To be awakened suddenly from a sound sleep, hurried half-dressed up a gangway, and, ere your faculties have acquired free play, be passed over a ship’s side, on a dark and stormy night, into a boat wildly tossed here and there, with spray showering over you, and a chorus of loud voices about you, is an event not easily forgotten. Such a scene still dwells in my memory, every incident of it as clear and distinct as though it had occurred only yesterday. In this way was I ‘passed,’ with twelve others, on board his Majesty’s frigate, Téméraire, a vessel which, in the sea-service, represented what a well-known regiment did on shore, and bore the reputation of being a ‘condemned ship’—this depreciating epithet having no relation to the qualities of the vessel herself, which was a singularly beautiful French model, but only to that of the crew and officers, it being the policy of the day to isolate the blackguards of both services, confining them to particular crafts and corps, making, as it were, a kind of index expurgatorius, where all the rascality was available at a moment’s notice.
It would be neither agreeable to my reader nor myself, if I should dwell on this theme, nor linger on a description where cruelty, crime, heartless tyranny, and reckless insubordination made up all the elements. A vessel that floated the seas only as a vast penitentiary—the ‘cats,’ the ‘yard-arm,’ and the ‘gangway,’ comprising its scheme of discipline—would scarcely be an agreeable subject. And, in reality, my memory retains of the life aboard little else than scenes of suffering and sorrow. Captain Gesbrook had the name of being able to reduce any, the most insubordinate, to discipline. The veriest rascals of the fleet, the consummate scoundrels, one of whom was deemed pollution to an ordinary crew, were said to come from his hands models of seamanship and good conduct; and it must be owned, that if the character was deserved, it was not obtained without some sacrifice. Many died under punishment; many carried away with them diseases under which they lingered on to death; and not a few preferred suicide to the terrible existence on board. And although a ‘Téméraire’—as a man who had served in her was always afterwards called—was now and then shown as an example of sailorlike smartness and activity, very few knew how dearly that one success had been purchased, nor by what terrible examples of agony and woe that solitary conversion was obtained.
To me the short time I spent on board of her is a dreadful dream. We were bound for the Mediterranean, to touch at Malta and Gibraltar, and then join the blockading squadron before Genoa. What might have been my fate, to what excess passionate indignation might have carried me, revolted as I was by tyranny and injustice, I know not, when an accident, happily for me, rescued me from all temptation. We lost our mizzen-mast, in a storm, in the Bay of Biscay, and a dreadful blow on the head, from the spanker-boom, felled me to the deck, with a fracture of the skull.
From that moment I know of nothing till the time when I lay in my cot, beside a port-hole of the maindeck, gazing at the bright blue waters that flashed and rippled beside me, or straining my strength to rest on my elbow, when I caught sight of the glorious city of Genoa, with its grand mountain background, about three miles from where I lay. Whether from a due deference to the imposing strength of the vast fortress, or that the line of duty prescribed our action, I cannot say, but the British squadron almost exclusively confined its operations to the act of blockade. Extending far across the bay, the English ensign was seen floating from many a taper mast, while boats of every shape and size plied incessantly from ship to ship, their course marked out at night by the meteorlike light that glittered in them; not, indeed, that the eye often turned in that direction, all the absorbing interest of the scene lying inshore. Genoa was, at that time, surrounded by an immense Austrian force, under the command of General Melas, who, occupying all the valleys and deep passes of the Apennines, were imperceptible during the day; but no sooner had night closed in, than a tremendous cannonade began, the balls describing great semicircles in the air ere they fell to scatter death and ruin on the devoted city. The spectacle was grand beyond description, for while the distance at which we lay dulled and subdued the sound of the artillery to a hollow booming, like far-off thunder, the whole sky was streaked by the course of the shot, and, at intervals, lighted up by the splendour of a great fire, as the red shot fell into and ignited some large building or other.
As, night after night, the cannonade increased in power and intensity, and the terrible effects showed themselves in flames which burst out from different quarters of the city, I used to long for morning, to see if the tricolour still floated on the walls; and when my eye caught the well-known ensign, I could have wept with joy as I beheld it.
High up, too, on the cliffs of the rugged Apennines, from many a craggy eminence, where perhaps a solitary gun was stationed, I could see the beloved flag of France, the emblem of liberty and glory!
In the day the scene was one of calm and tranquil beauty. It would have seemed impossible to connect it with war and battle. The glorious city, rising in terraces of palaces, lay reflected in the mirrorlike waters of the bay, blue as the deep sky above them. The orange-trees, loaded with golden fruit, shed their perfume over marble fountains, amid gardens of every varied hue; bands of military music were heard from the public promenades—all the signs of joy and festivity which betokened a happy and pleasure-seeking population. But at night the ‘red artillery’ again flashed forth, and the wild cries of strife and battle rose through the beleaguered city. The English spies reported that a famine and a dreadful fever were raging within the walls, and that all Masséna’s efforts were needed to repress an open mutiny of the garrison; but the mere aspect of the ‘proud city’ seemed to refute the assertion. The gay carolling of church bells vied with the lively strains of martial music, and the imposing pomp of military array, which could be seen from the walls, bespoke a joyous confidence, the very reverse of this depression.
From the ‘tops,’ and high up in the rigging, the movements inshore could be descried; and frequently, when an officer came down to visit a comrade, I could hear of the progress of the siege, and learn, I need not say with what delight, that the Austrians had made little or no way in the reduction of the place, and that every stronghold and bastion was still held by Frenchmen.
At first, as I listened, the names of new places and new generals confused me; but by daily familiarity with the topic, I began to perceive that the Austrians had interposed a portion of their force between Masséna’s division and that of Suchet, cutting off the latter from Genoa, and compelling him to fall back towards Chiavari and Borghetto, along the coast of the Gulf. This was the first success of any importance obtained; and it was soon followed by others of equal significance, Soult being driven from ridge to ridge of the Apennines, until he was forced back within the second line of defences.
The English officers were loud in condemning Austrian slowness—the inaptitude they exhibited to profit by a success, and the over-caution which made them, even in victory, so careful of their own safety. From what I overheard, it seemed plain that Genoa was untenable by any troops but French, or opposed to any other adversaries than their present ones.
The bad tidings—such I deemed them—came quicker and heavier. Now, Soult was driven from Monte Notte. Now, the great advance post of Monte Faccio was stormed and carried. Now, the double eagle was floating from San Tecla, a fort within cannon-shot of Genoa, A vast semicircle of bivouac fires stretched from the Apennines to the sea, and their reflected glare from the sky lit up the battlements and ramparts of the city.
‘Even yet, if Masséna would make a dash at them,’ said a young English lieutenant,’ the white-coats would fallback.’
‘My life on ‘t he ‘d cut his way through, if he knew they were only two to one!’
And this sentiment met no dissentient. All agreed that French heroism was still equal to the overthrow of a force double its own.
It was evident that all hope of reinforcement from France was vain. Before they could have begun their march southward, the question must be decided one way or other.
‘There’s little doing to-night,’ said an officer, as he descended the ladder to the sick bay. ‘Melas is waiting for some heavy mortars that are coming up; and then there will be a long code of instructions from the Aulic Council, and a whole treatise on gunnery to be read, before he can use them. Trust me, if Masséna knew his man, he ‘d be up and at him.’
Much discussion followed this speech, but all more or less agreed in its sentiment. Weak as were the French, lowered by fever and by famine, they were still an overmatch for their adversaries. What a glorious avowal from the lips of an enemy was this! The words did more for my recovery than all the cares and skill of physic Oh, if my countrymen but knew! if Masséna could but hear it! was my next thought; and I turned my eyes to the ramparts, whose line was marked out by the bivouac fires, through the darkness. How short the distance seemed, and yet it was a whole world of separation. Had it been a great plain in a mountain tract, the attempt might almost have appeared practicable; at least, I had often seen fellows who would have tried it. Such were the ready roads, the royal paths, to promotion, and he who trod them saved miles of weary journey. I fell asleep, still thinking on these things; but they haunted my dreams. A voice seemed ever to whisper in my ear—‘If Masséna but knew, he would attack them. One bold dash, and the Austrians would fall back.’ At one instant, I thought myself brought before a court-martial of English officers, for attempting to carry these tidings; and proudly avowing the endeavour, I fancied I was braving the accusation. At another, I was wandering through the streets of Genoa, gazing on the terrible scenes of famine I had heard of. And lastly, I was marching with a night party to attack the enemy. The stealthy footfall of the column appeared suddenly to cease; we were discovered; the Austrian cavalry were upon us! I started and awoke, and found myself in the dim, half-lighted chamber, with pain and suffering around me, and where, even in this midnight hour, the restless tortures of disease were yet wakeful.
‘The silence is more oppressive to me than the roll of artillery,’ said one, a sick midshipman, to his comrade. ‘I grew accustomed to the clatter of the guns, and slept all the better for it.’
‘You ‘ll scarcely hear much more of that music,’ replied his friend. ‘The French must capitulate to-morrow or next day.’
‘Not if Masséna would make a dash at them,’ thought I; and with difficulty could I refrain from uttering the words aloud.
They continued to talk to each other in low whispers, and, lulled by the drowsy tones, I fell asleep once more, again to dream of my comrades and their fortunes. A heavy bang like a cannon-shot awoke me; but whether this were real or not I never knew; most probably, however, it was the mere creation of my brain, for all were now in deep slumber around me, and even the marine on duty had seated himself on the ladder, and with his musket between his legs, seemed dozing away peacefully. I looked out through the little window beside my berth. A light breeze was faintly rippling the dark water beneath me. It was the beginning of a ‘Levanter,’ and scarcely ruffled the surface as it swept along.
‘Oh, if it would but bear the tidings I am full of!’ thought I. ‘But why not dare the attempt myself?’ While in America I had learned to become a good swimmer. Under Indian teaching, I had often passed hours in the water; and though now debilitated by long sickness, I felt that the cause would supply me with the strength I needed. From the instant that I conceived the thought, till I found myself descending the ship’s side, was scarcely a minute. Stripping off my woollen shirt, and with nothing but my loose trousers, I crept through the little window, and lowering myself gently by the rattlin of my hammock, descended slowly and noiselessly into the sea. I hung on thus for a couple of seconds, half fearing the attempt, and irresolute of purpose. Should strength fail, or even a cramp seize me, I must be lost, and none would ever know in what an enterprise I had perished. It would be set down as a mere attempt at escape. This notion almost staggered my resolution, but only for a second or so; and with a short prayer, I slowly let slip the rope, and struck out to swim.
The immense efforts required to get clear of the ship’s side discouraged me dreadfully, nor probably without the aid of the ‘Levanter’ should I have succeeded in doing so, the suction of the water along the sides was so powerful. At last, however, I gained the open space, and found myself stretching away towards shore rapidly. The night was so dark that I had nothing to guide me save the lights on the ramparts; but in this lay my safety. Swimming is, after all, but a slow means of progression. After what I judged to be an hour in the water, as I turned my head to look back, I almost fancied that the great bowsprit of the Téméraire was over me, and that the figure who leaned over the taffrail was steadily gazing on me. How little way had I made, and what a vast reach of water lay between me and the shore! I tried to animate my courage by thinking of the cause, how my comrades would greet me, the honour in which they would hold me for the exploit, and such like; but the terror of failure damped this ardour, and hope sank every moment lower and lower.
For some time I resolved within myself not to look back—the discouragement was too great; but the impulse to do so became all the greater, and the only means of resisting was by counting the strokes, and determining not to turn my head before I had made a thousand. The monotony of this last, and the ceaseless effort to advance, threw me into a kind of dreamy state, wherein mere mechanical effort remained. A few vague impressions are all that remain to me of what followed. I remember the sound of the morning guns from the fleet; I remember, too, the hoisting of the French standard at daybreak on the fort of the Mole; I have some recollection of a bastion crowded with people, and hearing shouts and cheers like voices of welcome and encouragement; and then a whole fleet of small boats issuing from the harbour, as if by one impulse; and then there comes a bright blaze of light over one incident, for I saw myself, dripping and almost dead, lifted on the shoulders of strong men, and carried along a wide street filled with people. I was in Genoa!
Up a straight street, so steep and so narrow that it seemed a stair, with hundreds of men crowding around me, I was borne along. Now, they were sailors who carried me; now, white-bearded grenadiers, with their bronzed, bold faces; now, they were the wild-looking Faquini of the Mole, with long-tasselled red caps, and gaudy sashes around their waists. Windows were opened on either side as we went, and eager faces protruded to stare at me; and then there were shouts and cries of triumphant joy bursting forth at every moment, amidst which I could hear the ever-recurring words—‘Escaped from the English fleet.’
By what means, or when, I had exchanged my dripping trousers of coarse sailcloth for the striped gear of our republican mode—how one had given me his jacket, another a cap, and a third a shirt—I knew not; but there I was, carried along in triumph, half fainting from exhaustion, and almost maddened by excitement. That I must have told something of my history—Heaven knows how incoherently and unconnectedly—is plain enough, for I could hear them repeating one to the other—‘Had served with Moreau’s corps in the Black Forest;’ ‘A hussar of the Ninth;’ ‘One of Humbert’s fellows’; and so on.
As we turned into a species of ‘Place,’ a discussion arose as to whither they should convey me. Some were for the ‘Cavalry Barracks,’ that I might be once more with those who resembled my old comrades. Others, more considerate, were for the hospital; but a staff-officer decided the question by stating that the general was at that very moment receiving the report in the church of the Annunziata, and that he ought to see me at once.
‘Let the poor fellow have some refreshment,’ cried one. ‘Here, take this, it’s coffee.’ ‘No, no, the petite goutte is hotter—try that flask.’ ‘He shall have my chocolate,’ said an old major, from the door of a café; and thus they pressed and solicited me with a generosity that I had yet to learn how dear it cost.
‘He ought to be dressed’; ‘He should be in uniform’; ‘Is better as he is’; ‘The general will not speak to him thus’; ‘He will’; ‘He must.’
Such, and such like, kept buzzing around me, as with reeling brain and confused vision they bore me up the great steps, and carried me into a gorgeous church, the most splendidly ornamented building I had ever beheld. Except, however, in the decorations of the ceiling, and the images of saints which figured in niches high up, every trace of a religious edifice had disappeared. The pulpit had gone—the chairs and seats for the choir, the confessionals, the shrines, altars—all had been uprooted, and a large table, at which some twenty officers were seated writing, now occupied the elevated platform of the high altar, while here and there stood groups of officers, with their reports from their various corps or parties in out-stations. Many of these drew near to me as I entered, and now the buzz of voices in question and rejoinder swelled into a loud noise; and while some were recounting my feat with all the seeming accuracy of eye-witnesses, others were as resolutely protesting it all to be impossible. Suddenly the tumult was hushed, the crowd fell back, and as the clanking muskets proclaimed ‘a salute,’ a whispered murmur announced the ‘general.’
I could just see the waving plumes of his staff, as they passed up; and then, as they were disappearing in the distance, they stopped, and one hastily returned to the entrance of the church.
‘Where is this fellow? let me see him,’ cried he hurriedly, brushing his way through the crowd. ‘Let him stand down; set him on his legs.’
‘He is too weak, capitaine,’ said a soldier.
‘Place him in a chair, then,’ said the aide-de-camp, for such he was. ‘You have made your escape from the English fleet, my man?’ continued he, addressing me.
‘I am an officer, and your comrade,’ replied I proudly; for with all my debility, the tone of his address stung me to the quick.
‘In what service, pray?’ asked he, with a sneering look at my motley costume.
‘Your general shall hear where I have served, and how, whenever he is pleased to ask me,’ was my answer.
‘Ay, parbleu!, cried three or four sous-officiers in a breath, ‘the general shall see him himself.’
And with a jerk they hoisted me once more on their shoulders, and with a run—the regular storming tramp of the line—they advanced up the aisle of the church, and never halted till within a few feet of where the staff were gathered around the general. A few words—they sounded like a reprimand—followed; a severe voice bade the soldiers ‘fall back,’ and I found myself standing alone before a tall and very strongly built man, with a large, red-brown beard; he wore a grey upper coat over his uniform, and carried a riding-whip in his hand.
‘Get him a seat. Let him have a glass of wine,’ cried he quickly, as he saw the tottering efforts I was making to keep my legs. ‘Are you better now?’ asked he, in a voice which, rough as it was, sounded kindly.
Seeing me so far restored, he desired me to recount my late adventure, which I did in the fewest words, and the most concise fashion, I could. Although never interrupting, I could mark that particular portions of my narrative made much impression on him, and he could not repress a gesture of impatience when I told him that I was impressed as a seaman to fight against the flag of my own country.
‘Of course, then,’ cried he, ‘you were driven to the alternative of this attempt.’
‘Not so, general,’ said I, interrupting; ‘I had grown to be very indifferent about my own fortunes. I had become half fatalist as to myself. It was on very different grounds, indeed, that I dared this danger. It was to tell you, for if I mistake not I am addressing General Massvna, tidings of deep importance.’
I said these words slowly and deliberately, and giving them all the impressiveness I was able.
‘Come this way, friend,’ said he, and, assisting me to arise, he led me a short distance off, and desired me to sit down on the steps in front of the altar railing. ‘Now, you may speak freely. I am the General Masséna, and I have only to say, that if you really have intelligence of any value for me, you shall be liberally rewarded; but if you have not, and if the pretence be merely an effort to impose on one whose cares and anxieties are already hard to bear, it would be better that you had perished on sea than tried to attempt it.’
There was a stern severity in the way he said this, which for a moment or two actually overpowered me. It was quite clear that he looked for some positive fact, some direct piece of information on which he might implicitly rely; and here was I now with nothing save the gossip of some English lieutenants, the idle talk of inexperienced young officers. I was silent. From the bottom of my heart I wished that I had never reached the shore, to stand in a position of such humiliation as this.
‘So, then, my caution was not unneeded,’ said the general, as he bent his heavy brows upon me. ‘Now, sir, there is but one amende you can make for this; tell me frankly, have others sent you on this errand, or is the scheme entirely of your own devising? Is this an English plot, or is there a Bourbon element in it?’
‘Neither one nor the other,’ said I boldly, for indignation at last gave me courage. ‘I hazarded my life to tell you what I overheard among the officers of the fleet yonder; you may hold their judgment cheap; you may not think their counsels worth the pains of listening to; but I could form no opinion of this, and only thought if these tidings could reach you, you might profit by them.’
‘And what are they?’ asked he bluntly.
‘They said that your force was wasting away by famine and disease; that your supplies could not hold out above a fortnight; that your granaries were empty, and your hospitals filled.’
‘They scarcely wanted the gift of second-sight to see this,’ said he bitterly. ‘A garrison in close siege for four months may be suspected of as much.’
‘Yes; but they said that as Soult’s force fell back upon the city, your position would be rendered worse.’
‘Fell back from where?’ asked he, with a searching look at me.
‘As I understood, from the Apennines,’ replied I, growing more confident as I saw that he became more attentive. ‘If I understood them aright, Soult held a position called the “Monte Faccio.” Is there such a name?’
‘Go on,’ said he, with a nod of assent.
‘That this could not long be tenable without gaining the highest fortified point of the mountain. The “Monte Creto” they named it.’
‘The attempt on which has failed!’ said Masséna, as if carried away by the subject; ‘and Soult himself is a prisoner! Go on.’
‘They added, that now but one hope remained for this army.’
‘And what was that, sir?’ said he fiercely. ‘What suggestion of cunning strategy did these sea-wolves intimate?’
‘To cut your way through the blockade, and join Suchet’s corps, attacking the Austrians at the Monte Ratte, and by the sea-road gaining the heights of Bochetta.’
‘Do these heroic spirits know the strength of the same Austrian corps? did they tell you that it numbered fifty-four thousand bayonets?’
‘They called them below forty thousand; and that now that Bonaparte was on his way through the Alps, perhaps by this over the Mount Cenis——’
‘What! did they say this? Is Bonaparte so near us?’ cried he, placing a hand on either shoulder, as he stared me in the face.
‘Yes; there is no doubt of that. The despatch to Lord Keith brought the news a week ago, and there is no secret made about it in the fleet.’
‘Over Mount Cenis!’ repeated he to himself. ‘Already in Italy!’
‘Holding straight for Milan, Lord Keith thinks,’ added I.
‘No, sir, straight for the Tuileries,’ cried Masséna sternly; and then correcting himself suddenly, he burst into a forced laugh. I must confess that the speech puzzled me sorely at the time, but I lived to learn its meaning; and many a time have I wondered at the shrewd foresight which even then read the ambitious character of the future Emperor.
‘Of this fact, then, you are quite certain. Bonaparte is on his march hither?’
‘I have heard it spoken of every day for the last week,’ replied I; ‘and it was in consequence of this that the English officers used to remark, if Masséna but knew it, he’d make a dash at them, and clear his way through at once.’
‘They said this, did they?’ said he, in a low voice, and as if pondering over it.
‘Yes; one and all agreed in thinking there could not be a doubt of the result.’
‘Where have you served, sir?’ asked he, suddenly turning on me, and with a look that showed he was resolved to test the character of the witness.
‘With Moreau, sir, on the Rhine and the Schwarz-wald; in Ireland with Humbert.’
‘Your regiment?’
‘The Ninth Hussar.’
‘The “Tapageurs”’ said he, laughing. ‘I know them, and glad I am not to have their company here at this moment; you were a lieutenant?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, supposing that, on the faith of what you have told me, I was to follow the wise counsel of these gentlemen, would you like the alternative of gaining your promotion in the event of success, or being shot by a peloton if we fail.’
‘They seem sharp terms, sir,’ said I, smiling, ‘when it is remembered that no individual efforts of mine can either promote one result or the other.’
‘Ay, but they can, sir,’ cried he quickly. ‘If you should turn out to be an Austro-English spy; if these tidings be of a character to lead my troops into danger; if, in reliance on you, I should be led to compromise the honour and safety of a French army—your life, were it worth ten thousand times over your own value of it, would be a sorry recompense. Is this intelligible?’
‘Far more intelligible than flattering,’ said I, laughing; for I saw that the best mode to treat him was by an imitation of his own frank and careless humour. ‘I have already risked that life you hold so cheaply to convey this information, but I am still ready to accept the conditions you offer me, if, in the event of success, my name appear in the despatch.’
He again stared at me with his dark and piercing eyes; but I stood the glance with a calm conscience, and he seemed so to read it, for he said—
‘Be it so. I will, meanwhile, test your prudence. Let nothing of this interview transpire—not a word of it among the officers and comrades you shall make acquaintance with. You shall serve on my own staff. Go now, and recruit your strength for a couple of days, and then report yourself at headquarters when ready for duty.—Latrobe, look to the Lieutenant Tiernay; see that he wants for nothing, and let him have a horse and a uniform as soon as may be.’
Captain Latrobe, the future General of Division, was then a young gay officer of about five-and-twenty, very good-looking, and full of life and spirits—a buoyancy which the terrible uncertainties of the siege could not repress.
‘Our general talks nobly, Tiernay,’ said he, as he gave me his arm to assist me; ‘but you ‘ll stare when I tell you that “wanting for nothing” means, having four ounces of black bread, and ditto of blue cheese, per diem; and as to a horse, if I possessed such an animal, I’d have given a dinner-party yesterday and eaten him. You look surprised, but when you see a little more of us here, you’ll begin to think that prison rations in the fleet yonder were luxuries compared to what we have. No matter, you shall take share of my superabundance; and if I have little else to offer, I’ll show you a view from my window, finer than anything you ever looked on in your life, and with a sea-breeze that would be glorious if it didn’t make one hungry.’
While he thus rattled on, we reached the street, and there, calling a couple of soldiers forward, he directed them to carry me along to his quarters, which lay in the upper town, on an elevated plateau that overlooked the city and the bay together.
From the narrow lanes, flanked with tall, gloomy houses, and steep, ill-paved streets, exhibiting poverty and privation of every kind, we suddenly emerged into an open space of grass, at one side of which a handsome iron railing stood, with a richly ornamented gate, gorgeously gilded. Within this was a garden and a fish-pond, surrounded with statues, and farther on, a long, low villa, whose windows reached to the ground, and were shaded by a deep awning of striped blue and white canvas.
Camellias, orange-trees, cactuses, and magnolias abounded everywhere; tulips and hyacinths seemed to grow wild; and there was in the half-neglected look of the spot something of savage luxuriance that heightened the effect immensely.
‘This is my Paradise, Tiernay, only wanting an Eve to be perfect,’ said Latrobe, as he set me down beneath a spreading lime-tree. ‘Yonder are your English friends; there they stretch away for miles beyond that point. That’s the Monte Creto, you may have heard of; and there’s the Bochetta. In that valley, to the left, the Austrian outposts are stationed; and from those two heights closer to the shore, they are gracious enough to salute us every evening after sunset, and even prolong the attention sometimes the whole night through. Turn your eyes in this direction, and you’ll see the “cornice” road, that leads to la belle France, but of which we see as much from this spot as we are ever like to do. So much for the geography of our position; and now to look after your breakfast. You have, of course, heard that we do not revel in superfluities. Never was the boasted excellence of our national cookery more severely tested, for we have successively descended from cows and sheep to goats, horses, donkeys, dogs, occasionally experimenting on hides and shoe-leather, till we ended by regarding a rat as a rarity, and deeming a mouse a delicacy of the season. As for vegetables, there would not have been a flowering plant in all Genoa, if tulip and ranunculus roots had not been bitter as aloes. These seem very inhospitable confessions, but I make them the more freely since I am about to treat you en gourmet. Come in now, and acknowledge that juniper bark isn’t bad coffee, and that commissary bread is not to be thought of “lightly.”’
In this fashion did my comrade invite me to a meal, which, even with this preface, was far more miserable and scanty than I looked for.
I had scarcely finished my breakfast, when a group of officers rode up to our quarters to visit me. My arrival had already created an immense sensation in the city, and all kinds of rumours were afloat as to the tidings I had brought. The meagreness of the information would, indeed, have seemed in strong contrast to the enterprise and hazard of the escape, had I not the craft to eke it out by that process of suggestion and speculation in which I was rather an adept.
Little in substance as my information was, all the younger officers were in favour of acting upon it. The English are no bad judges of our position and chances, was the constant argument. They see exactly how we stand; they know the relative forces of our army and the enemy’s; and if the ‘cautious islanders’—such was the phrase—advised a coup de main, it surely must have much in its favour. I lay stress upon the remark, trifling as it may seem; but it is curious to know, that with all the immense successes of England on sea, her reputation at that time among Frenchmen was rather for prudent and well-matured undertaking than for those daring enterprises which are as much the character of her courage.
My visitors continued to pour in during the morning—officers of every arm and rank, some from mere idle curiosity, some to question and interrogate, and not a few to solve doubts in their mind as to my being really French, and a soldier, and not an agent of that ‘perfide Albion,’ whose treachery was become a proverb amongst us. Many were disappointed at my knowing so little. I neither could tell the date of Napoleon’s passing St. Gothard, nor the amount of his force; neither knew I whether he meant to turn eastward towards the plains of Lombardy, or march direct to the relief of Genoa. Of Moreau’s successes in Germany, too, I had only heard vaguely, and, of course, could recount nothing. I could overhear, occasionally, around and about me, the murmurs of dissatisfaction my ignorance called forth, and was not a little grateful to an old artillery captain for saying, ‘That’s the very best thing about the lad; a spy would have had his whole lesson by heart.’
‘You are right, sir,’ cried I, catching at the words; ‘I may know but little, and that little, perhaps, valueless and insignificant, but my truth no man shall gainsay.’
The boldness of this speech from one wasted and miserable as I was, with tattered shoes and ragged clothes, caused a hearty laugh, in which, as much from policy as feeling, I joined myself.
‘Come here, mon cher,’ said an infantry colonel, as, walking to the door of the room, he drew his telescope from his pocket; ‘you tell us of a coup de main—on the Monte Faccio, is it not?’
‘Yes,’ replied I promptly, ‘so I understand the name.’
‘Well, have you ever seen the place?’
‘Never.’
‘Well, there it is yonder’; and he handed me his glass as he spoke. ‘You see that large beetling cliff, with the olives at the foot? There, on the summit, stands the Monte Faccio. The road—the pathway rather, and a steep one it is—leads up where you see those goats feeding, and crosses in front of the crag, directly beneath the fire of the batteries. There’s not a spot on the whole ascent where three men could march abreast; and wherever there is any shelter from fire, the guns of the “Sprona,” that small fort to the right, take the whole position. What do you think of your counsel now?’
‘You forget, sir, it is not my counsel. I merely repeat what I overheard.’
‘And do you mean to say, that the men who gave that advice were serious, or capable of adopting it themselves?’
‘Most assuredly; they would never recommend to others what they felt unequal to themselves. I know these English well, and so much will I say of them.’
‘Bah!’ cried he, with an insolent gesture of his hand, and turned away; and I could plainly see that my praises of the enemy were very ill-taken. In fact, my unlucky burst of generosity had done more to damage my credit than all the dangerous or impracticable features of my scheme. Every eye was turned to the bold precipice, and the stern fortress that crowned it, and all agreed that an attack must be hopeless.
I saw, too late, the great fault I had committed, and that nothing could be more wanting in tact than to suggest to Frenchmen an enterprise which Englishmen deemed practicable, and which yet, to the former, seemed beyond all reach of success. The insult was too palpable and too direct; but to retract was impossible, and I had now to sustain a proposition which gave offence on every side.
It was very mortifying to me to see how soon all my personal credit was merged in this unhappy theory. No one thought more of my hazardous escape, the perils I encountered, or the sufferings I had undergone. All that was remembered of me was the affront I had offered to the national courage, and the preference I had implied to English bravery.
Never did I pass a more tormenting day. New arrivals continually refreshed the discussion, and always with the same results. And although some were satisfied to convey their opinions by a shake of the head or a dubious smile, others, more candid than civil, plainly intimated that if I had nothing of more consequence to tell, I might as well have stayed where I was, and not added one more to a garrison so closely pressed by hunger. Very little more of such reasoning would have persuaded myself of its truth, and I almost began to wish that I was once more back in the ‘sick bay’ of the frigate.
Towards evening I was left alone. My host went down to the town on duty; and after the visit of a tailor, who came to try on me a staff uniform—a distinction, I afterwards learned, owing to the abundance of this class of costume, and not to any claims I could prefer to the rank—I was perfectly free to stroll about where I pleased unmolested, and, no small blessing, unquestioned.
On following along the walls for some distance, I came to a part where a succession of deep ravines opened at the foot of the bastions, conducting by many a tortuous and rocky glen to the Apennines. The sides of these gorges were dotted here and there with wild hollies and fig-trees, stunted and ill-thriven, as the nature of the soil might imply. Still, for the sake of the few berries, or the sapless fruit they bore, the soldiers of the garrison were accustomed to creep out from the embrasures and descend the steep cliffs—a peril great enough in itself, but terribly increased by the risk of exposure to the enemy’s tirailleurs, as well as the consequences such indiscipline would bring down on them.
So frequent, however, had been these infractions, that little footpaths were worn bare along the face of the cliff, traversing in many a zigzag a surface that seemed like a wall. It was almost incredible that men would brave such peril for so little, but famine had rendered them indifferent to death; and although debility exhibited itself in every motion and gesture, the men would stand unshrinking and undismayed beneath the fire of a battery. At one spot, near the angle of a bastion, and where some shelter from the north winds protected the place, a little clump of orange-trees stood; and towards these, though fully a mile off, many a foot-track led, showing how strong had been the temptation in that quarter. To reach it, the precipice should be traversed, the gorge beneath and a considerable ascent of the opposite mountain accomplished; and yet all these dangers had been successfully encountered, merely instigated by hunger!
High above this very spot, at a distance of perhaps eight hundred feet, stood the Monte Faccio—the large black and yellow banner of Austria floating from its walls, as if amid the clouds. I could see the muzzles of the great guns protruding from the embrasures; and I could even catch glances of a tall bearskin, as some soldier passed or repassed behind the parapet, and I thought how terrible would be the attempt to storm such a position. It was, indeed, true, that if I had the least conception of the strength of the fort, I never should have dared to talk of a coup de main. Still I was in a manner pledged to the suggestion. I had perilled my life for it, and few men do as much for an opinion; for this reason I resolved, come what would, to maintain my ground, and hold fast to my conviction. I never could be called upon to plan the expedition, nor could it by any possibility be confided to my guidance; responsibility could not, therefore, attach to me. All these were strong arguments, at least quite strong enough to decide a wavering judgment.
Meditating on these things, I strolled back to my quarters. As I entered the garden, I found that several officers were assembled, among whom was Colonel de Barre, the brother of the general of that name who afterwards fell at the Borodino. He was chef d‘état-major to Masséna, and a most distinguished and brave soldier. Unlike the fashion of the day, which made the military man affect the rough coarseness of a savage, seasoning his talk with oaths, and curses, and low expressions, De Barre had something of the petit-maître in his address, which nothing short of his well-proved courage would have saved from ridicule. His voice was low and soft, his smile perpetual; and although well bred enough to have been dignified and easy, a certain fidgety impulse to be pleasing made him always appear affected and unnatural. Never was there such a contrast to his chief; but indeed it was said, that to this very disparity of temperament he owed all the influence he possessed over Masséna’s mind.
I might have been a general of division at the very least, to judge from the courteous deference of the salute with which he approached me—a politeness the more striking, as all the others immediately fell back, to leave us to converse together. I was actually overcome with the flattering terms in which he addressed me on the subject of my escape.
‘I could scarcely at first credit the story,’ said he, ‘but when they told me that you were a “Ninth man,” one of the old Tapageurs, I never doubted it more. You see what a bad character is, Monsieur de Tiernay!’ It was the first time I had ever heard the prefix to my name, and I own the sound was pleasurable. ‘I served a few months with your corps myself, but I soon saw there was no chance of promotion among fellows all more eager than myself for distinction. Well, sir, it is precisely to this reputation I have yielded my credit, and to which General Masséna is kind enough to concede his own confidence. Your advice is about to be acted on, Monsieur de Tiernay.’
‘The coup de main——’
‘A little lower, if you please, my dear sir. The expedition is to be conducted with every secrecy, even from the officers of every rank below a command. Have the goodness to walk along with me this way. If I understand General Masséna aright, your information conveys no details, nor any particular suggestions as to the attack.’
‘None whatever, sir. It was the mere talk of a gunroom—the popular opinion among a set of young officers.’
‘I understand,’ said he, with a bow and a smile—‘the suggestion of a number of high-minded and daring soldiers, as to what they deemed practicable.’
‘Precisely, sir.’
‘Neither could you collect from their conversation anything which bore upon the number of the Austrian advance guard, or their state of preparation?’
‘Nothing, sir. The opinion of the English was, I suspect, mainly founded on the great superiority of our forces to the enemy’s in all attacks of this kind.’
‘Our esprit “tapageur” eh?’ said he, laughing, and pinching my arm familiarly, and I joined in the laugh with pleasure. ‘Well, Monsieur de Tiernay, let us endeavour to sustain this good impression. The attempt is to be made to-night.’
‘To-night!’ exclaimed I, in amazement, for everything within the city seemed tranquil and still.
‘To-night, sir; and, by the kind favour of General Masséna, I am to lead the attack—the reserve, if we are ever to want it, being under his own command It is to be at your own option on which staff you will serve.’
‘On yours, of course, sir,’ cried I hastily. ‘A man who stands unknown and unvouched for among his comrades, as I do, has but one way to vindicate his claim to credit—by partaking the peril he counsels.’
‘There could be no doubt either of your judgment, or the sound reasons for it,’ replied the colonel; ‘the only question was, whether you might be unequal to the fatigue.’
‘Trust me, sir, you’ll not have to send me to the rear,’ said I, laughing.
‘Then you are extra on my staff, Monsieur de Tiernay.’
As we walked along, he proceeded to give me the details of our expedition, which was to be on a far stronger scale than I anticipated. Three battalions of infantry, with four light batteries, and as many squadrons of dragoons, were to form the advance.
‘We shall neither want the artillery nor cavalry, except to cover a retreat,’ said he; ‘I trust, if it come to that, there will not be many of us to protect; but such are the general’s orders, and we have but to obey them.’
With the great events of that night on my memory, it is strange that I should retain so accurately in my mind the trivial and slight circumstances, which are as fresh before me as if they had occurred but yesterday.
It was about eleven o’clock, of a dark but starry night, not a breath of wind blowing, that, passing through a number of gloomy, narrow streets, I suddenly found myself in the courtyard of the Balbé Palace. A large marble fountain was playing in the centre, around which several lamps were lighted; by these I could see that the place was crowded with officers, some seated at tables drinking, some smoking, and others lounging up and down in conversation. Huge loaves of black bread, and wicker-covered flasks of country wine, formed the entertainment; but even these, to judge from the zest of the guests, were no common delicacies. At the foot of a little marble group, and before a small table, with a map on it, sat General Masséna himself, in his grey overcoat, cutting his bread with a case-knife, while he talked away to his staff.
‘These maps are good for nothing, Bressi,’ cried he. ‘To look at them, you ‘d say that every road was practicable for artillery, and every river passable, and you find afterwards that all these fine chaussées are bypaths, and the rivulets downright torrents. Who knows the Chiavari road?’
‘Giorgio knows it well, sir,’ said the officer addressed, and who was a young Piedmontese from Massena’s own village.
‘Ah, Birbante!’ cried the general, ‘are you here again?’ and he turned laughingly towards a little bandy-legged monster, of less than three feet high, who, with a cap stuck jauntily on one side of his head, and a wooden sword at his side, stepped forward with all the confidence of an equal.
‘Ay, here I am,’ said he, raising his hand to his cap, soldier fashion; ‘there was nothing else for it but this trade,’ and he placed his hand on the hilt of his wooden weapon. ‘You cut down all the mulberries and left us no silkworms; you burned all the olives, and left us no oil; you trampled down our maize crops and our vines. Per Baccho! the only thing left was to turn brigand like yourself, and see what would come of it.’
‘Is he not cool to talk thus to a general at the head of his staff?’ said Masséna, with an assumed gravity.
‘I knew you when you wore a different-looking epaulette than that there,’ said Giorgio, ‘and when you carried one of your father’s meal-sacks on your shoulder instead of all that bravery.’
‘Parbleu! so he did,’ cried Masséna, laughing heartily. ‘That scoundrel was always about our mill, and, I believe, lived by thieving!’ added he, pointing to the dwarf.
‘Every one did a little that way in our village,’ said the dwarf; ‘but none ever profited by his education like yourself.’
If the general and some of the younger officers seemed highly amused at the fellow’s impudence and effrontery, some of the others looked angry and indignant. A few were really well born, and could afford to smile at these recognitions; but many who sprung from an origin even more humble than the general’s could not conceal their angry indignation at the scene.
‘I see that these gentlemen are impatient of our vulgar recollections,’ said Masséna, with a sardonic grin; ‘so now to business, Giorgio. You know the Chiavari road—what is’t like?’
‘Good enough to look at, but mined in four places.’
The general gave a significant glance at the staff, and bade him go on.
‘The white-coats are strong in that quarter, and have eight guns to bear upon the road, where it passes beneath Monte Ratte.’
‘Why, I was told that the pass was undefended!’ cried Masséna angrily—‘that a few skirmishers were all that could be seen near it.’
‘All that could be seen!—so they are; but there are eight twelve-pounder guns in the brushwood, with shot and shell enough to be seen, and felt too.’
Masséna now turned to the officers near him, and conversed with them eagerly for some time. The debated point I subsequently heard was how to make a feint attack on the Chiavari road, to mask the coup de main intended for the Monte Faccio. To give the false attack any colour of reality, required a larger force and greater preparation than they could afford, and this was now the great difficulty. At last it was resolved that this should be a mere demonstration, not to push far beyond the walls, but, by all the semblance of a serious advance, to attract as much attention as possible from the enemy.
Another and a greater embarrassment lay in the fact, that the troops intended for the coup de main had no other exit than the gate which led to Chiavari, so that the two lines of march would intersect and interfere with each other. Could we even have passed out our tirailleurs in advance, the support would easily follow; but the enemy would, of course, notice the direction our advance would take, and our object be immediately detected.
‘Why not pass the skirmishers out by the embrasures, to the left yonder,’ said I; ‘I see many a track where men have gone already.’
‘It is steep as a wall,’ cried one.
‘And there’s a breast of rock in front that no foot could scale.’
‘You have at least a thousand feet of precipice above you, when you reach the glen, if ever you do reach it alive.’
‘And this to be done in the darkness of a night!’ Such were the discouraging comments which rattled, quick as musketry, around me.
‘The lieutenant’s right, nevertheless,’ said Giorgio. ‘Half the voltigeurs of the garrison know the path well already; and as to darkness—if there were a moon you dared not attempt it.’
‘There’s some truth in that,’ observed an old major.
‘Could you promise to guide them, Giorgio?’ said Masséna.
‘Yes, every step of the way—up to the very walls of the fort.’
‘There, then,’ cried the general, ‘one great difficulty is got over already.*
‘Not so fast, générale mio,’ said the dwarf; ‘I said I could, but I never said that I would.’
‘Not for a liberal present, Giorgio; not if I filled that leather pouch of yours with five-franc pieces, man?’
‘I might not live to spend it, and I care little for my next of kin,’ said the dwarf dryly.
‘I don’t think that we need his services, general,’ said I; ‘I saw the place this evening, and however steep it seems from the walls, the descent is practicable enough—at least I am certain that our tirailleurs, in the Black Forest, would never have hesitated about it.’
I little knew that when I uttered this speech I had sent a shot into the very heart of the magazine, the ruling passion of Masséna’s mind being an almost insane jealousy of Moreau’s military fame—his famous campaign of Southern Germany, and his wonderful retreat upon the Rhine, being regarded as achievements of the highest order.
‘I’ve got some of those regiments you speak of in my brigade here, sir,’ said he, addressing himself directly to me, and I must own that their discipline reflects but little credit on the skill of so great an officer as General Moreau; and as to light troops, I fancy Colonel de Vallence yonder would scarcely feel it a flattery were you to tell him to take a lesson from them.’
‘I have just been speaking to Colonel de Vallence, general,’ said Colonel de Barre. ‘He confirms everything Monsieur de Tiernay tells us of the practicable nature of these paths; his fellows have tracked them at all hours, and neither want guidance nor direction to go.’
‘In that case I may as well offer my services,’ said Giorgio, tightening his belt; ‘but I must tell you that it is too late to begin to-night—we must start immediately after nightfall. It will take from forty to fifty minutes to descend the cliff, a good two hours to climb the ascent, so that you ‘ll not have much time to spare before daybreak.’
Giorgio’s opinion was backed by several others, and it was finally resolved upon that the attempt should be made on the following evening. Meanwhile, the dwarf was committed to the safe custody of a sergeant, affectedly to look to his proper care and treatment, but really to guard against any imprudent revelations that he might make respecting the intended attack.