The Young Franc Tireurs, and Their Adventures in the Franco-Prussian War. Henty George Alfred
Читать онлайн книгу.
have, for years, been advocating a war with Prussia; and who, a month ago, were screaming 'To Berlin.' For these men to turn round upon the Emperor in his misfortune and, without consulting the rest of France, to effect a revolution, is in my mind simply infamous.
"Even regarded as a matter of policy, it is bad in the extreme. Austria, Italy, and Russia–to say nothing of England–would, sooner or later, have interfered in favor of an established empire; but their sympathies will be chilled by this revolution. The democratic party in all these countries may exult, but the extreme democratic party do not hold the reins of power anywhere; and their monarchs will certainly not feel called upon to assist to establish a republic.
"Prussia herself–intensely aristocratic in her institutions–will probably refuse to treat, altogether, with the schemers who have seized the power; for the King of Prussia is perhaps the greatest hater of democracy in Europe.
"Still, boys, these changes make no difference in your duty. You are fighting for France, not for an empire or a republic and, as long as France resists, it is your duty to continue. In fact, it is now more than ever the duty of you, and of every Frenchman, to fight. Her army is entirely gone; and it is simply upon the pluck and energy of her population that she has to trust."
"Do you think Paris will hold out, papa?"
"She is sure to do so, boys. She has made the revolution, and she is bound to defend it. I know Paris well. The fortifications are far too strong to be taken by a sudden attack, and it will be a long time before the Prussians can bring up a siege train. Paris will only be starved out and, if her people are only half as brave as they are turbulent, they ought to render it impossible for the Prussians to blockade such an immense circle. At any rate, France has two months; perhaps much longer, but two months ought to be quite enough, if her people have but spirit to surround the enemy, to cut off his supplies, and to force him to retreat."
The next morning, when the corps assembled for drill, Captain Tempe addressed them on the subject of the events in Paris. He told them that, whether they approved or disapproved of what had taken place there, their duty as Frenchmen was plain. For the present they were not politicians, but patriots; and he hoped that not a word of politics would be spoken in the corps, but that everyone would give his whole thought, his whole strength and, if must be, his life in the cause of France.
His address was greatly applauded, and gave immense satisfaction to the men; for already differences of opinion were becoming manifest among them. Some had exulted loudly at the downfall of Napoleon; others had said little, but their gloomy looks had testified sufficiently what were their opinions; while many among the gentlemen in the corps, especially those belonging to old families, were well known to be attached either to a Legitimist or Orleanist Prince. The proposal, therefore, that no politics should be discussed during the war, but that all should remember only that they were fighting for France, gave great satisfaction; and promised a continuance of the good fellowship which had hitherto reigned in the corps.
It was a great day when, a fortnight from its first organization, the corps turned out for the first time in their uniforms. The band of the national guard headed them, as they marched down the high street of Dijon to the parade ground; and–as the spectators cheered, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and the whole corps joined in cheers, to the stirring notes of the Marseillaise–the young Barclays felt their cheeks flush, their hands tighten upon their rifles, and their hearts beat with a fierce longing to be face to face with the hated Prussians.
A day or two after this, the Snider rifles ordered from England by Captain Barclay arrived; and although the men at first preferred the chassepots, with which they were familiar, they were soon accustomed to the new weapons; and readily acknowledged the advantage which–as their commander pointed out to them–the dark-brown barrels possessed, for skirmishers, over the bright barrels of the chassepots which, with the sun shining upon them, would betray them to an enemy miles away.
A day or two afterwards, as Ralph and Percy were returning in the evening from drill, they heard a great tumult in the streets. They hurried forward to see what was the matter, and found an excited crowd shouting and gesticulating.
"Death to the spy!"
"Death to the spy!"
"Hang him!"
"Kill the dog!" were the shouts, and two gendarmes in the center of the crowd were vainly trying to protect a man who was walking between them. He was a tall, powerful-looking man; but it was impossible to see what he was like, for the blood was streaming down his forehead, from a blow he had just received.
Just as the boys came up, another blow from a stick fell on his head; and this served to rouse him to desperation, for he turned round, with one blow knocked down the fellow who had struck him, and then commenced a furious attack upon his persecutors. For a moment they drew back, and then closed upon him again. Blows from sticks and hands rained upon him, but he struggled desperately. At last, overwhelmed by numbers, he fell; and as he did so he raised a wild shout, "Hurroo for ould Ireland."
"He is an Englishman, Percy," Ralph exclaimed; "he is not a Prussian, at all. Come on!
"Here, Louis, Philippe, help; they are killing an Englishman."
Followed by their cousins–who had just arrived at the spot–the boys made a rush through the crowd; and arrived in another moment by the prostrate man, whom his assailants were kicking savagely. The rush of the four boys–aided by the butt-end of their rifles, which they used freely on the ribs of those who stood in their way–cleared off the assailants for an instant; and the two gendarmes–who had been hustled away–drawing their swords, again took their place by the side of their insensible prisoner.
The mob had only recoiled for a moment; and now, furious at being baulked of their expected prey, prepared to rush upon his defenders; shouting, as they did so:
"Death to the spy!"
The moment's delay had, however, given time to the boys to fix bayonets.
"Keep off," Ralph shouted, "or we run you through! The man is not a spy, I tell you. He is an Englishman."
The noise was too great for the words to be heard and, with cries of "Death to the spy!" the men in front prepared for a rush. The leveled bayonets and drawn swords, however, for a moment checked their ardor; but those behind kept up the cry, and a serious conflict would have ensued, had not a party of five or six of the franc tireurs come along at the moment.
These–seeing their comrades standing with leveled bayonets, keeping the mob at bay–without asking any questions, at once burst their way through to their side; distributing blows right and left, heartily, with the butt-end of their rifles. This reinforcement put an end to the threatened conflict; and the gendarmes, aided by two of the franc tireurs, lifted the insensible man and carried him to the Maine; the rest of the franc tireurs marching on either side as a guard, and the yelling crowd following them.
Once inside the Maine the gates were shut and–the supposed spy being laid down on the bench–cold water was dashed in his face; and in a few minutes he opened his eyes.
"The murdering villains!" he muttered to himself. "They've kilt me entirely, bad luck to them! A hundred to one, the cowardly blackguards!
"Where am I?" and he made an effort to rise.
"You're all right," Ralph said. "You're with friends. Don't be afraid, you're safe now."
"Jabers!" exclaimed the Irishman in astonishment, sitting up and looking round him, "here's a little French soldier, speaking as illegant English as I do, meself."
"I'm English," laughed Ralph, "and lucky it was for you that we came along. We heard you call out, just as you fell; and got in in time, with the help of our friends, to save your life. Another minute or two, and we should have been too late."
"God bless your honor!" the man–who had now thoroughly recovered himself–said earnestly. "And it was a tight shave, entirely. You've saved Tim Doyle's life; and your honor shall see that he's not ungrateful. Whenever you want a lad with a strong arm and a thick stick, Tim's the boy."
"Thank you, Tim," Ralph said, heartily. "Now you had better let the surgeon look at your head. You have got some nasty cuts."
"Sure,