# Godey’s Lady’s Book/Volume 30/April 1845/Warlike Adventures of a Peaceful Man

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Part one of a two part translation of "Kriegerische Abenteuer eines Friedfertigen" from Der Sammler volume 3 (1811).
WARLIKE ADVENTURES OF A PEACEFUL MAN.
FROM THE GERMAN.
BY MISS MARY E. LEE.
CHAPTER FIRST.
NINE-AND-THIRTY YEARS OF AGE.
IT was in the year 18—, and while residing in the garret of a house in Berlin, that I was awakened on one Sunday morning by the ringing of the church bells, and on collecting my drowsy senses, I felt a cold shudder pass over me on recalling to mind that this was my thirty-ninth birthday. The youth of nineteen looks with eagerness to the freedom of twenty-one—for ere that period his whole existence seems narrow and unripe; nine-and-twenty moves on with a thoughtful mien to thirty, for then all the spangles and glitter of life are probably worn off; but worst of all is it to enter on one’s fortieth year, unblest with lucrative employment or a beloved helpmate. Such a fate was mine, though certainly none of my own making; and I, therefore, determined, that so long as I was a member of the order of bachelors, it was unnecessary to acknowledge beyond nine-and-thirty. With this desperate resolve, I arose, and selected my Sunday attire with some care, although my soul was oppressed with bitter sorrow. Thirty-nine, and yet only a poor theological student, unmarried, without a prospect of any lucrative situation—for I had not yet been even able to attain the arduous station of teacher in a public school. To what purpose all my hoarded knowledge, my thirty years’ patient study, my exemplary conduct through life? I had neither relatives nor patrons; day after day I was hastening from street to street, giving private lessons to enable me to support my sad and friendless existence; and in my leisure hours, I was compelled to turn author, made almanacks, and contributed to numerous petty journals. Ah, it was hard work, when booksellers paid me in copper coin for the pictured paradise of my muse, while others, who had not laboured half so hard as myself, were rejoicing in a golden harvest. Oh, the heavenly dreams of my youth, how had they all vanished! Ah, the beloved Frederica!—how needless was it that she should remain true, doomed as she was to wither like an Alpine flower in maiden solitude! Tears gushed to my eyes with this last thought, and yielding to my sorrow, I wept like a very child.
Frederica had been for eight years my promised bride. She was poor as myself in worldly wealth, being the daughter of a counsellor of Berlin, who died shortly after becoming a bankrupt; and as her mother’s circumstances were too humble to allow her daughter to reside with her, the dutiful maiden, in her anxiety to assist her needy parent, obtained a place as domestic in a family, where, although treated with the greatest kindness, she still felt her depressed condition.
CHAPTER SECOND.
THE LETTER.
While yielding to these mournful reflections, during the operation of dressing, a tap was heard at my door, and the letter-carrier entered and handed me a huge package, for which he charged five pence, a large amount from the purse of a poor student. Throwing myself into a chair, I gazed for some minutes on the unknown superscription, examined the seal, and peeped into the folds of the letter, as well to repress my ungovernable curiosity as, perhaps, to give full play to the delicious hope which its contents were probably doomed to overthrow. The question was, whether I should immediately open it or delay the perusal until the next day—for one must acknowledge that a man is apt to be superstitious when suffering beneath a succession of misfortunes, and it seemed to me that the reception of bad tidings on my birthday would throw a dark shadow over the whole succeeding year. At length, defying fate and banishing fear, I equipped trembling doubt with the armour of valiant resolution, and breaking the seal, read on until my eyes were blinded with tears. Then laying the letter aside, I made an effort to recover myself, read it once more, and falling on my knees, poured out a torrent of gratitude to my Heavenly Benefactor for a most unexpected blessing. The above-mentioned letter was from my most influential friend, a merchant of Frankfort, in whose family I had formerly resided as tutor. By chance, or rather, I should say, through the interest of this kind friend—for there is no such thing as chance in God’s world—I now received the appointment of curate to the patrimonial estate of Count C——, with a salary of seven hundred florins, the use of house, garden, firewood, and, ​furthermore, the hope of becoming the instructor of his sons, should a personal interview prepossess him in my favour; and this interview, as I was advised by my Frankfort friend, might take place on the 19th of October, when the count would await my appearance in Magdeburg.
And now behold me, most unexpectedly, at the summit of my twenty years’ desire. Hastily finishing my toilet, I thrust the packet in my pocket, and went, or rather flew, to impart the joyful tidings to my beloved Frederica, whom, by good luck, I found unoccupied, her mistress being at church.
Frederica started back in alarm as she observed my breathless agitation, the glowing hue of my usually pale cheek, and the strange excitement of my demeanour, till, when I seized her wildly in my arms and pressed her hand against my burning brow, she cried aloud—“Ah, tell me, what misfortune has happened? What new disappointment has come to crush your already bruised heart?”
“Ah, Frederica,” exclaimed I, “I am so inured to misfortune, that I have even learned to meet it with smiles; but joy is an unexpected guest, and finds me all unarmed.”
“Joy!—joy did you say, doctor?” repeated the astonished maiden, (I had received from the university the degree of Doctor of Philosophy,) and she looked eagerly for a reply.
“Do you remember that happy night in the garden of Sans Souci, Frederica?—when, beneath the starry heavens, with but one Eye watching over us, we plighted our vows of love and fidelity—vows that, for nine long years, we have preserved hopelessly yet steadfastly. And now, wilt thou be mine, Frederica, since my fate has suddenly brightened?” It was my first thou, and I whispered it timidly. “A pleasant home awaits us; a lovely garden; a ———. Wilt thou share my happiness, dearest?” And drawing out the letter, I added—“See, here is an appointment from Count C——, and I am chosen curate to his estates.”
Frederica took the letter, and as she read the contents, a stream of joyful surprise ran over every feature, till, laying her hand in mine, she looked up in my face with a beaming blush, and pearly tears rolled down her cheek as she replied—“I will go with thee wherever thou wilt, Ferdinand,” and then sank sobbing on my breast.
The holy angels were hardly happier than we during those first moments of delicious silence, till, tearing herself from my embrace, the pious maiden clasped her hands in grateful praise to Heaven; and then, turning on me her streaming yet joyful eyes, she softly murmured—“Is it, indeed, true? Is it not a dream, Ferdinand? Show me the letter once more; I have forgotten every word of its contents.”
CHAPTER THIRD.
BETROTHAL AND SEPARATION.
“One thing I am resolved on, dearest,” continued I, “and that is, that I will not even enter the door of my parsonage until I am married. What time would I have for all the little domestic arrangements that are so necessary to a housekeeping establishment, amid the first agitating cares of my holy office? How could I determine which should be the sitting-room, the study, the storehouse? Ah, Frederica, you must arrange all that; you must make the strange house look to me like a friendly homestead. Only take care, friend, to choose my study where a window opens on your flower-garden, for in the spring I shall have to watch that you do your task faithfully among the plants while I am at my sermon.”
Frederica blushed and turned laughingly away, as though she would not hear of such unseemly haste; but she soon began to talk of new window curtains, and how the garden must be re-arranged, and how her dear mother must come to live with us, and whether it would not be cheapest and best to buy all our furniture at Frankfort, with numerous other hints regarding kitchen and cellar, in all of which I heartily concurred.
Under present happy circumstances, my best plan seemed to enter immediately on every arrangement; to afford Frederica’s mistress due notice of her removal; to advise my landlady and pupils of the same on my part; and, pleasantest of all, to have the matrimonial bans published from the pulpit on the following Sabbath. All these things proceeded in proper form; presents and good wishes poured in from every quarter. I was richer in this world’s wealth than I had ever been; and, furthermore, the father of one of my pupils kindly offered me the use of his traveling-carriage for the journey—an offer which I did not refuse. I took care to provide myself with the necessary passports, for it was a stormy period, war and the rumour of war being everywhere talked of, and our king even then at the head of his army at Thüringen, awaiting the approach of the yet victorious Napoleon, though the general opinion was that, in the next fortnight, the French would be driven back over the Rhine by my brave countrymen. In fact, by way of speculation, I had already, in the seclusion of my quiet garret, prepared twenty-five songs of war and victory, which were so arranged as to suit the issue of many expected conflicts, the names of the heroes and battle-fields only being omitted. For these productions, I had hoped to receive a liberal compensation from the Berlin booksellers, and thinking now that I might dispose of them to yet greater advantage at Magdeburg, I determined to carry them with me. On the 14th of October, the very day of the defeat of the Prussian troops at Jena, I said farewell to Frederica; and although my return was to be the summons for our immediate marriage, and ​the future stretched in bright perspective before us, yet our hearts were oppressed with sadness on the evening of separation. While, as a doctor of philosophy, I tried to repel all weak forebodings, I could not, as a lover, shake off my silly fears; and Frederica herself, overcome by the same fancies, exclaimed, as she sobbed a farewell—“Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand, God be with you! God take care of you!—but, alas! I fear that we shall never meet again!”
CHAPTER FOURTH.
JOURNEY TO MAGDEBURG.
On the 15th of October, I passed through the Brandenburg gate, bearing with me my patriotic songs and my patron’s appointment; and as I was compelled to remain for a night at Potsdam, to transact some necessary business, I turned at twilight towards the garden of Sans Souci, and amid its beautiful shades, renewed the vow which, nine years previously, I had pledged to my beloved Frederica. On returning to the hotel, I sat up until midnight, busied with an epistle, in which I wrote out a whole Iliad of hopes and pleasant fancies, and sketched for the eye of the beloved, bright pictures of our home-life in the quiet parsonage, shut out from the noise and tumult of a vain and thoughtless world. “Thou and I, dearest,”—it was thus I concluded,—“will be completely blest; for what need we more, even if we could draw heaven itself to earth. Our cottage, our garden, will they not seem to us the most beautiful portion of God’s creation, where, unenvied by others, we will not covet the bliss of the angels, but will live completely blest in ourselves.” With these pleasant fancies, I fell asleep, and my dreams were only a vivid continuation of my waking thoughts, until at length another happy day broke upon me, and I started up to prepare for my onward journey. Oh the varied dreams that crowded into that opening day. As I rode along, at one moment I fancied my first interview with the count, and how I presented myself in a most attractive light; then, again, I was leading my bride into the parsonage, saying, as I did so—“See, angel, here is your earthly domain;” and, lastly, I seemed to stand for the first time in my parochial office, a wide-spread congregation waiting to receive instruction from my lips as the shepherd of their souls, till, as I proceeded in my eloquent discourse, every eye that gazed upon me grew blind with tears, and all hastened to express their delight in their new pastor, while my wife gave me—that sweetest of all rewards—a loving kiss.
On reaching Brandenburg, I found the inn in a complete tumult, and every body talking of the great conflicts that had taken place between Napoleon and our beloved monarch.
“And how goes it with the emperor?” I asked.
“Oh, he is missing.”
“And Marshal Lannes?”
“Dead.”
“And Davoust?”
“Dead.”
“And Ney?”
“Dead—all dead!”
I could no longer restrain my delight, but thrust my hand into my traveling coat, and was about to draw out the songs of victory. An old man who stood near me put down his pipe, and stooping as if accidentally towards me, said, in a deep whisper—“Would to God it were so, but it is all false, sir. On the contrary, our troops have been very unfortunate.”
My hand was stayed in its eager course; I let the odes wait their proper time and place, and repeating, mechanically, the words, “Very unfortunate,” I gave full reins to my anxiety, and even asked myself, “What if Napoleon should come between Frederica and myself?”
The very thought produced a violent ague-fit.
CHAPTER FIFTH.
EVIL FOREBODINGS.
On the following day, as I journeyed along the state road, a courier passed me at full speed. He appeared to return from the army, and was hastening to Berlin, but from his profound silence I augured nothing good—for joy, even when unquestioned, is apt to seek for sympathy. On approaching the next village, I observed a crowd of people at the inn door, and drawing near, saw at the window a troop of Prussian hussars, while saddled horses stood at the door. “Is there any thing new?” was my inquiry of the gaping crowd, as I stopped my carriage for a moment.
“Ah, bad enough—bad enough!” cried an old woman; “our king has lost every thing, and they say that the French will be here in an hour’s time!”
I gave little credit to the old wife’s tale, but anxious to inquire further, rode up to the entrance of the dwelling, and springing from my carriage, entered within. Every chamber swarmed with occupants; hussars, peasants, magistrates, stood crowding together, smoking their pipes, drinking, swearing and talking confusedly. One told of the retreat of the Prussians, another of the advance of the French, and a third gave an account of some general who was unable to ride on horseback because of his numerous wounds, and for whom they were even then seeking out a conveyance in the neighbourhood. I was greatly excited by their relations, and choosing a place at one of the tables, I ordered a tankard of the landlord’s miserable beer, for the purpose of gaining intelligence from the soldiers. In about ten minutes, the hussars hurriedly left the chamber. At the sudden cry of ​“they are going! they are going!” I hurried to the window, and reached it just in time to see the troops disappear in the turn of the street, while my traveling-carriage went at full speed before them.
“Stop! halt! that is my carriage!” I shouted from the window; but finding that my cry was of no avail, I worked my way through the crowd into the open street: but, alas! the troops were entirely out of sight, and I gazed upon empty space.
“Do not be alarmed,” said an old man, who wore the badge of a magistrate; “the general will soon return your carriage; he only wishes to be conveyed to the next post—for he is half dead with his wounds, and seemed anxious to reach his estate as soon as possible.”
“And who is this general?” I inquired. No one knew his name. “And how far will he need my equipage?” No one could tell.
I ran for some distance up the road, and found that it branched off in four different directions, so that all further search seemed fruitless; so, trusting to obtain some information from the crowd, I returned to the inn, but only to find that every one appeared perfectly indifferent to my misfortune, and totally engrossed with their own near danger through the proximity of the French.
“You must give me a protocol of this shameful affair,” I demanded of the magistrate; “the whole village can bear witness to this act of unjust force; and furthermore, write down that I shall remain here at the expense of the general’s purse, until my wagon is returned.”
The old man readily wrote down what I required. I had a duplicate of the protocol drawn out, and placing it carefully among my patriotic songs, tried to wait patiently until the morrow, when I confidently expected the return of the conveyance. Alas, it was a hope that was destined to remain unrealized, for the carriage never came. By good luck, I had some ready money with me; but then the general had carried off my whole wardrobe; my Berlin friend would certainly expect the value of his equipage; and, worse than all, the 19th of October was drawing near, and the count would be waiting my arrival in Magdeburg. Ah! was not all this a heavy trial of faith for the nominated curate! In my despair, I determined to wait no longer, but cutting a knobbed stick from the road-side, set off for a pedestrian journey; and as I wandered along the scented fields and by the perfumed hedges, I was even able to sing in a loud, clear voice, some favourite stanzas of a German hymn.
CHAPTER SIXTH.
THE RETURN.
Walking briskly along the road-side, I every now and then encountered straggling groups of Prussian soldiers, with or without their baggage-wagons; and fearful of coming into collision with these heroes of war, I passed on in entire silence, till, on reaching the little village of Burg, I was thus accosted, in a gay and familiar tone—
“Ha, doctor, is that you?—and where are you bound?”
It proved to be a lieutenant, who had formerly boarded in the same house in Berlin, and whom I then jestingly called “Charles the Great,” because he always boasted of being a descendant from that monarch.
“I am on my way to Magdeburg.”
“Then you are journeying in vain, friend; for the French have already besieged it with one hundred and fifty thousand men. Turn back with us, if you will allow me to advise you. To Berlin!—the enemy is at our heels—all is lost. Braunschirog dead; Mollendorf a prisoner; the king no one knows where.”
“But, lieutenant, I must go to Magdeburg.”
“What, to be run through with French bayonets? Well, a pleasant journey to you, doctor;” and he was about hurrying on, when, just at that moment, two dragoons dashed by, shouting aloud, “The enemy has already crossed the Elbe at Wittenburg.”
At this alarm, the troops hastened their march, and feeling that my onward course must be a fruitless one, since I could not hope to find admittance into a besieged city, I accepted the lieutenant’s invitation, and resigned all present hope of meeting with the count, all prospect of the parsonage, and, saddest of all, my glowing visions of a speedy marriage. Now, in truth, I had reached the darkest spot in my never over-bright lot; now, again, I found myself an obscure doctor of philosophy, a lonely bachelor, and an honest, well-intentioned, but most unfortunate man.
“Ah,” thought I, as I slowly trudged along, “it is hard to say who has lost most by this victorious Napoleon—I or my king.”
CHAPTER SEVENTH.
OUR HERO MADE CHAPLAIN.
“Cheer up—cheer up, poor heart! thy master marches beneath the banner of Charles the Great, and will plead for his protection as far as Berlin.” This was my playful soliloquy, as I overtook the lieutenant, who greeted me once more with a warm welcome.
“You shall not suffer for your decision,” exclaimed my commander; “I can boast of a platoon of Prussians as brave as any in the kingdom; and if we had but one cannon, we would not yield to two regiments of those hateful Frenchmen. And so, doctor, on the spot, I tender you the appointment of chaplain to my platoon.”
As the office seemed a suitable one, I accepted ​it cheerfully; and while at every village the lieutenant ordered a flourish of trumpets, and tried to arouse the patriotism of the lazy peasants with the cry of “to arms! to arms!” I formed an acquaintance with one of the sutler women, who, trudging along with the brandy wagon, of which she was the proprietor, found time to give me a minute detail of the whole plan of warfare, blamed many of the manœuvres of the Prussians, and threw out numerous hints with regard to the necessary stratagems of war. Bess—for this was the name of my new acquaintance—closely resembled the wood-cuts of her namesake, Queen Bess of merry England, and like her was opposed to all matrimonial connections; while such was her influence among the troops, that in every weighty discussion, she was allowed to take her place in council. It was on the fourth day of our march that Charles the Great called me mysteriously aside, and with a countenance that betokened some great undertaking, observed—“Depend upon it, doctor, war is the best way for making a man’s fortune. I have been lieutenant for eight years, but expect soon to be made general. At present I command two hundred men, who will probably increase to as many thousand by the time we reach the Oder, where I hope to present them to my king, yet not before we have achieved some chivalrous exploit.”
“What! are we not on our way to Berlin?” I asked, in an alarmed tone, as I remembered the beloved Frederica.
“No; we are proceeding direct to Mittenwalde; and as the office of chaplain does not exactly seem to suit you, you must be made a soldier, doctor. A cocked hat, a sword and charger, with the rank of adjutant-general. What say you to that?”
All opposition on my part was needless; and as there was a horse in view, which might, perhaps, aid me on my homeward journey, should an opportunity present itself for absconding, I accepted the flattering commission; and on the same evening, our general (for so he now styled himself) created several new captains, lieutenants and corporals, and unfolded to the astonished troops his gigantic plans for the future.
“Comrades,” cried he, and waved his arms repeatedly towards them, “all is arranged. By our deeds we will once more recall honour to the Prussian name. The spirit of the great Frederic hovers around us. The trembling, bleeding fatherland looks to us for deliverance. And shall we yield to ignoble bondage? What shall be our choice—victory before the world, or a hateful subjection to the French power? Whoever is true to me, their general—whoever will follow me for the sake of his god, his king and his fatherland, let him join in the shout of victory or death!”
This speech was received with great acceptance by our little army, and most of them lent their aid to the patriot cry; but a few who sighed after the flesh pots of Berlin, exchanged it for “victory or bread.”
Unfortunately, the sutler-woman, or, as I should rather call her, Queen Bess, had been forgotten in the arrangements and consultations of the previous evening, and, enraged by the neglect, she secretly vowed vengeance against us for the affront. On the following morning we turned out in our full strength. Charles the Great, with imperial bearing, rode in front, and I, mounted on a somewhat hard-going steed, took my place at his side, with a cheerful countenance, but an aching heart; for of the two roads which lay before us, the left led to Berlin, and the right—for us the path to honour and immortal fame—to Mittenwalde. The army followed in regular array, while in the rear came the baggage-wagons with their brandy casks, and attended by their owner, Queen Bess, who, however, by way of retaliation, parted us company at the fork of the road, and took the direction leading to Berlin.
Alas! she was not permitted to go alone; for no sooner had the rear guard observed the movement of the wagons containing their favourite beverage, than, wheeling right about, they followed its course, and their example, acting instantly on the others, before we were aware, (for in our earnest discourse concerning intended manœuvres, the general and I had advanced considerably,) the whole army, with not a single exception, had become deserters, and marched rapidly after the rumbling conveyance of the sutler woman.
It is difficult to imagine the consternation of our commander, when, on looking accidentally behind, he discovered that his brave troops had entirely disappeared. Putting spurs to his horse, he galloped towards the Berlin road, and soon found the whole corps swarming around the wagon, where sat Bess on a brandy cask, as on a triumphal car, singing in a loud, shrill voice, some stanzas which were boisterously encored.
Not Xenophon or Plutarch’s heroes could have made a more powerful harangue than did our valorous general to his disorderly troops; yet, although they listened with seeming deference and attention, the least onward movement of the enchantress-wagon, caused them to start and show an eagerness to follow in its track. Indeed, I know not how the affair would have terminated if an appeal had not just then been made to their feelings in a way which my next chapter shall explain.
CHAPTER EIGHTH.
MARCH OF THE ARMY OF CHARLES THE GREAT.
Just then, while we were in the very heat of expostulation with our disloyal troops, came at full gallop a hussar, from the very road leading to Berlin, and saluting us with a volley of imprecations, abruptly inquired whither we were hastening.
“To Berlin,” was our ready reply.
“To Berlin!” he exclaimed. “What would you there? The French have already entered that ​city, and you are completely cut off. Even the king has retreated to West Prussia. All that can be done is to steal a march across the Oder.”
“We are Prussians, sir,” rejoined our commander, with haughty bearing, “and will not steal a passage by any route. We will cut our way through with our good swords.”
This daring resolve seemed to have some weight with the noisy hussar, for he stroked his black moustache, and approaching the commander with a respectful air, entered into a low discourse of some minutes.
“If you wish to join the troops which I have collected for the deliverance of my king, you are at liberty to do so,” observed Charles the Great, with an air of dignity, as he bowed to the hussar at the conclusion of the confab; “and in that case I appoint you to the command of the cavalry, which is somewhat in advance,” (said cavalry consisted of two dragoons and four trumpeters;) “but with this proviso, that all must be under my authority as head;” and acknowledging the hussar’s assent, he added, in loud tones—“And now, battalions, right about! The first man who looks towards Berlin shall be treated as a deserter and left hanging on yonder tree. March!” and so we went along the narrow, muddy path of honour towards Mittenwalde, no one daring even to turn his head towards Berlin, not through dread of the threatened gallows-tree, but fearful of the French, whose vicinity they had just learned.
Even Bess moderated her tone of triumph, and moved along with us as if totally dispirited. I also marched with my head drooping on my breast, now that I heard that Napoleon had become possessed of half of Prussia in its beautiful capital, Berlin; and worse yet, when I recollected that Frederica might, perhaps, be in his power. Ah! she was right when, at our parting, she exclaimed, “Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand, we shall never meet again!” What changes had a few days brought about! Our army completely defeated; our kingdom overrun with the enemy; my bride probably in the power of the most gallant and amorous nation under heaven; my patron in a besieged city; my parsonage I knew not where; and I, the peace-loving, quiet, studious doctor of philosophy, neither more nor less than adjutant-general to Charles the Great. Sometimes, when weary with pondering on my fate, I gave way to fantasy, and once more pictured Frederica’s presence, or dreamt that I was quietly busied in my Berlin attic; a false step of my charger would arouse me suddenly to a sense of my novel yet most disastrous situation, and then I would feel perfectly provoked with myself that I was not hurrying on the wings of love to Berlin, instead of taking part in any warlike adventures. But again a single thought would reconcile me to my fate; not the certainty of Frederica’s constant faith, nor the prospect of a conqueror’s trophies, but the wretched state of my purse. How could I subsist in Berlin? My pupils were by this time become another’s, my patriot songs but dead stock, my hopes of a curacy all vanished, while now, as adjutant-general, I lived at least free of cost and lodging. “Who knows, too,” thought I, “to what success I may not arrive in this my soldier-life. Moreau was once an advocate only, and yet as general he furnished an exact counterpart to the retreat of Xenophon. Who can tell but that I, a humble doctor of philosophy, may yet astonish the world by some similar successful action.”
CHAPTER NINTH.
CONFLICT AND VICTORY.
During the next two days there was incessant boasting with regard to the great deeds we were about to accomplish; but the hussar was half right when he advised a stolen march across the Oder; for we really moved with the greatest precaution, only stopping at the most miserable villages, where we always made ourselves secure with a strong guard.
“My intention,” observed our general to the hussar and myself, as on the third evening we halted at a small village at some distance from the main road, “my intention is to fall on the rear of Napoleon’s army;” and as he spoke there was a self-satisfied expression, that gave us to understand that even more was meant than spoken.
“It may be so,” rejoined the hussar; “if they are not on our heels before morning.”
This alarming suggestion furnished food for thought, and we all became suddenly silent, when, just then, there was a report of arms, and the cry of our troops, “The French! the enemy! they are on us!”
Meanwhile the drums beat, the four trumpeters vied with each other who should blow the loudest peal, and the brave hussar became deadly pale. To conceal my excessive alarm, I stormed about the little inn, exclaiming, “Out upon them, brave Prussians! out upon them, my countrymen!” and went towards the direction of the door; but strange to tell, I was struck as if by sudden blindness, and unable to find the portal, I sprang in my anguish upon the cupboard of the old landlady, still crying, “Prussians, brave Prussians, on—on! follow me! forsake me not!”
All was confusion. The hostess loudly lamented her fate; the children shrieked murder; cats and dogs leapt over chairs and tables, even to the top of the old Dutch tile stove; and such was the alarm and outcry, that it seemed to me the French must have already entered the inn, and were probably—the savage monsters—driving their spears into the hearts of the innocent children.
“God have pity on me but this once,” was my first thought, “and nought again shall tempt me to take part in any warlike deeds.” My noise and blustering, interpreted most favourably by my coadjutors, infused into them new courage, and draw​ing their swords, they rushed out to the assembled troops, while I slowly followed. It was really well that I was in the background, and therefore not observed; for, although not generally fearful, I seemed now as if struck with a panic. It may have been that I am naturally more timid at evening than in broad daylight.
Suddenly I was aroused from my terror by the voice of my commander—“Adjutant-general, march with twenty men to the churchyard, for our post is there attacked. We will remain here, as it seems only a skirmish; but if needs be, send for succour.”
It was fortunate that my courage was not called in question, for self-respect restored it to me; till, when we reached the churchyard, all again became suddenly black before my eyes, and taking the old wall, covered with dry briars, for French troops, and the thorns for bayonets, I sprung aside, while calling aloud, “Take aim—fire!”
The flash of the powder immediately discovered to us that we were waging battle against a wall, but at the same moment there was a cry of “pardon! pardon!” from the opposite side, and seven French infantry crept under the wall, where they had been concealed, and laid their arms at my feet. The fools—if they had but kept quiet, they would have entirely escaped observation. My prisoners were speedily disarmed and conducted to head-quarters; and it may be supposed that it was not without some honest pride that I presented myself before my commander-in-chief. He embraced me most cordially in the sight of the whole army, adding, “Adjutant, your courage and prompt action have done you honour; and be assured that you shall be speedily reported to his majesty the king.”
From our prisoners we learned that a corps of French artillery was stationed in the adjacent village; that seeking for fuel they were surprised to find a numerous band of Prussians in the neighbourhood, as they were led to believe us much larger than we really were, from the number of our guard and the noise made by our drums and trumpets; and that in their sudden retreat the seven captives had been unfortunately taken. In my exultation, I treated the vanquished with every thing that our stores allowed, and the poor fellows really seemed to enjoy their good luck, and freely informed me that the whole corps were then on their way from Saxony to Berlin, under the command of Marshal Davoust. I mentioned this fact to my general, who, flushed by our great achievement, rubbed his hands, exclaiming, with exultation—“Aha, we are certainly on the rear of Napoleon’s army,” while the hussar hung down his head and became pale with terror.
(To be continued.)
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