Tom Burke Of "Ours" Volume Ii Part 4

"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--"

"Hus.h.!.+ mon lieutenant! don't let him hear you speak of that. He stormed and swore so much when the ambulance pa.s.sed, 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 a.s.sist 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 no discredit to any girl's choice. But Minette--"

"Minette, the vivandiere?"

"Ay, to be sure, mon lieutenant; I'd warrant you must have known her."

"What of her? where is she?" said I, burning with impatience.

"She's with the wounded, up at Reygern yonder. They sent for her to Heilbrunn yesterday, where she was with the reserve battalions. _Ma foi!_ you don't think our fellows would do without Minette at the ambulance, where there was a battle to be fought. They say they'd hard work enough to make her come up. After all, she's a strange girl; that she is."

"How was that? Has she taken offence with the Fourth?"

"No, that is not it; she likes the old regiment in her heart. I'd never believe she didn't; but" (here he dropped his voice to a low whisper, as if dreading to be overheard by the wounded man), "but they say--who knows if it's true?--that when she was left behind at Ulm or Elchingen, or somewhere up there on the Danube, that there was a young fellow--I heard his name, too, but I forget it--who was brought in badly wounded, and that mademoiselle was left to watch and nurse him. He got well in time, for the thing was not so serious as they thought. And what do you think was the return he made the poor girl? He seduced her!"

"It's false! false as h.e.l.l!" cried I, bursting with pa.s.sion. "Who has dared to spread such a calumny?"

"Don't be angry, mon lieutenant; there are plenty to answer for the report. And if it was yourself--"

"Yes; it was by _my_ bedside she watched; it was to _me_ she gave that care and kindness by which I recovered from a dangerous wound. But so far from this base requital--"

"Why did she leave you, then, and march night and day with the cha.s.seur brigade into the Tyrol? Why did she tell her friends that she'd never see the old Fourth again? Why did she fret herself into an illness--"

"Did she do this, poor girl?"

"Ay, that she did. But, mayhap, you never heard of all this. I can only say, mon lieutenant, that you'd be safer in a broken square, charged by a heavy squadron, than among the Fourth, after what you 've done."

I turned indignantly from him without a reply; for while my pride revolted at answering an accusation from such a quarter, my mind was hara.s.sed by the sad fate of poor Minette, and perplexed how to account for her sudden departure. My silence at once arrested my companion's speech, and we walked along the remainder of the way without a word on either side.

The day was just breaking when the first wagon of the convoy entered the gates of the convent. It was an enormous ma.s.s of building, originally destined for the reception of about three thousand persons; for, in addition to the priestly inhabitants, there were two great hospitals and several schools included within the walls. This, before the battle, had been tenanted by the staffs of many general officers and the corps of engineers and sappers, but now was entirely devoted to the wounded of either army; for Austrians and Russians were everywhere to be met with, receiving equal care and attention with our own troops.

It was the first time I had witnessed a military hospital after a battle, and the impression was too fearful to be ever forgotten by me.

The great chambers and s.p.a.cious rooms of the convent were soon found inadequate for the numbers who arrived; and already the long corridors and pa.s.sages of the building were crowded with beds, between which a narrow path scarcely permitted one person to pa.s.s. Here, promiscuously, without regard to rank, officers in command lay side by side with the meanest privates, awaiting the turn of medical aid, as no other order was observed than the necessities of each case demanded. A black mark above the bed, indicating that the patient's state was hopeless, proclaimed that no further attention need be bestowed; while the same mark, with a white bar across it, implied that it was a case for operation. In this way the surgeons who arrived at each moment from different corps of the army discovered, at a glance, where their services were required, and not a minute's time was lost.

The dreadful operations of surgery--for which, in the events of every-day life, every provision of delicate secrecy, and every minute detail which can alleviate dread, are so rigidly studied,--were here going forward on every side; the horrible preparations moved from bed to bed with a rapidity which showed that where suffering so abounded there was no time for sympathy; and the surgeons, with arms bare to the shoulder and bedaubed with blood, toiled away as though life no longer moved in the creeping flesh beneath the knife, and human agony spoke not aloud with every motion of their hand.

"Place there! move forward!" said an hospital surgeon, as they carried up the litter on which Pioche lay stretched and senseless.

"What's this?" cried a surgeon, leaning forward, and placing his hand on the sick man's pulse. "Ah! take him back again; it 's all over there!"

"Oh, no!" cried I, in agony, "it can scarcely be; they lifted him alive from the wagon."

"He's not dead, sir," replied the surgeon, in a whisper, "but he will soon be; there's internal bleeding going on from that wound, and a few hours, or less perhaps must close the scene."

"Can nothing be done? nothing?"

"I fear not." He opened the jacket of the wounded man as he spoke, and slitting the inner clothes asunder with a quick stroke of his scissors, disclosed a tremendous sabre-wound in the side. "That is not the worst,"

said he. "Look here," pointing to a small bluish mark of a bullet hole above it; "here lies the mischief."

An hospital aid whispered something at the instant in the surgeon's ear, to which he quickly replied, "When?"

"This instant, sir; the ligature slipped, and--"

"Remove him," was the reply. "Now, sir, I have a bed for your poor fellow here; but I have little hope to give you. His pulse is stronger, otherwise the endeavor would be lost time."

While they carried the litter forward, I perceived that another party were lifting from a bed near a figure, over whose face the sheet was carelessly thrown. I guessed from the gestures that the form they lifted was lifeless; the heavy sumph of the body upon the ground showed it beyond a doubt. The bearers replaced the dead man by the dying body of poor Pioche; and from a vague feeling of curiosity, I stooped down and drew back the sheet from the face of the corpse. As I did so, my limbs trembled, and I leaned back almost fainting against the wall. Pale with the pallor of death, but scarcely altered from life, I beheld the dead features of Amedee Pichot, the captain whose insolence had left an unsettled quarrel between us. The man for whose coming I waited to expiate an open insult, now lay cold and lifeless at my feet. What a rush of sensations pa.s.sed through my mind as I gazed on that motionless ma.s.s! and oh, what grat.i.tude my heart gushed to think that he did not fall by _my_ hand!

"A brave soldier, but a quarrelsome friend," said the surgeon, stooping down to examine the wound, with all the indifference of a man who regarded life as a mere problem. "It was a cannon-shot carried it off."

As he said this, he disclosed the mangled remains of a limb, torn from the trunk too high to permit of amputation. "Poor Amedee! it was the death he always wished for. It was a strange horror he had of falling by the hand of an adversary, rather than being carried off thus. And now for the cuira.s.sier."

So saying, he turned towards the bed on which Pioche lav, still as death itself. A few minutes' careful investigation of the case enabled him to p.r.o.nounce that although the chances were many against recovery, yet it was not altogether hopeless.

"All will depend on the care of whoever watches him," said the surgeon.

"Symptoms will arise, requiring prompt attention and a change in treatment; and this is one of those cases where a nurse is worth a hundred doctors. Who takes charge of this bed?" he called aloud.

"Minette, Monsieur," said a sergeant. "She has lain down to take a little rest, for she was quite worn out with fatigue."

"Me voici!" said a silvery voice I knew at once to be hers. And the same instant she pierced the crowd around the bed, and approached the patient. No sooner had she beheld the features of the sick man than she reeled back, and grasped the arms of the persons on either side. For a few seconds she stood, with her hands pressed upon her face, and when she withdrew them, her features were almost ghastly in their hue, while, with a great effort over her emotion, she said, in a low voice, "Can he recover?"

"Yes, Minette!" replied the surgeon, "and will, if care avail anything.

Just hear me for a moment."

With that he drew her to one side, and commenced to explain the treatment he proposed to adopt. As he spoke, her cloak, which up to this instant she wore, dropped from her shoulders, and she stood there in the dress of the vivandiere: a short frock coat, of light blue, with a thin gold braid upon the collar and the sleeve; loose trousers of white jean, strapped beneath her boots; a silk sash of scarlet and gold entwined was fastened round her waist, and fell in a long fringe at her side; while a cap of blue cloth, with a gold band and ta.s.sel, hung by a hook at her girdle. Simple as was the dress, it displayed to perfection the symmetry of her figure and her carriage, and suited the character of her air and gesture, which, abrupt and impatient at times, was almost boyish in the wayward freedom of her action.

The surgeon soon finished his directions, the crowd separated, and Minette alone remained by the sick man's bed. For some minutes her cares did not permit her to look up; but when she did, a slight cry broke from her, and she sank down upon the seat at the bedside.

"Minette, dear Minette, you are not angry with me?" said I, in a low and trembling tone. "I have not done aught to displease you,--have I so?"

She answered not a word, but a blush of the deepest scarlet suffused her face and temples, and her bosom heaved almost convulsively.

"To you I owe my life," continued I, with earnestness; "nay more, I owe the kindness which made of a sick-bed a place of pleasant thoughts and happy memories. Can I, then, have offended you, while my whole heart was bursting with grat.i.tude?"