Tom Cringle's Log

by Michael Scott

  “Hurrah!” shouted the men in answer; but his and their exclamations were cut short by a volley of musketry. The fierce mustaches, pale faces, glazed shakoes, blue uniforms, and red epaulets, of the French infantry, glanced for a moment, and then all was dark again.

  “Fire!” The marines in the three boats returned the salute, and by the flashes we saw three pieces of field-artillery in the very act of being unlimbered. We could distinctly hear the clash of the mounted artillerymen’s sabres against their horses’ flanks as they rode to the rear, their burnished accoutrements glancing at every sparkle of the musketry. We pulled like fiends, and, being the fastest boat, soon headed the launch and cutter, who were returning the enemy’s fire brilliantly, when crack—a six-pound shot drove our boat into staves, and all hands were the next moment squattering in the water. I sank a good bit, I suppose, for I rose to the surface half drowned, and giddy and confused, and striking out at random, the first thing I recollected was a hard hand being wrung into my neckerchief, while a gruff voice shouted in my ear—

  “Rendez vous, mon cher?”

  Resistance was useless. I was forcibly dragged up the bank, where both musketry and cannon were still playing on the boats, which had, however, by this time got a good offing. I soon knew they were safe, by the Torch opening a fire of round and grape on the head of the dike, a certain proof that the boats had been accounted for. The French party now ceased firing, and retreated by the edge of the inundation, keeping the dike between them and the brig, all except the artillery, who had to scamper off, running the gauntlet on the crest of the embankment, until they got beyond the range of the carronades. I was conveyed between two grenadiers along the water’s edge so long as the ship was firing; but when that ceased, I was clapped on one of the limbers of the field-guns, and strapped down to it between two of the artillerymen.

  We rattled along until we came up to the French bivouac, where, round a large fire, kindled in what seemed to have been a farmyard, were assembled about fifty or sixty French soldiers. Their arms were piled under the low projecting roof of an outhouse, while the fire flickered upon their dark figures, and glanced on their bright accoutrements, and lit up the wall of the house that composed one side of the square. I was immediately marched between a file of men into a small room, where the commanding officer of the detachment was seated at a table, a blazing wood fire roaring in the chimney. He was a genteel, slender, dark man, with very large black mustaches, and fine sparkling black eyes, and had apparently just dismounted, for the mud was fresh on his boots and trousers. The latter were blue, with a broad gold lace down the seam, and fastened by a strap under his boot, from which projected a long fixed spur, which to me was remarkable as an unusual dress for a militaire, the British army being, at the time I write of, still in the age of breeches and gaiters or tall boots, long cues, and pipeclay—that is, those troops which I had seen at home, although I believe the great Duke had already relaxed a number of these absurdities in Spain.

  His single-breasted coat was buttoned up to his throat, and without an inch of lace except on his crimson collar, which fitted close round his neck, and was richly embroidered with gold acorns and oak leaves, as were the crimson cuffs to his sleeves. He wore two immense and very handsome gold epaulets.

  “My good boy,” said he, after the officer who had captured me had told his story, “so your Government thinks the Emperor is retreating from the Elbe?”

  I was a tolerable French scholar as times went, and answered him as well as I could.

  “I have said nothing about that, sir; but from your question, I presume you command the rear-guard, colonel?”

  “How strong is your squadron on the river?” said he, parrying the question.

  “There is only one sloop of war, sir;”—and I spoke the truth.

  He looked at me, and smiled incredulously; and then continued—

  “I don’t command the rear-guard, sir. But I waste time—are the boats ready?”

  He was answered in the affirmative.

  “Then set fire to the houses, and let off the rockets; they will see them at Cuxhaven—men, fall in-march”—and off we all trundled towards the river again.

  When we arrived there we found ten Blankenese boats, two of them very large, and fitted with sliding platforms. The four field-pieces were run on board, two into each; one hundred and fifty men embarked in them and the other craft, which I found partly loaded with sacks of corn. I was in one of the smallest boats with the colonel. When we were all ready to shove off, “Lafont,” said he, “are the men ready with their couteaux?”

  “They are, sir,” replied the sergeant.

  “Then cut the horses’ throats—but no firing.” A few bubbling groans, and some heavy falls, and a struggling splash or two in the water, showed that the poor artillery horses had been destroyed.

  The wind was fair up the river, and away we bowled before it. It was clear to me that the colonel commanding the post had overrated our strength, and, under the belief that we had cut him off from Cuxhaven, he had determined on falling back on Hamburgh.

  When the morning broke we were close to the beautiful bank below Altona. The trees were beginning to assume the russet hue of autumn, and the sun shone gaily on the pretty villas and bloomin Gartens on the hill-side, while here and there a Chinese pagoda, or other fanciful pleasure-house, with its gilded trellised works, and little bells depending from the eaves of its many roofs, glancing like small golden balls, rose from out the fast thinning recesses of the woods. But there was no life in the scene—’twas “Greece, but living Greece no more”—not a fishing-boat was near, scarcely a solitary figure crawled along the beach.

  “What is that?” after we had passed Blankenese, said the colonel, quickly. “Who are those?” as a group of three or four men presented themselves at a sharp turning of the road, that wound along the foot of the hill close to the shore.

  “The uniform of the Prussians,” said one.

  “Of the Russians,” said another.

  “Poo,” said a third, “it is a picket of the prince’s;” and so it was, but the very fact of his having advanced his outposts so far, showed how he trembled for his position. After answering their hail, we pushed on, and as the clocks were striking twelve we were abreast of the strong beams that were clamped together with iron, and constituted the boom or chief water defence of Hamburgh. We passed through, and found an entire regiment under arms close by the Customhouse. Somehow or other I had drunk deep of that John Bull prejudice which delights to disparage the physical conformation of our Gallic neighbours, and hugs itself with the absurd notion “that on one pair of English legs doth march three Frenchmen.” But when I saw the weather-beaten soldier-like veterans who formed this compact battalion, part of the élite of the first corps, more commanding in its aspect from severe service having worn all the gilding and lace away—”there was not a piece of feather in the host”—I felt the reality before me fast overcoming my preconceived opinion. I had seldom or ever seen so fine a body of men—tall, square, and muscular, the spread of their shoulders set off by their large red worsted epaulets, and the solidity of the mass increased by their wide trousers, which in my mind contrasted advantageously with the long gaiters and tight integuments of our own brave fellows.

  We approached a group of three mounted officers, and in a few words the officer whose prisoner I was explained the affair to the chef de bataillon, whereupon I was immediately placed under the care of a sergeant and six rank and file, and marched along the chief canal for a mile, where I could not help remarking the numberless large rafts—you could not call them boats—of unpainted pine timber, which had arrived from the upper Elbe, loaded with grain; with gardens, absolute gardens, and cowhouses, and piggeries on board; while their crews of Fierlanders, men, women, and children, cut a most extraordinary appearance,—the men in their jackets, with buttons like pot-lids, and trousers fit to carry a month’s provender and a couple of children in; and the women with bearings about
the quarters as if they had cut holes in large cheeses, three feet in diameter at least, and stuck themselves through them—such sterns—and as to their costumes, all very fine in a Flemish painting, but the devils appeared to be awfully nasty in real life.

  We carried on until we came to a large open space fronting a beautiful piece of water, which I was told was the Alster. As I walked through the narrow streets, I was struck with the peculiarity of the gables of the tall houses being all turned towards the thoroughfare, and with the stupendous size of the churches. We halted for a moment in the porch of one of the latter, and my notions of decency were not a little outraged, by seeing it filled with a squadron of dragoons, the men being in the very act of cleaning their horses. At length we came to the open space on the Alster, a large parade, faced by a street of splendid houses on the left hand, with a row of trees between them, and the water on the right. There were two regiments of foot bivouacking here, with their arms piled under the trees, while the men were variously employed, some on duty before the houses, others cleaning their accoutrements, and others again playing at all kinds of games. Presently we came to a crowd of soldiers clustered round a particular spot, some laughing, others cracking coarse jests, but none at all in the least serious. We could not get near enough to see distinctly what was going on; but we afterwards saw, when the crowd had dispersed, three men in the dress of respectable burghers, hanging from a low gibbet,—so low in fact, that although their heads wore not six inches from the beam, their feet were scarcely three from the ground. I was here placed in a guard-house, and kept there until the evening, when I was again marched off under my former escort, and we soon arrived at the door of a large mansion, fronting this parade, where two sentries were walking backwards and forwards before the door, while five dragoon horses, linked together, stood in the middle of the street, with one soldier attending them, but there was no other particular bustle to mark the headquarters of the general commanding. We advanced to the entrance—the sentries carrying arms—and were immediately ushered into a large saloon, the massive stair winding up along the walls, with the usual heavy wooden balustrade. We ascended to the first floor, where we were encountered by three aides-de-camp, in full dress, leaning with their backs against the hardwood railing, laughing and joking with each other, while two wall-lamps right opposite cast a bright flashing light on their splendid uniforms. They were all décoré with one order or another. We approached.

  “Whence, and whom have we here?” said one of them, a handsome young man, apparently not above twenty-two, as I judged, with small tiny black, jet-black, mustaches, and a noble countenance; fine dark eyes, and curls dark and clustering.

  The officer of my escort answered, “A young Englishman—enseigne de vaisseau.”

  I was no such thing, as a poor middy has no commission, but only his rating, which even his captain, without a court-martial, can take away at any time, and turn him before the mast.

  At this moment I heard the clang of a sabre and the jingle of spurs on the stairs, and the group was joined by my captor, Colonel * * *.

  “Ah, colonel!” exclaimed the aides in a volley, “where the devil have you come from? We thought you were in Bruxelles at the nearest.”

  The colonel put his hand on his lips and smiled, and then slapped the young officer who spoke first with his glove. “Never mind, boys, I have come to help you here—you will need help before long;—but how is———!” Here he made a comical contortion of his face, and drew his ungloved hand across his throat. The young officers laughed, and pointed to the door. He moved towards it, preceded by the youngest of them, who led the way into a very lofty and handsome room, elegantly furnished, with some fine pictures on the walls, a handsome sideboard of plate, a rich Turkey carpet—an unusual thing in Germany—on the floor, and a richly gilt pillar at the end of the room farthest from us, the base of which contained a stove, which, through the joints of the door of it, appeared to be burning cheerily.

  There were some very handsome sofas and ottomans scattered through the room, and a grand piano in one corner, the furniture being covered with yellow or amber-coloured velvet, with broad heavy draperies of gold fringe, like the bullion of an epaulet. There was a small round table near the stove, on which stood a silver candlestick, with four branches filled with wax tapers; and bottles of wine, and glasses. At this table sat an officer, apparently about forty-five years of age. There was nothing very peculiar in his appearance; he was a middle-sized man, well made apparently. He sat on one chair, with his legs supported on another.

  His white-topped boots had been taken off, and replaced by a pair of slip-shod slippers; his splashed white kerseymere pantaloons, seamed with gold, resting on the unfrayed velvet cushion; his blue coat, covered with rich embroidery at the bosom and collar, was open, and the lappels thrown back, displaying a crimson velvet facing, also richly embroidered, and an embroidered scarlet waistcoat; a large solitary star glittered on his breast, and the grand cross of the Legion of Honour sparkled at his buttonhole; his black neckerchief had been taken off; and his cocked hat lay beside him on a sofa, massively laced, the edges richly ornamented with ostrich down; his head was covered with a red velvet cap, with a thick gold cord twisted two or three turns round it, and ending in two large tassels of heavy bullion; he wore very large epaulets; and his sword had been inadvertently, as I conjectured, placed on the table, so that the steel hilt rested on the ornamental part of the metal stove.

  His face was good, his hair dark, forehead without a wrinkle, high and massive, eyes bright and sparkling, nose neither fine nor dumpy—a fair enough proboscis as noses go. There was an expression, however, about the upper lip and mouth that I did not like—a constant nervous sort of lifting of the lip, as it were; and as the mustache appeared to have been recently shaven off, there was a white blueness on the upper lip, that contrasted unpleasantly with the dark tinge which he had gallantly wrought for on the glowing sands of Egypt, and the bronzing of his general features from fierce suns and parching winds. His bare neck and hands were delicately fair, the former firm and muscular, the latter slender and tapering, like a woman’s. He was reading a gazette, or some printed paper, when we entered; and although there was a tolerable clatter of muskets, sabres, and spurs, he never once lifted his eye in the direction where we stood. Opposite this personage, on a low chair, with his legs crossed, and eyes fixed on the ashes that were dropping from the stove, with his brown cloak hanging from his shoulders, sat a short stout personage, a man about thirty years of age, with fair flaxen hair, a florid complexion, a very fair skin, and massive German features. The expression of his face, so far as such a countenance could be said to have any characteristic expression, was that of fixed sorrow. But before I could make any other observation, the aide-de-camp approached with a good spice of fear and trembling, as I could see.

  “Colonel * * * to wait on your highness.”

  “Ah!” said the officer to whom he spoke,—”ah, colonel, what do you here? Has the emperor advanced again?”

  “No,” said the officer, “he has not advanced; but the rearguard were cut off by the Prussians, and the —— light, with the —— grenadiers, are now in Cuxhaven.”

  “Well,” replied the general, “but how come you here?”

  “Why, marshal, we were detached to seize a depot of provisions in a neighbouring village, and had made preparations to carry them off, when we were attacked through a gap in the dike by some armed boats from an English squadron, and hearing a distant firing at the very moment, which I concluded to be the Prussian advance, I conceived all chance of rejoining the main army at an end, and therefore I shoved off in the grain-boats, and here I am.”

  “Glad to see you, however,” said the general, “but sorry for the cause why you have returned.—Whom have we got here—what boy is that?”

  “Why,” responded the colonel, “that lad is one of the British officers of the force that attacked us.”

  “Ha,” said the general again—”h
ow did you capture him?”

  “The boat (one of four) in which he was, was blown to pieces by a six-pound shot. He was the only one of the enemy who swam ashore. The rest, I am inclined to think, were picked up by the other boats.”

  “So,” grumbled the general,—”British ships in the Elbe!”

  The colonel continued. “I hope, marshal, you will allow him his parole?—he is, as you see, quite a child.”

  “Parole!” replied the marshal,—”parole! such a mere lad cannot know the value of his promise.”

  A sudden fit of rashness came over me.

  “He is a mere boy,” reiterated the marshal. “No, no—send him to prison;” and he resumed the study of the printed paper he had been reading.

  I struck in, impelled by despair, for, young as I was, I knew the character of the man before whom I stood, and I remembered that even a tiger might be checked by a bold front—”I am an Englishman, sir, and incapable of breaking my plighted word.”

  He laid down the paper he was reading, and slowly lifted his eyes, and fastened them on me,—”Ha,” said he, “ha—so young—so reckless! “

  “Never mind him, marshal,” said the colonel. “If you will grant him his parole, I—”

  “Take it, colonel—take it—take his parole, not to go beyond the ditch.”

  “But I decline to give any such promise,” said I, with a hardihood which at the time surprised me, and has always done so.

  “Why, my good youth,” said the marshal in great surprise, “why will you not take advantage of the offer—a kinder one, let me tell you, than I am in the habit of making to an enemy?”

  “Simply, sir, because I will endeavour to escape on the very first opportunity.”

  “Ha!” said the marshal once more, “this to my face? Lafontaine,”—to the aide-de-camp—”a file of soldiers.” The handsome young officer hesitated—hung in the wind, as we say, for a moment—moved, as I imagined, by my extreme youth. This irritated the marshal—he rose, and stamped on the floor. The colonel essayed to interfere. “Sentry—sentry—a file of grenadiers—take him forth, and—” here he energetically clutched the steel hilt of his sword, and instantly dashed it from him—”Sacre! the devil—what is that?” and straightway he began to pirouette on one leg round the room, shaking his right hand and blowing his fingers.