Volume 8 — Chapter XVI.

The Austrians, crowded in Grandfontaine, fled toward Framont, on foot and on horseback, flinging their knapsacks away, and looking behind as if they feared the mountaineers were in hot pursuit.

In Grandfontaine, in a sort of spirit of revenge, they broke whatever they could lay hands on, tore out windows, crushed in doors, demanded food and drink, and insulted the people by way of payment. Their imprecations and cries, the commands of their officers, the complaints of the inhabitants, the heavy tramp of feet across the bridge of Framont, and the agonized neigh of wounded horses, all rose in a confused murmur to the abatis.

On the side of the mountain, arms, shakos, knapsacks, dead—all the signs of a rout—were alone seen. Opposite appeared Marc-Dives's guns, ready to open fire anew in case of a new attack.

The partisans had gained the day; but no shout of triumph rose from their intrenchments. Their losses had been too cruel. Silence had succeeded the tumult of battle—silence, deep and solemn—and those who had escaped the carnage gazed earnestly at their fellows, as if wondering to see them yet alive. A few called aloud for friends, some for brothers, who replied not. Then search began throughout the length of the works for Jacob, or Philippe, or Antoine.

And the gray shades of night were falling fast over mountain and valley, and lending a strange mystery to the horrid picture; and men came and went without knowing one another.

Materne wiped his bloody bayonet, and called his boys in hoarse tones:

"Kasper! Frantz!"

And seeing them approach in the half-darkness, he asked:

"Are you hurt?"

"No."

The voice of the old hunter, harsh as it was, trembled.

"We are all three again together; God's mercy be thanked!" he murmured.

And he, who was never known to weep, embraced his boys, while the tears rained down his cheeks, and they, no less moved, sobbed like little children.

But the old man soon recovered himself and cried with a forced gayety:

"We have had a rough day, lads; let us take a cup of wine—I am thirsty."

Throwing a last glance at the bloody slope, and seeing that the sentries whom Hullin had stationed at intervals of thirty paces were all at their posts, the old man led the way to the farm-house.

They were passing carefully through the corpse-piled trench, when a feeble voice exclaimed:

"Is that you, Materne?"

"Ah poor Rochart! Pardon! forgive me if I hurt you," said the old hunter, bending over the wounded man; "how comes it that you are still here?"

"Because I cannot move hence; inasmuch as I have no legs," answered the other with a mournful sort of merriment.

The three hunters stood silent for a moment, when the old wood-cutter continued:

"Tell my wife, Materne, that behind the cupboard, in a stocking, she will find six crowns. I saved them in case either of us should fall sick; but I have no further need—"

"Perhaps—perhaps—you may live yet, old friend," interrupted Materne. "We will carry you from here, at all events."

"It is not worth while," returned the wounded man. "An hour more, and you can carry me to my grave."

Materne, without replying, signed to Frantz to help him, and together they raised the old wood-cutter from the ground, despite his wish to be left alone. Thus they arrived at the farm-house.

All the wounded who had strength enough to drag themselves to the hospital were there. Doctor Lorquin and a fellow-surgeon, named Despois, who had come during the day to his assistance, had work enough on hand; and as Materne and his sons with their piteous load traversed the dimly-lighted hall, they heard cries which froze the blood in their veins, and the dying wood-cutter almost shrieked:

"Why do you bring me here! Let me die in peace. They shall not touch me!"

"Open the door Frantz," said Materne, his forehead covered with a cold sweat, "open quick!"

And as Frantz pushed open the door, they saw, on a large kitchen-table in the middle of the low room, with its heavy brown rafters, Colard, the younger, stretched at full length, six candles around him, a man holding each arm, and a bucket beneath. Doctor Lorquin, his shirt-sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a short wide saw in his hand, was about cutting off the poor fellow's leg, while Desbois stood by with a sponge. Blood dripped into the bucket, and Colard was pale as death. Catherine Lefevre was near, with a roll of lint, and seemed firm; but the furrows in her cheeks were deeper than usual, and her teeth were tightly set. She gazed on the ground so as not to see the misery around.

"It is over!" said the doctor at length, turning round.

And casting a glance at the new-comers he added:

"Ah! you here, Father Rochart?"

"Yes; but you must not touch me. I am done for; let me die in peace."

The doctor took up a candle, looked for a moment at the old man's wounds, and said with a grimace:

"It was time, my poor Rochart; you have lost a great deal of blood, and if we wait any longer, it will be too late."

"Do not touch me!" shrieked the old man. "I have suffered enough!"

"As you wish. We will pass to another."

He looked at the long line of mattresses. The two last were empty, although deluged with blood. Materne and Kasper placed their charge upon the last, while Despois went to another of the wounded men, saying:

"It is your turn, Nicholas."

Then they saw tall Nicholas Cerf lift a pale face and eyes glittering with fear.

"Give him a glass of brandy," said the doctor.

"No, I would rather smoke my pipe."

"Where is your pipe?"

"In my vest."

"Good; and your tobacco?"

"In my pantaloons pocket."

"Fill his pipe, Despois. This man is a brave fellow—I like to see such. We will take off your arm in two times and three motions."

"Is there no way of preserving it, Monsieur Lorquin—for my poor children's sake? It is their only support."

"No, the bone is fractured and will not reunite. Light his pipe, Despois. Now, Nicholas, my man, smoke, smoke."

The poor fellow seemed after all to have little wish to do so.

"Are you ready?" asked the doctor.

"Yes," answered the sufferer in a choking voice.

"Good! Attention, Despois; sponge!"

Then with a long knife he cut rapidly around the arm. Nicholas ground his teeth. The blood spirted; Despois tied something. The saw ground for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the floor.

"That is what I call a well-performed operation," observed Lorquin.

Nicholas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. They bound round what remained of his arm with lint, and replaced him on his mattress.

"Another finished! Sponge the table well, Despois, and then for the next," said the doctor, washing his hands in a large basin.

Each time he said, "Now for the next," the wounded men groaned with fear. The shrieks they heard and the glittering knives they saw were enough to strike a chill to their hearts; but what could be done? All the rooms of the farm-house and of the barn were crowded. Only the large hall remained clear, and so the Doctor could not help operating under the eyes of those who must a little later take their turn.

Materne could see no more. Even the dog, Pluto, who stood behind the doctor, seemed to tremble at the horrible sight. The old hunter hastened to breathe the cold air without, and cried:

"And to think, my boys, that this might have happened to us!"

"God is good," said Frantz, "and why should we let sights even like these affright us from our duty? We are in his hands."

A murmur of voices arose to their right.

"It is Marc-Dives and Hullin," said Kasper, listening.

"Yes, they have just come from the breastwork they made behind the fir-wood for the cannon," added Frantz.

They listened again. Footsteps approached.

"You are embarrassed with your three prisoners," said Hullin, in short tones. "You return to Falkenstein to-night; why can you not take them with you?"

"But where shall I put them?"

"Parbleu! In the prison of Abreschwiller; we cannot keep them here."

"I understand, Jean-Claude. And if they attempt to escape on the way, I will plant my rapier between their shoulders."

"You must!"

They reached the door, and Hullin, seeing Materne, cried joyously:

"You here, old friend? I have been seeking you for an hour. Where were you?"

"We were carrying old Rochart to the hospital."

Jean-Claude dropped his head sadly; but his joy at the result of the day's battle soon gained the upper hand, and he said:

"Yes, it is mournful, indeed. But such is the fortune of war. Are you or your sons hurt?"

"Not a scratch."

"Thank Heaven! Materne, those who passed through this day's work may well rejoice."

"Yes," cried Marc-Dives, laughing, "I saw old Materne ready to beat a retreat; without those little cannon-shots, things would have had a different ending."

Materne reddened and glanced angrily at the smuggler.

"It is very possible," he answered; "but without the cannon-shots at the beginning, we should not have needed those at the end, and old Rochart and fifty brave fellows would yet have legs and arms—a thing which would not have hurt our victory."

"Bah!" interrupted Hullin, who saw a dispute likely to arise. "Quit this discussion. Every man has done his duty."

Then addressing Materne, he added:

"I have sent a flag of truce to Framont, to tell the enemy to remove their wounded. They will arrive in about an hour, doubtless, and you must order our outposts to let them advance; but without arms, and with torches. If they come otherwise, fire on them."

"I will go at once," replied the old hunter.

"Return with your sons, and have supper with us at the farm-house, when you have carried out your orders."

"Very well, Jean-Claude."

Hullin ordered Frantz and Kasper to have large bivouac-fires lighted for the night, and Marc to have his horses fed and to go at once for more ammunition, and, seeing them depart on their way, he entered the farm-house.

Translated From The French.