Disarm! Disarm!

The Austro-Prussian War—Frederick again to the front—The Red Cross—Reports and Letters—The Custozza victory—Austria has reverses in Bohemia—Discussion of the press.

The greatest of all human misfortunes was again upon us, and, as usual, the public was jubilant. Regiments marched out (how would they return?) with blessings and good wishes and followed by the shouting rabble of street urchins.

Frederick had been ordered to Bohemia before the declaration of hostilities, when I was still confident that matters would blow over, so I was somewhat spared the agony of parting. When my father came triumphantly with the news, “Now the war is begun,” I had been alone a fortnight, and I had made up my mind for the worst, as does a doomed man in his cell when he knows that the death-sentence must come.

I raised my hand imploringly: “Father, one wish! Leave me to myself.”

Not being fond of pathetic scenes he hastily retired, and I, crushed in spirit, wrote in my red journal:—

The death-sentence! A hundred thousand men will be executed. Will Frederick be among them? And for that matter, who am I that I should not perish with them? Oh that I were already dead!

On the same day I received from Frederick these hasty lines:—

My wife! Be brave and do not lose heart. We have been happy. That past no one can take from us even if to-day the decree “it is finished” should be issued for us as for many others. To-day we meet the enemy. Perhaps I shall recognise some of the old Prussian comrades—even my cousin Gottfried. We march upon Liebenau with the advance guard of Count Clam-Gallas. There will be no leisure for letters—at most a line to assure you of my safety. But on this leaflet—in case it be the last—I wish I could put into one single word all the love I bear you. I can find only this: “Martha!” You know what that means to me.

Conrad had also been ordered to march. He was full of ardour and felt enough hatred of the Prussians to make his start a pleasure. Still, parting with Lilli was hard, for the marriage licence had arrived just two days before.

“Oh, Lilli, Lilli, why have you put me off so long? Who knows if I shall ever return?”

Upon his departure her remorse was pitiful, and she wept bitterly in my arms. I consoled her with the thought that had she been his wife it would have made the parting even harder.

The family now removed to Grumitz, and I joined them, oppressed with the premonition of widowhood. Occasionally in the midst of my dull grief would come the bright thought: “He is alive. He will come back.” Then the horror of agony that he might be wounded, perishing for water, or that heavy waggons were rolling over his torn limbs, or that flies were in his open wounds, or, worse yet, that they were throwing him into the trench while yet he lived!

I would spring up with a shriek at this thought.

“Shame, Martha,” my father would remonstrate; “you will become insane if you brood in this way. Drive such wicked fears from your mind.”

Again he would say, “Your husband is a staff officer, and will not be neglected as a common soldier. Besides, you should think about the grandeur of the result of the war, and not about your own petty nervous feelings.”

“Yes, not to think about it. That is always the way we treat human misery. All kinds of barbarity exist because we are trained not to think about it.”

The Red Cross was a new organisation. I read Dunant’s pamphlet, which urged its necessity. The tract was a heart-rending appeal. He had hurried to the field of Solferino, and told the world what he saw. Hosts of wounded lying five and six days without help. What could a single man do to save this mass of misery? Many needed only a drop of water or a bite of bread; others were buried still breathing. He spoke out, and for the first time—the world echoed the cry. The Geneva Convention was called and the Red Cross was founded.

Why had not Austria sent delegates? Why is everything new met either with opposition or indifference? The law of mental inertia and the sanctified custom are to blame. My father argued: “The idea is all right, but impracticable!” How could military authority allow private service on the field? And then there were spies! And the expense! Is not war costly enough without it? Volunteer nurses were an unnecessary burden. Tactics came before friendly offices. It was even argued that this unnecessary burden would increase the cost of supplies and bring a rise in prices.

Such is official wisdom! so learned, so prudent, so heartless, and so immeasurably stupid!

The first engagement took place in Bohemia at Liebenau, June 25.

“It is a magnificent beginning,” said my father. “Heaven is with us. Our ‘Iron Brigade’ will reduce these windbags. They will punish these fellows well.”

(However, the next news showed that, after five hours of fighting, this same brigade, forming a part of the advance guard of Clam-Gallas, retreated to Podol. I learned later that Frederick was in this engagement, and the same night General Horn attacked Podol.)

“But,” continued my father, “even better news comes from the south. At Custozza, dear children, we have gained a most glorious victory. I have already said it: Lombardy must become ours. I regard the war as decided. We must send some of our regulars and finish off these Italians, and then it will be easy to deal with these ‘tailors’ apprentices.’ This impertinent Prussian militia is not fit to engage with regular soldiers. They are all from the shops, the bench, and mere rubbish, and they cannot stand against such blood and iron as our men are made of. Hear the good news from the paper this morning: ‘The cattle-plague in Prussian Silesia has broken out in a highly threatening form.’”

“Cattle-plague—threatening! Is this your good news? Nice thing we must accept as pleasure in these war days. However, the black and gold frontier posts will undoubtedly keep the plague from crossing over to us.”

But my father went on reading the pleasant intelligence:—

Fever is raging among Prussian troops. Such results must necessarily abound in the villages, with the miserable shelter, unhealthy swamp land, and bad treatment. Austrians have no idea how miserably the Prussians handle their men. The nobles do as they please with the common people. Three ounces of salt pork is all that is allowed for each man. They are unaccustomed to forced marches and the hardship of short rations, and are close to starvation.

“The papers are full of startling news. You ought to keep them, Martha.” And I have kept them. This one ought always to do, and when a new struggle is in prospect one should read not the latest news but the accounts of the preceding wars, and weigh how little truth is contained in all these boastings and the prophesying; that would be instructing.

More and more reverses for Austria—A soldier’s abhorrence of war—Poor Puxl—My husband’s letter declares that this is his last campaign.

“How extraordinary! Defeat after defeat is ours. First the capture of Podol by moonlight; Clam-Gallas barricaded; the village taken and burned. Then they conquer Gitchin. Oh, those cursed needle-guns, how they mowed down our men rank after rank! The enemy’s two great army corps have joined and are even now pressing down against Münchengratz.” Thus my father lamented, telling us the terrible news. But his confidence was unshaken.

“Let them come, every man of them, down into Bohemia, and we will annihilate them yet. We will surround them; the people will rise against them, and when there is no escape, no retreat—hemmed in—we will give them the finishing touch. It is a disadvantage for them to be in the enemy’s country, for you have not only the army but the people against you. At Trautenau the inhabitants poured boiling water and oil on to the Prussians.”

A cry of horror and disgust escaped me.

“War is horrible, I grant,” said my father, “but what would you have?”

“Then never again dare tell me that war ennobles a people. Admit that it unmans them, brutalises and turns men into tigers and very devils. Boiling oil! Ugh!”

“Self-defence and righteous revenge are justifiable, Martha. Do you think we should take their needle-guns and bullets without return? Our brave fellows are cut down like defenceless cattle. But we will beat them yet, for we are too numerous and too well disciplined. I acknowledge a few mistakes have been made; we should not have waited, but pushed across the Prussian frontier from the start. Our choice of marshals may not have been altogether wise. But I will not find fault, for the decisive battle is yet to come. We are now concentrating a hundred thousand strong at Koniggratz. There will our northern Custozza be fought and won.”

Frederick was to fight there also. His last letter had said so. I have still in my possession all his hurried little notes, written in pencil, on horseback, in the tent, illegible save to me, and sent whenever he found opportunity to do so. Some came into my hands even after the campaign was over, and I have them as mementos to this hour. They are not the clever descriptions or careful dispatches of the war correspondent. There are no details of the strategy, no rhetorical pictures of the battle-scenes. Here are some of them:—

A lovely summer night in camp—the ground is covered with exhausted men after a long forced march. Tents have been pitched for staff officers only. In mine there are three beds, and my two comrades are asleep. By the feeble light I am writing to my beloved wife. Puxl lies on my bed. Poor, tired dog! I almost regret that I brought him with me. He is sleeping and dreaming of his lover and master Count Rudolf Dotzky. And I, Martha, am dreaming of you. True, it is a waking dream, but I see you sitting in the far corner of the tent, and I dare not move for fear the image will vanish.

I stepped out a moment. Straggling figures dragged themselves up to our camp fires; they had been left on the road. But many more are still lying in the ditches and corn-fields. The heat of the march was fearful. The brazen sun burned into our brains, the knapsacks and muskets galled our shoulders. None have complained, though many fell from sunstroke, never to rise again. This June night is clear and enchanting, but nightingales and roses and jasmine are not for us. We hear stamping and neighing horses, voices of restless men, the even tramp of the guard. Later we shall hear the croak of the raven, and smell the powder, blood, and corruption. Astonishing how blind is mankind! Those who curse the fearful fires that burned the martyrs for the glory of God, even those glorify the battle-field. The torture chambers of the Inquisition fill them with abhorrence, but how proud they are of their arsenals!

How aesthetically our battle-fields are painted! Upon a hill-top stands a group of generals; the field-marshal, with the glass at his eyes, is dictating to his staff as he sits proudly on a white charger. One hand is stretched dramatically toward the smoke-covered plain. Or he is waving his sword and looking backwards, as if saying to those behind, “Follow me, my children!” Pictures give the magnificent and scenic effects of war without the horrors. They give the superb detail of line and the elevations and landscape, not the flowing blood, the mangled forms, and scenes of disgust. To see only the glitter of arms, the clouds of smoke, the prancing horses, the floating banners, the whirl of action, might inspire a battle-song or an epic, or a masterpiece of painting.

The village is ours—no, the enemy has it—it is once more ours—finally it is the enemy’s, but no longer can it be called a village, nothing but a heap of smoking ruins. The inhabitants (was the village not theirs?) had abandoned it early—happy for them—for the shot and shell hit all alike, old and young, women and children. One family had remained behind in this place which yesterday we took, lost, retook, and lost again—an old couple with a married daughter in childbed. The husband chanced to be one of my regiment. “For God’s sake, Colonel,” he said, as we approached the village, “send me over there to the house with the red roof, for there lives my wife with her crippled old parents. They could not get away.” Poor devil, he arrived only to see his wife and child killed by an exploding shell, and the old people buried beneath the debris.

Fighting in the open country is terrible enough, but fighting in the midst of homes and human haunts is ten times more cruel. Crashing timbers, burning buildings, smothering smoke and fumes, maddened animals, every building a fortress or barricade, and every window a gun-hole! There was a breastwork heaped up with corpses, the defenders having used the slain as a rampart to shoot behind. I shall never forget that wall in all my days. One man penned in among the rest was still alive, for I saw him move.

Living still! that is the most horrible condition for the uncared-for wounded. If only some angel, either of compassion or death, might touch these poor wretches with a tender hand!

To-day we had a little cavalry skirmish in the open field. A Prussian dragoon regiment came up, dropped into line, and, with their bridles drawn and sabres over their heads, they galloped down on us. We sprang to meet the attack. No bullets were exchanged. A few paces apart both regiments broke into a thundering “hurrah” (like intoxicated Indians or barbaric Zulus); and so we fell upon each other, horse to horse and knee to knee, sabres swinging and crashing down upon the men from both sides. We were soon in such a muddle that we could not use our weapons. The horses reared and pranced, clanging their hoofs. Once I fell and saw above me these frightful crashing feet within an inch of my head—it was not a pleasant thing.

Again on the march, with a few skirmishes. Another great sorrow. It ought not to haunt me so when so many are in despair. I should have left poor Puxl at home with his little master, for, as he ran after me, the splinter of a shell tore off his front legs. I heard the mournful howl, but must press on and desert the poor beast, who may not die for twenty-four, no, even forty-eight, hours. “Master, master,” he seemed to cry, “don’t forsake poor Puxl, and his little heart is breaking.”... What torments one most is to think that the dying faithful creature misjudged me. It cannot know that when a regiment is flying to attack, leaving behind so many comrades, one cannot command “Halt!” for a little dog ... and he must have thought me merciless. Many would say, shrugging their shoulders, how can one mind such trifles amidst such great events and such gigantic misfortunes? But not you, my Martha—you will weep for Puxl.

What goes there? A spy? One? No, seventeen. There they came in four rows, four in a row, marching with bowed heads, surrounded by a square of soldiers. Behind, in a waggon, lies a corpse, and bound to it a twelve-year-old boy—the dead man’s son—all condemned to die. I withdraw, but hear the firing and see the smoke, and I shudder. The boy is dead too.

At last a comfortable night in a bed! A poor little town! Provisions? Yes, taken from the inhabitants on requisition. All they had for the coming month. “Requisition!” It is a good thing to have a pretty name for an ugly act. But a night’s sleep and a meal mean a great deal to me just now. When I was about to tumble into bed, an orderly came in and brought me something for which I pressed his hands, rewarded him handsomely, and promised to do something for his family. What the fine fellow brought me gave me the keenest pleasure, and freed me from an anxiety which I had been unable to shake off for thirty-six hours—he had brought me our Puxl. He was alive, beside himself with joy, though badly mangled. Ah, such a scene of reunion! He interrupted his greedy drink ten times to bark with joy. I bound his poor legs and gave him some supper. Finally we both slept, and in the morning when we woke he licked my hand again and again, stretched out his small body, breathed deep—and was no more. Poor Puxl, it is better so.

Another day and its horrors. With my eyes shut it comes to me in frightful pictures. Nothing but desecrating agony! How can some men give their war reminiscences with such delight? Do they lie and paint the scenes in story-book fashion for the sake of heroics? The more horrible things are, the more gloriously do they describe them; the more shocking the scenes, the more indifferent and easy they make it appear. Writers seldom speak of these horrors with disapprobation, indignation, or rebellion. Some may, perhaps, heave a few sentimental sighs of sympathy, but they are ever ready to sing the glories of war—“Lift your heart to God and your hand against the enemy, ra-ra, Hurrah!”

To-day two pictures impressed themselves upon me. Rocky heights, with jagers climbing up them like cats. They were ordered to “take” the height. The enemy was firing down. As the bullets from above struck them, they threw out their arms, dropped their rifles, and rolled crashing to the bottom, and over the rocky projections they were smashed to pieces. The other scene: A rider, a little way from me, was struck by a shell, which ripped the lower part of his body off, disembowelling him. The horse swerved, and carried this mangled, bleeding mass, which at a short distance fell to the ground and was dragged over the stones by the galloping animal.

An artillery section stands with its wheels sunk deep in the mire of water-covered road. Dripping with sweat and blood from the cruel blows, the horses drag at the sinking guns. One has dropped, but the lash keeps falling on the poor beast, who cannot move. Does not the man see this? Yes, but he is responsible for his guns and must fulfil his duty. The tormented, willing, faithful creature does not understand it, and has made his most desperate efforts. What must it think?—think, as animals think, not articulately, but insensately; not in words but in feelings, which are all the more acute because they can find no expression. And with its only expression, a shriek of pain, the poor thing sank; and that shriek rings in my ears yet, it even haunted my next night’s dream. To sense the pain of one artillery horse and then multiply it by one hundred thousand—for that is the usual number slaughtered in a long campaign—gives one some idea of the mass of agony men heap upon these poor unfortunate dumb brutes—these same men who go with pleasure to meet their foes. The men are supposed to know why they go, but the poor beast knows no reason why he is hewn into helpless agony. What anguish they endure—and terror so great that sweat drenches their bodies! And then the fever of the wounds, the terrible thirst, which is suffered by these miserable, abused one hundred thousand horses! This was my dream, and I awoke in a fever reaching for my water-bottle.

Another street fight. The crashing timbers and falling walls were the more horrible for the battle-cries, shots, and explosions of shell. From a wrecked house there flew over my head a window-frame, and the chimney fell to dust, stifling the air and stinging our eyes with the plaster dust. Fighting along the narrow lanes and streets, we finally came upon the open market-place. In the middle, on a high pillar, stood a statue of the Virgin Mother, with the Child in one arm, stretching the other in blessing. Here the struggle became one of demons—hand to hand. They were hacking at me and I was laying about me with terrific force. What I hit I do not know, for in such moments one loses the memory. Yet two terrible pictures remain in my mind: A Prussian dragoon, strong as Goliath, tore one of our officers out of his saddle, and split his skull at the feet of the Madonna. The gentle saint looked on unmoved. Another Goliath of the enemy’s dragoons snatched my neighbour, bent him backwards, so that I heard his spine crack, and threw him lifeless under the same blessed lady’s outstretched hand.

From the heights we saw again a spectacle. A bridge fell with a train of waggons crossing it. Were they filled with wounded? I could only see that horses, waggons, and humans sank for ever into the rapid water. It was counted lucky, for it was the enemy’s loss: our men had sawed the timbers as a successful strategy. Another picture from this height disclosed our own Khevenhüller’s regiment inveigled into a swamp from which it could not extricate itself. While sinking into the morass, the enemy’s shell killed them all. But they could not mutter a sound with their noses, eyes, and mouths filled with mire. This, we were told, was a tactical mistake. Any one is apt to err, and what does it matter if a few of the chess-board figures are lost? That the slime is in their eyes and mouths does not count; only the mistake is deplored, but the tactitian will make up for it, and may be decorated with orders and promotions yet. Too bad that lately our 18th Battalion should fire all night upon another one of our regiments till daylight disclosed the error, and sad also that another troop was led into a pond through a conflict in orders, but little things like that will happen to the best players of the game of war.

I have settled it. This shall be my last campaign. When I come back I quit the service. When a man has learned to look upon war with the horror that it produces in me, it would be a lie and a crime to stay in its service. As you know, I have always gone into battle with repugnance, but this detestation is so increased, this condemnation and decision has become so strong, that all the reasons with which I had held my judgment have ceased to argue in me. Our mutual study of the question has proved to me that the greatest souls in the world share this conception of war with me. Whatever comes, I am determined that at the end of this campaign I shall for ever close my military life. I cannot serve the god of war any longer. I have come to this conviction as some people change their old ideas of religion, which they gradually find have rested on folly and superstition; and so I can no longer keep up the deception, or kneel to the delusion, that army proclamations and cannon roars are consecrated things. Without any respect for the ritual of the god Mars, with its weird human sacrifices, I abjure for ever the cruel worship.

Austria ruined at the battle of Koniggratz—Dr. Bresser with the wounded—I go to the seat of war to search for my husband—The scenes on the way—More horrors described—I meet Frau Simon—A night journey—Am carried back to Vienna exhausted—Return to Grumitz.

The battle of Koniggratz ended in a terrible defeat which seemed decisive. My father told the news in such a tone as though it had been the end of the world. There was neither letter nor telegram from Frederick. Was he wounded or worse? Conrad had reported himself as untouched. The lists had not yet arrived, but the loss in killed and wounded was reported as forty thousand.

I wept for hours when the third day came without a line. While there was hope, I could still weep; had all been over my woe would have been without expression. My father was terribly depressed, and Otto full of revenge. He wished to join a corps of volunteers recruiting in Vienna. It was reported that the victorious commander of the southern campaign was to replace the defeated marshal of the north.

But no news came of Frederick.

A few days later there was a letter from Dr. Bresser, who was busy in the neighbourhood of the battle, and wrote of the infinite misery and need of help, which was beyond imagination. He had joined Dr. Brauer, who had been sent by the Saxon Government, and a Saxon lady, another Florence Nightingale, was to arrive two days later. She came from the hospitals of Dresden to help in Bohemia. The two surgeons were planning to meet the lady at the nearest station to Koniggratz, and Bresser begged us, if possible, to send quantities of bandages and such supplies to this station, that they might be delivered into his hands. This letter awoke in me a resolution which I did not dare tell my family: I would take the box of bandages myself.

I announced that I would go to Vienna and prepare supplies for the doctor, and so managed to get away without difficulty. I could easily announce from there my real intentions to the family without their interference.

I had some doubts as to my want of experience, but I felt the compelling gaze of my husband fixed upon me, and he seemed to be stretching his arms from a bed of pain, and my only thought was: “I am coming, I am coming.”

I found Vienna a mass of confusion. Everywhere my carriage passed vehicles of wounded men. I made my preparations hurriedly and started for the North Station. Here the crowds of wounded and dying were arriving, and the public crowded in with supplies and looking for friends; there were nurses, nuns, physicians, men and women from every rank, and the officials were busy pushing back the crowds. They sent me off too. But I protested: “I want to take the next train north,” but was informed that there were no trains for passengers, in order to keep the lines open for the arrivals of the wounded. Only one train would go out, and that was exclusively for the Relief Corps.

“May I go by that train?”

“Impossible.” The voice within kept calling for me to come. I was about to despair when I caught sight of the President of the Relief Corps. I rushed to him: “For pity’s sake, help me, Baron S——. You know me! Baroness Tilling, General Althaus’s daughter. You are about to send a train to Bohemia. My dying husband needs me there. If you have a heart, let me go with that train.”

With many misgivings he finally arranged to put me in the car of a surgeon who accompanied the train. It would be ready in an hour. I could not stay in the waiting-room; everything was turned into a hospital, and everywhere lay and crouched the wretched neglected forms of the mangled and wounded. And train after train came in with more wounded, and they were as quickly placed and carried away. At my feet was laid a man who gasped unceasingly, making a continuous gurgling sound. I stooped to speak a sympathetic word, but covered my face in horror. He no longer looked like a human being, his under jaw was shot away, and his eyes were hanging from their sockets. He was reeking with decay and corruption. My head sank back against the wall. But the sickening idea came into my head—could it be Frederick? I looked again. No, it was not he.

As they carried the poor gurgling wretch away the regimental doctor said, “He need not go back to the hospital, he is already three-fourths dead.” And with that the agonized creature threw up both his hands in pleading to heaven.

The hour passed, and I started with the two surgeons and four Sisters of Charity and several soldiers. The carriage was hot and filled with a mingled odour of hospital and incense, and I felt deathly sick. I leant back in my corner and closed my eyes.

“Are you ill?” asked the sympathetic young surgeon. “I hear you are joining your wounded husband at Koniggratz. Do you know where to look for him?”

“No, but I expect to meet Dr. Bresser.”

“I know him. We visited the battle-field together three days ago.”

“Visited the battle-field?” I repeated, shuddering. “Oh, tell me about it.”

The surgeon told his story, and I put it afterwards into my journal as I remembered it. From there I copy it now. I had remembered it quite accurately, for into every scene my imagination thrust one fixed idea—that there would be found my wounded Frederick, calling for me:—

Behind a little hill the ambulance corps lay protected. Beyond, the engagement had already begun. The very earth and air trembled with the heat and explosions. Clouds of smoke and roaring artillery filled space. Orders came that we should fetch the wounded from the field. It takes some heroism to march into the midst of a battle when none of the fury of the conflict is in the mind to urge you on. The corporal in charge of the relief ordered the men to a point where the enemy had opened fire. Across the open ground they met groups of wounded and slightly wounded dragging themselves and helping each other. One fell insensible, but not from a wound but sheer exhaustion. They explained: “We have eaten nothing for two days. After an enforced march of twelve hours and a bit of sleep, we were called to the fight unrefreshed.”

The relief patrol push on. Let them look out for themselves, the surgeons were urged on to the more desperately wounded. They might be picked up on the way back, after help had been rendered to those lying thick in the battle. Everywhere lies a bleeding mass. The wounded swarm about thicker and thicker, creeping and dragging themselves over mounds of corpses, all stretched in mangled positions with the death-writhings still evident—hands clawing the ground, eyes and tongues projecting, teeth gnashed, and mouths gaping as the last breath had been drawn. So they lie, with their limbs and bodies mangled into shapelessness and stiffened with the death-agony.

Down through a little ravine the patrol pushed. Here the dead and wounded were lying in heaps together. The shrieks for help, the begging, weeping, and lamenting, mixed with the cries for water. Alas, the provisions were soon exhausted, and what can a few men do in all this mass of hopelessness? If every helper had a hundred arms they could not do half of the rescue work. But they work like heroes till, suddenly, there comes the signal horn calling to another part of the field, while the broken wretches piteously beg not to be deserted. An adjutant comes in hot haste. Evidently a general has been wounded. The surgeons must follow, begging the poor fellows to have patience for they will return. But the promise was never meant and never believed.

On, on they must follow the adjutant. Cries and groans to right and left are unheeded, and though some of the rescuing party falls, they are left with the rest. Men writhing with horrible wounds, torn by horses’ hoofs, crushed by passing guns, seeing the rescuers, rear themselves and call for help with a last effort. But on, on, over them all!

So it goes on, page after page, in my journal. One account tells how a shell burst over a group of wounded who had just been bandaged and relieved, tearing them to pieces. Again, it tells how the fighting broke out around the ambulances, a fleeing and pursuing troop sweeping down the wounded, dying, and surgeons, all together; or when terrified riderless horses, maddened with agony, rushed over the wounded on the stretchers, throwing them crushed and lifeless to the ground. Again, the most frightful scene of all is described: A hundred helpless men lay in a farmhouse where their wounds had been dressed, when a shell set the place in a blaze, and their shrieks will ever remain in the memory of those who heard it—and in mine, for I fancied again, while the surgeon spoke, that Frederick was there, and I heard his voice out of the place of torture, and I fell back in my seat.

“Oh, dear lady,” the surgeon exclaimed, “I must not try your nerves.”

But I had not yet heard enough to slake my thirst for the horrible; I would hear more, and I said, “No, no, continue: How was the next morning?” So he continued:—

A battle-field by night is hideous enough, but under the glorious sun the fiendish work of man seems doubly fiendish. What the night made seem ghostly, the daylight revealed as absolutely hopeless. Then one first realises the countless dead—in the streets, the fields.

There is no cannonading, no rattle of musketry, no drums or trumpet-blasts, no flags, no regimentals; the only sound is the low moaning of the poor wretches who are dying without aid. The steaming earth is saturated with red puddles that shimmer, reek, and clot in the sun. Everywhere lie scattered the abandoned sabres, bayonets, knapsacks, cloaks, broken carriages, waggons, and cannon, the half-dead horses staggering up and down and hideously bellowing out their dying shrieks. There is a little hollow into which the wounded had dragged themselves, but it is clear that a battery had driven over them, the hoofs and wheels crushing them into a pulpy oozing mass while still alive—yes, hopelessly alive.

But even more hellish than all this is the certain appearance of that vile scum of humanity, the ghouls which creep in the wake of the battle, to plunder and spoil the dead. They slink among the corpses, mercilessly tearing off their valuables, mutilating and hacking even the living if they still have life enough to defend themselves, snatching out their eyes to make them unrecognisable.

And so they lie, day after day, these poor wretches, for the Sanitary Corps, though they work untiringly, cannot stop for the hopeless ones who beg that they be shot or stabbed in their helpless misery. From above the carrion crows are watching from the trees, preparing to descend for their dinner. Even the starved village dogs come and lick the open flesh.

Then comes the great interment. They dig long shallow trenches, and the bodies are thrown in helter-skelter, heads up and heads down. Also they heap the bodies into mounds and cover them with a few feet of dirt. Let the rain wash it away, who cares?

“Now, will you hear what happened the next day?”

“Oh, I can tell you that,” I interrupted. “In the capital of the victorious country the reports have arrived. In the forenoon, while the hyenas of the battle-field work round the trenches, the people in the churches are singing “Praise God from whom all blessings flow,” and in the evening, wife and mother of those who have been buried—while yet breathing perhaps—put lighted candles on their window-sill, for the city has to be illuminated for a sign of joy.”

“Yes,” said the surgeon, “such comedy is marked in the cities—and yonder the tragedy continues....”

What a terrible journey it was! Long after the surgeon ceased to tell his story we caught glimpses from the windows of the effects of the war. True, there were no scenes of devastation, but everywhere families were hurrying with their belongings, leaving home to go they knew not where, for the cry, “The Prussians are coming,” filled them with terror. We passed many trains carrying the wounded to the inland hospitals. The stations were crammed with men waiting to be carried farther. They had been brought by waggons and cots from the field, and were waiting to get either to the hospitals or cemeteries. At every halt the Sisters of Charity in our party immediately busied themselves, but I was useless. The uproar about the stations was like a bewildering dream; people were running about confusedly, the troops were taking the trains to go farther, the wounded and bleeding were swarming everywhere, and the screams of women added to the frightful conditions. Cannons and baggage waggons rumbled by; trains followed, carrying the reserves from Vienna. The soldiers were crammed in cattle-trucks and freight-cars—just as cattle are sent to the slaughter—and were they not, I could not help thinking, were they not being sent to the big political shambles where the official butchers seek their profits? They rushed by on the rattling wheels like the wind, and a howling war-song pealed from the cars. An armed host marching through the fields or roads on foot or horse, with flags flying, has a certain antique touch of the poetic, more of the movement of free will in it; that the railroad track, this symbol of modernism and civilisation which brings the nations nearer together, should be used to thrust men into the battle to let barbarism loose is a hideous contradiction. And even the clicking telegraph, mastering the lightning to do man’s will, to advance his interests, to relieve his anxieties, to bring his life into immediate and close touch with his fellows—to think that it should be used in the service of barbarity! Our boast before the barbarians is, “Behold our civilisation, our railroads, our telegraph lines,” and then we debase these things by using them to enforce and multiply our own savagery.

Such thoughts deepened and embittered my sorrow. Happy were they who were simply weeping and wringing their hands, whose souls did not rise up in wrath against the whole hideous comedy, who did not accuse nor arraign any one with the blame—not even that Lord of Armies whom they believed to be the loving author of all their misery!

Late in the evening I arrived at Königinhof, my companions having left me at an earlier station. What if Dr. Bresser failed to meet me? My nerves were quite shattered by the night’s experiences, and only my extreme anxiety about Frederick sustained me.

The station in Königinhof was overflowing with wounded men; they were lying everywhere—in every nook and corner, on the ground, and on the stones. The night was very dark, there was no moon, and only a few lanterns lighted the station. I sank on to a bench, put my luggage on the ground before me, overcome with the desire for sleep. I began to realise the absurdity of my coming. What if Frederick were already at home, or perhaps dead and buried? Oh, to be able to sleep and forget it, and perhaps even never wake again to behold all this world of horror! At least, let me not live on and find Frederick among the “missing.” Was perhaps my boy at home calling for me? What if I did not find Dr. Bresser? What should I do in that case? Luckily I had a little bag with money about my neck, and money always affords some help out of difficulties. And I involuntarily felt for the bag. The fastenings were torn off—it was gone. What a blow! Still, the floods of misfortune on all sides made my loss seem slight to me. I rose to look for the station-master, and suddenly caught sight of Dr. Bresser. In my excitement I fell about his neck.

“Baroness Tilling!” he exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I have come to assist. Is Frederick in one of your hospitals?”

His negative reply was a relief as well as a disappointment. But how could he know of all the wounded? I would search for myself. I asked for Frau Simon.

“She is here, and a splendid woman—quick, decisive, prudent. She has discovered that the need is the greatest in a near village. We are going there together.”

“Let me go along with you, Doctor.” He tried to dissuade me, but after some argument he introduced me to Frau Simon as an assistant, and in a few minutes we started on our journey in a hay-waggon which had just brought some wounded men to the station. We sat upon the straw, possibly still wet from blood, and started on our long uncomfortable ride. The ricketty waggon with its straw-covered boards was pure torture to me, accustomed to springs and cushions. I was sound and well, what must it have been to the mangled and shattered bodies which were carried over rough roads in this waggon? My eyes were heavy; the discomfort and excited nerves prevented sleep, but leaning on the Doctor’s shoulder, half dreaming, I heard bits of the conversation which my companions carried on half aloud.

They spoke of the lack of surgeons and instruments. Even bread was not to be had, and in many places the water had been so polluted that it could not be used. Every roof-covered space was crammed with wounded men dying and raving in their last agonies, and in their ravings they blasphemed God.

“Mr. Twining of London must have heard these curses,” said the Doctor, “when he proposed to the Geneva Red Cross that, when the condition of the wounded is hopeless, they should be offered the consolations of religion and then be put out of their agony in the most humane manner, thus preventing them from dying with curses of God upon their lips.”

“How unchristian,” cried Frau Simon.

“Unchristian to give them such gracious relief?”

“No, but the idea that such curses are a sin. The christian God is not unjust, he takes the fallen soldiers to Himself.”

“Mohammed promises paradise to every Turk who slays a christian,” replied Dr. Bresser. “Believe me, dear madam, the gods that are represented as both inciting war and blessing murder are deaf both to curses and to prayers. Look up and see the planet Mars overhead. Every two years it shines there, and is unconscious of its consecration to the god of war. That same blood-red star shone down upon Marathon and Thermopylæ, the curses of the dying were heaped upon it, but it indifferently and peacefully kept its perfect circuit round the sun—even as to-day. Unlucky stars? There is no such thing—man is the only enemy of man—and his only friend.”

But finally sleep overcame me, and it was a relief to get rid of the unendurable images that filled my brain. How long I slept I do not know, but I was suddenly roused as by a shock. But no, it was not a noise or vibration which woke me; it was a pestilential, stifling odour that filled the air. By the clear light of the moon, which had risen, we saw the cause of the intolerable stench; a church wall which had served as a breastwork was banked up with countless corpses, from which a black cloud of fluttering ravens rose as we approached, and fluttered back again upon their feast as we passed on.

The driver whipped up the horses, and we jolted madly out of the range of the frightful odour. Terror held my throat like a screw, or I should have shrieked.

As we arrived at our destination, Frau Simon complained that I should be more of a burden than a help, but I roused all my courage and begged to be allowed to assist. We found ourselves in the middle of the village, at the gate of a chateau which had been deserted by its owners and filled from cellar to roof with wounded men. We got out, and I pulled myself together with all my force. We passed the gate of the chateau, meeting stifled sounds of woe on all sides. Everything was dark, and we had forgotten to bring along any means of lighting. Some matches from the Doctor’s pocket served for a few seconds to give us a flash of the terrible picture. Our feet slipped in the bloody slime, and we could do nothing but add our despair to the multitude groaning and sighing about us.

Frau Simon and the Doctor hurried out to search for the village priest, and left me alone in the dark among these wailing people, and in this stifling odour, shuddering to the bones. But the Doctor returned, saying, “No, you must come with us, you shall not stay in that purgatory.” I waited in the open air in the waggon for half an hour, when the expedition came back quite unsuccessful. The pastor’s house was in ruins and no light was to be found. We must wait for the daylight, and how many of these miserable creatures would perish after all the hope our coming had wakened in them?

Those three hours seemed endless, marked not by the ticking of the clock, but by the fitful groans and helpless cries of the wounded. At last the day broke. Now for duty. First the frightened, hiding villagers must be found and made to help. Some buried the dead, others cleared the choked wells, everything was collected that would furnish food and clothing. A Prussian surgeon with his staff arrived, and before long some of the general distress was relieved. First we visited the crowd of wounded in the castle—my husband was not among them; then I went with Dr. Bresser into the village church, where a hundred men, mangled and feverish, lay on the stone floor. I almost fainted with terror as I looked for the one beloved face—it was not there. I sank beside the altar, filled with inexpressible horror. And this was the temple of the eternal God of Love! The niches were full of pious images—saints with folded hands and lifted faces which were crowned with circlets of gold. I heard a poor soldier cry: “O Mother of God, Holy Mother, one drop of water, have mercy!” All eternity he might have called to that painted image. Ah, miserable men, your petitions to God will be in vain till you obey the law of love which He has stamped upon your own souls. So long as hate and murder are not subdued in your own hearts, you can hope for no compassion from Heaven.

Oh, the experiences of that dreadful day! At the sight of one scene, which my pen shrinks to describe, I heard Mrs. Simon exclaim:—

“It is astonishing what human nature can endure.”

What is most astonishing to me is that human beings will bring each other into such situations of agony; that men will not swear before God that war shall cease; that, if they are princes, they do not break their swords; and, if they have no other power, that they do not, in thought and words and deeds, devote themselves to the one passionate cry, “Disarm! Disarm!”

I remember that in a barn, where we found a heap of wounded and dead who had been forgotten there for more than a week, my poor strength finally forsook me and I swooned away.

When my consciousness returned I found myself in a railway car, Dr. Bresser sitting beside me. He was bringing me home. I had not found my husband—thank God I had not found him among those terrible scenes—and a faint hope took possession of my heart that some news of him was awaiting me in Grumitz.

Whatever the future held for me in sorrow or joy, it would never be able to blot out the memory of the gigantic misery which I had witnessed, and I was resolved that I should cry it into the ears of my human brothers and sisters until they should no longer look upon war as a fatality, but as an unspeakable crime.

I slept nearly the entire way to Vienna; at the station my father met me, embraced me silently, and said to the Doctor:—

“How can I thank you for taking this crazy young woman under your protection——”

“I must be off. Put the young woman to bed. Do not scold her, she has been terribly shaken. Give her orange-flower water and rest. Good-bye.”

We picked our way through the long rows of ambulance waggons and carriages to our own conveyance. I had only one question on my lips, but had not the courage to ask it till we were started: “Any news from Frederick?”

“Not up to yesterday, when I came here in answer to the telegram to meet you,” was the reply. “However, when we get home there may be news. How silly of you to give us such a fright! To go right into the midst of those savage enemies and needle-guns—the worst might have happened; but never mind, the doctor said I should not scold you.”

“How is my boy, my Rudolf?”

“He is crying for you, and hunting all over the place. But you seem strangely indifferent about the rest of us.”

“How are they all? Has Conrad written?”

“The family is all well, and a letter came from Conrad yesterday. So Lilli is happy, and you, too, will see Tilling back all safe and sound. There is nothing good to report from the political centre. Have you heard of the great calamity?”

“I have seen and heard nothing but calamity and misery.”

“Oh, beautiful Venice has been given—handed over on a platter—to the intriguing Louis Napoleon, and in spite of winning the victory of Custozza. Venice as well as Lombardy lost! But that gives us peace in the south, and Napoleon on our side, and a chance to revenge ourselves yet on the Prussians. But you are not listening, so I will obey Bresser’s orders, and see that you rest.”

“Martha, Martha, he is here,” shouted my sisters from the chateau garden as they rushed to meet us.

“Who?”

“Frederick.”

It was true. He had arrived the evening before, having been transported with other wounded from Bohemia. A slight bullet wound in the leg was all, and he was never in danger.

But joy was hardest of all to bear. The terrors of the day before did not more completely rob me of my senses. I had to be lifted from the carriage to bed, and for several hours lay in delirious unconsciousness. When I found myself conscious in my own bed, I believed I had only wakened from a terrible dream, and had never been away. My aunt recalled me to realities:—

“Quick, Martha, get up. Frederick is dying with impatience to see you.”

“Frederick, Frederick.” All these days I had called this name with pain, and now it was with a cry of joy. It was not a dream—I had been away, had come back, and would see my husband.

Alone I went to his room, and sank sobbing upon his breast:—

“Frederick!”

“Martha!”