brought in. The Barclays were the only officers. They therefore took their places at the head of the prisoners; who formed, four deep–with an escort of Uhlans–and set off on their march.
It was four days' march. The weather was cold and clear, and the Barclays were but little fatigued when they marched into Luneville. The greater part of the prisoners were, however, in a pitiable condition. Some were so footsore that they could hardly put one foot before the other. Others tottered with fatigue, and the men of the escort frequently used the flats of their swords, to compel them to keep together. As they marched through the streets of Luneville, the people in the streets uncovered; and the women waved their hands to them, and pressed forward and offered them fruit and bread, in spite of the orders of the escort.
They were taken straight to the railway station, where they were put into a shed. Ralph and Percy had gained the goodwill of the sergeant in command of the escort, by the manner in which they had aided him by interpreting to the rest of the prisoners, and by doing their best to cheer them up, and take things smooth; and they now asked him to request the officer in command, at the railway station, to allow them to walk about until the train started, on parole. The request was–upon the favorable report of the sergeant–granted at once; and they were told that no train would go off until next morning, and that they might sleep in the town, if they chose.
Thanking the officer for the permission, they went out of the station; when a tall, big-bearded German sergeant stopped before them.
"Donner wetter!" he exclaimed, "so here you are, again!"
The boys gave a little start; for they recognized, at once, the sergeant who had so closely questioned them in the cabaret, upon the night when they had carried off and hung the schoolmaster. Ralph saw, at once, the importance of conciliating the man; as a report from him of the circumstances might render their position a most unpleasant one and–even in the event of nothing worse coming of it–would almost ensure their captivity in some prison upon the farther side of Prussia, instead of at one of the frontier fortresses.
"Ah, sergeant, how are you?" he said, gaily. "It is our fate, you see, to be made prisoners. You were very nearly taking us, and now here we are."
"A nice trick you played me," the sergeant said, surlily, "with your woodcutters, and your lame brother, and your sick sister, and your cask of beer. I got a nice reprimand over that affair."
"Come, sergeant," Ralph said, laughing, "let bygones be bygones. All is fair in war, you know, and we did not touch a single hair of any of your men's heads. All we wanted was the schoolmaster. It would not do you any good to talk about it, now, and it might do us harm. It's quite bad enough for us, as it is."
"You're nice boys, you are," the sergeant said, with his face relaxing into a smile. "To think of my being taken in, by two lads like you. Well, you did it well–monstrously well, I will say–for you never flinched an eyelash.
"So you are officers, after all. I never suspected anything about it, till three hours afterwards, when we went to relieve the sentry; and found him lying there, tied up like a bundle. We couldn't think, even then, what it meant, for you had made no attack; and it wasn't till morning that we found that the old schoolmaster had been fetched out of bed, and carried off on the heads of twenty men.
"Well, it was well done, and I bear you no malice."
"That's right, sergeant. Now come and have a jug of beer with us; you know, we had one with you, before. Don't you remember, we drank to the health of King William? If you like, you shall return the pledge, by drinking to Napoleon."
The sergeant laughed.
"I'll do that," he said. "You said, if you remember, when I proposed the king, that you did not wish to hear of his death; and I can say the same for your Napoleon. Especially," he added with a chuckle, "as he's our prisoner."
The boys went into a cabaret near, and drank a glass of beer with the sergeant; and then–saying "Goodbye," very heartily–left him, and went into the town; well pleased to have got so well out of a scrape which might have been a very unpleasant one.
They slept at a hotel, and were down at the station at the appointed time. It was a long journey–thirty-six hours–to Mayence. But the boys were too pleased–when they saw the line that the train was following–to have cared, had it been twice as far. The difficulties of escape from the western fortresses would have been immense; whereas, at Mayence, they were comparatively close to the frontier. At Mayence, too, the position of the prisoners was comfortable. They were allowed to live anywhere in the town, and to take their meals when they chose. They were obliged, twice a day, to answer at the muster roll; and were not, of course, allowed to go outside the fortifications.
The one drawback, to the position of the French officers, was the utterly insufficient sum which the Prussian Government allowed them for board and lodging–only forty-five francs a month; that is to say, fifteen pence a day. It is needless to say that the officers who had nothing else to depend upon literally starved, upon this pittance; which was the more inexcusable that the French Government allowed more than twice this sum to the German officers who were taken prisoners.
Upon this head, however, the boys had no discomfort. They had plenty of money in their pockets, for present uses; and they knew that they could obtain further supplies by writing home, via Switzerland. They were, therefore, unaffectedly glad when the train came to a stop at the station of Mayence, and the order was given for all to alight.
Chapter 13: The Escape
The first thing that the Barclays did, after reporting themselves, was to settle themselves in a lodging–no very easy thing to find, for the town was crowded with troops, and prisoners. However, as they were able to pay a higher sum than the great majority of French officers, in their position, they had no very great difficulty in finding a place to suit them. The rooms were purposely taken in a large house, with a staircase common to a number of families living on different floors; so that anyone going in or out would be less likely to be noticed than in a smaller house. They were also careful in choosing rooms so placed that they could go in and out of the door on to the staircase, without being noticed by the people with whom they lodged.
Ralph's arm was now extremely painful, the long march having inflamed the wound. He had, therefore, on reporting himself, begged that a surgeon might attend him; and had also asked, as a great favor, that his servant–the hussar Doyle–might be allowed to remain with him; stating that, in that case, he would pay for his lodgings and provide him with food. As the prison in which the private soldiers were confined was, at the time, crowded; the request was complied with.
For the next week Ralph suffered greatly with his arm, and had to keep his room. After that the inflammation subsided; and in another fortnight he was able to dispense, for the first time since he received his wound, with a sling. In the meantime he had made the acquaintance of the people with whom he lodged; who were very kind to their wounded lodger, and whose hearts he completely won by being able to chat to them in their native tongue, like one of themselves. The family consisted of a father, who was away all day at the railway station, where he was a clerk; the mother, a garrulous old woman; and a daughter, a pretty blue-eyed girl of about Ralph's age, who assisted her mother to wait upon them. She had a lover, away as a soldier in the army besieging Paris; and the thought that he might be wounded, or taken prisoner, made her very pitiful to the young officers.
Ralph Barclay had–for some days–been intending to sound her as to her willingness to aid them when she, herself, began it one day. She had cleared away their dinner, and was standing–as she often did–talking with them, when she lowered her voice, so as not to be overheard by her mother in the next room:
"I wonder you don't try to get away. Lots of French officers have done so."
"That is just what we are thinking of, Christine. We have only been waiting till my arm was out of a sling, and we want you to help us."
"How can I help you?" the girl asked.
"In the first place, you can buy us clothes. It would excite suspicion if we were to buy them, ourselves. Percy and I were thinking of going as girls–not pretty girls, of course, like you, Christine–but great, rough peasant girls."
Christine laughed, and colored
"You would be too tall," she said.
"We should be rather tall," Ralph said, ruefully. "We have grown so horribly, in the last few months. Still, some women are as tall as we are."
"Yes, some women are," Christine said, "but men look after them and say, 'What big, gawky women!' and you don't want to be looked after. If people did so, they would see that you didn't walk one bit like a woman, and that your shoulders were very wide, and your arms very strong, and–
"Oh no! It wouldn't do at all. I must think it over.
"I suppose you want that great blue-coated bear to go?" and she nodded at Tim Doyle who–not being able to speak a word of her language–was always indulging in the most absurd pantomime of love and devotion; causing screams of laughter to the merry German girl.
"Yes, Tim must go too, Christine."
"Ha, ha!" laughed the girl. "Fancy him as a woman."
"What is she saying about me, Mister Percy?"
"She says you would make a very pretty woman, Tim."
"Tare and ages, Mister Percy," Tim said, taking it quite seriously, "how could I do it, at all? I'd have to shave off all my beautiful beard and mustaches and, even then, I doubt if you would mistake me for a woman."
The boys screamed with laughter, and translated the Irishman's speech to Christine; who laughed so that her mother came into the room.
"Look here, children," she said, smiling, "I don't want to know what you are talking about. If anything of any sort happens, I may be asked questions; and I don't want to have to tell stories. I can't help hearing, if you leave the door open, and laugh so–indeed, all the neighborhood might hear it; so please shut the door, in future."
So saying, she again went back to her work in the next room.
"Goodbye, I'm going, too," Christine said. "I will think it over, by tomorrow morning, and tell you what you are to do."
The next morning, the boys were very anxious to hear Christine's proposals; for although they had quite made up their minds to try their own plan, if hers was not feasible, still they felt that, with her knowledge of the country, she was likely, at any rate, to give them good advice.
Until she had cleared away breakfast, Christine said nothing. Then she took out her knitting, and sat against the window.
"Now," she began, "I will tell you what I have thought of. It would be easy enough, if it was not for him. He's so big, and so red, and he doesn't speak German.
"Oh dear, he's very tiresome!" and she shook her head at Tim; who smiled, laid his hand on his breast, and endeavored to look affecting.
Christine laughed.
"The only thing I can think of, for him, is that he shall go out as a Jew peddler; with one of their broad hats, and a tray of little trinkets. He might pass, if none of the soldiers took it into their heads to buy."
The proposition was translated to Tim Doyle.
"Is it me, your honor–me, Tim Doyle, a good Catholic, and come of honest people–that's to turn myself into a haythin Jew?" the Irishman burst out, with great indignation. "It was bad enough that I should be made into a woman, but a haythin Jew! I put it to your honors, it's nayther sinsible nor dacent."
The boys went off in screams of laughter. Christine laughed for a moment, too, when they translated Tim's speech to her; and then looked indignant that the proposition, which had cost her so much thought, should be so scornfully rejected.
Tim saw the look, and at once went on, persuasively:
"Sure now, darlint Miss Christine, don't be angry wid me, out of your bright blue eyes! But is it raisonable–is it natural to ask a Christian man to make a haythin Jew of himself? Would you like it, yourself?"
When the boys could stop laughing, they translated Tim's appeal.
"Did you ever see such an absurd man?" she said, laughing. "As if it could make any difference to his religion. Tell him I am a good Catholic, too, but I should not mind dressing up as a Jewess."
"Sure, thin, darlint," Tim exclaimed, when her speech was translated, "I will go as a Jew, directly, if you'll go with me and be my Jewess."
Christine laughed, blushed, shook her head and said, "Nonsense!" upon hearing Tim's proposition.
"But seriously, Christine," Ralph said, "the objection which you mention to the Jew pedlar's disguise is important. Full as the streets are of soldiers looking about, he could hardly hope to go from here through the streets, and out at the gate, without someone asking him about the contents of his box."
Christine allowed–a little pettishly, at the failure of her plan–that it certainly was likely.
"The real difficulty is to get outside the gate," Ralph said, thoughtfully. "After that, I should have no fear."
"What are you thinking of doing, then?" Christine asked.
"I was thinking of dressing Percy, and myself, in the clothes of young peasants; and putting Tim into something of the same sort, with a great bandage round his face. Then I should say that we were two lads, from some place near the frontier, who had come here to meet our uncle; who had had his jaw shattered, in battle. That would explain Tim's not being able to talk at all; and as to looks, he is red enough for a German, anywhere."
"Yes," Christine said, "that would do, very well; but of course, you would be liable to be asked for papers."
"Of course," Ralph said, "but we must risk something."
"I have an idea," Christine said, suddenly, clapping her hands. "I have some cousins living at Wiesbaden. These are three boys, and I am sure they would do anything for me. I will go out to Wiesbaden, tomorrow, and ask them to lend me their papers, just for one day. Wiesbaden is not your way, at all; but for that very reason you would get out more easily there, and be less likely to be suspected, or followed. You could cross the Rhine somewhere near Saint Goar.
"I shall have to tell some sad stories to my cousins, and coax them a great deal. Still, I daresay I shall succeed; and then you can go boldly across the bridge, and into the railway station, and take a ticket for Wiesbaden. You can have an envelope, ready directed, and put the papers into the post there."
"The very thing, Christine. You are a darling!" Ralph exclaimed, catching her by the waist and kissing her, before she had time to think of resistance.
"I shan't do anything at all for you," Christine said, laughing and blushing, "if you misbehave in that way."
"I couldn't help it, Christine–not even if your mother had been looking on.
"And now, about our clothes."
"I couldn't buy them," Christine said. "I never could go into a shop and buy men's clothes."
The thing was so evident that, for a moment, the boys' looks fell. Then Christine said, coloring very much:
"There is a box, in my room, of Karl's things. He is my cousin, you know; and he was working as a gardener, here, till he had to go out in the Landwehr–so, of course, he left his things here, for us to take care of. He is about your size. I will take out one suit–it won't hurt it–and you can put it on, and go out into the town, and buy the things for all three of you."
"Capital!" the boys exclaimed. "It couldn't be better."
Ten minutes afterwards, Ralph went down the stairs and out into the street, dressed as a German laborer in his best suit. He was a little uneasy, at first; but no one noticed him, and he was soon in a shop, haggling over the price of a peasant's coat–as if the matter of a thaler, one way or other, was a thing of vital importance to him. He bought the three suits at three different shops–as he thought that it would look suspicious, if he were to get them all at the same–and in an hour was back again. An hour afterwards, Christine started for Wiesbaden.
The Barclays had reason to congratulate themselves that they had not longer deferred their preparations for escape; for when presenting themselves, as usual, that afternoon at the roll call, they were told that they must hold themselves in readiness to leave for one of the eastern fortresses, upon the following evening; as another large batch of prisoners, from Metz, was expected to arrive upon the following day.
In the evening, Christine returned from Wiesbaden; which is distant only a quarter of an hour, by rail, from Mayence.
"I have got them," she said, "but if you only knew the trouble I have had! What a bother boys are, to be sure!"
"Especially cousins–eh, Christine?"
"Especially cousins," Christine said, demurely.
After thanking her very warmly for her kindness, the Barclays started out, and bought a variety of things which they thought might be useful. They also bought a pretty gold watch and chain, to give to Christine as a parting present.
The next morning they answered, as usual, to their early roll call; and then, returning at once to their lodgings, changed their clothes for those which Ralph had purchased. It was agreed that they should not say goodbye to Christine's mother; in order that, whatever she might suspect, she might be able to say that she knew nothing of any idea, on the part of her lodgers, to make their escape. Then Christine herself came in, to say goodbye; and went half wild with delight, at the present. Then she said goodbye, kissed the boys–without any affectation of objecting to it–and then went to a window, to watch if they went safely down the street.
The boys had no uneasiness, whatever, upon their own account–for they had before passed so easily, among the Prussian troops, that they felt quite confident in their disguise–but they were uncomfortable as to Tim, whose inability to answer questions would have at once betrayed them, had anyone addressed him. They had not ventured to bandage up his face, as if wounded; as he would have naturally, in that case, had a military pass. As the best thing they could think of, they had shoved a large lump of cotton into one of his cheeks–which gave him the appearance of having a swelled face–and had instructed him to frequently put his hand up to it, as if in great pain. Tim had plenty of shrewdness, and acted his part admirably.
