University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

It was about two hours after sunrise, when the last files of the royal army extricated
themselves from the streets of Corbeil; and although some difficulty and delay occurred
in consequence of the narrowness of the bridge and ways, through which the army had
been forced to defile, yet so ably was the advance conducted, that no breaks were
made in the line of march, but the communication between the van and rear was maintained
uninterrupted. As the troops cleared the suburbs, their order was changed in
regular succession, the fronts of the several columns being increased to the full width of
the broad nighway, and their depth in the same degree diminished; the cavalry of the
advanced guard was held well in hand, and the open woodlands on either side the
causeway occupied by strong bodies of light troops, sweeping the country a leagne's
breadth, and keeping somewhat in advance of the main army.

It was a beautiful gay sight—the long files winding rapidly along, now seen, now
lost among the leafy screens of the dense forest—the many-colored pennons of the cavalry
glittering through the tree-tops, and their bright armor flashing out in many a line of
dazzling lustre. Rapidly they advanced throughout the whole of that fine summer's
morning, so that just as the sun had reached the meridian, the heads of the advanced
columns, mounting above Villeneuve St. George, came into sight of the enemy, posted
in force upon the elevated ground between that town and Charanton, with a small battery
of heavy guns planted on the steep knoll commanding the streets of the town, and
enfilading the bridge across the Hyere, which lay at its base; at the same moment, the
two marshals, each with his staff, galloped across the summit to reconnoiter the position
of Lorraine. It took but little, for a general of Turenne's unequalled skill, to form his
plan and act upon it. One brief glance showed him that to attempt the passage of the
river, which was unfordable, and only to be traversed by a long narrow bridge of stone,
commanded by the cannon on the hill, and defended by a strong tete de pont, would be
a mere loss of valuable time, and only to be effected by a vast sacrifice of life; while
it would have left it in the power of the duke, by leaving a small part of his infantry,
to defend the town and dispute the bridge, until such time as he could fall back with
all his horse, composing the main force of his army, to Charenton; and then crossing
his bridge of boats, effect his junction with the princes. This, in effect, would have
frustrated all his views; and it is certain, that for the time, the royal army was in a situation
full of difficulty if not danger, from which it was extricated only by the splendid
genius of its commander. Turenne, knowing the country well, and being aware that,
at the distance of some three or four miles toward Brie, the Hyère was fordable in many
places, determined instantly to march along its banks to the eastward, and passing it as
soon as possible, to turn the enemy's position in the direction of Grosbois, and force him
to a general action. In order to do this, it was, however, necessary to alter the whole
order of his march; his cavalry, which had up to this time composed the van, being
now wanted in the rear; which it would be in the power of the duke to attack, while
countermarching, by throwing his light troops across the Hyère.

This change was rapidly and splendidly effected. The forest of Senars, which covered
a great portion of the country between Villeneuve and Corbeil, broke off entirely
midway the slope, which has so many times been mentioned, and left the foot of the
declivity, and all the banks of the little river quite open and free from encumbrance to
the left hand; although toward the right, the woodlands stretched in an uninterrupted
range quite down to the angle, formed two or three miles off by the junction of the
Hyère with the broad Seine. A narrow road, the same by which Sir Henry and his

daughter were travelling when attacked on the preceding day, came into the highway
at a little hollow some hundred yards above the meadows, into which it descended
shortly, skirting along the edge of the great forest; and by this narrow defile it was
now necessary for the whole host to pass.

The cavalry, under d'Harquincourt, was moved down by the main causeway to the
meadows, and there deploying formed front toward the bridge in a transverse line from
the Hyère to the edge of the forest facing northwesterly; and half a battery of field-peaces
were planted on the road so as to sweep the bridge in case of any sally. This
done, the infantry filed, corps by corps, through the narrow lane, until they had all gained
the level ground to the eastward of the cavalry; and then they fell into solid columns,
filling the whole space from the edge of the road by which the guns were moving,
down by the margin of the stream. Until the whole of this intricate manœuvre was
accomplished, Turenne sat quietly upon his horse, with all his staff about him, watching
the enemy's position with jealous scrutiny, and sending now and then an officer to expedite
the movements of the various regiments. Once only did he quit his station after
the royal regiment of Irish had passed him, cheering, as they did so; when he rode
down a little way from the hillock which he had occupied, to meet the Duke of York,
whom he requested to halt for the present, and remain near his person; nor had this
happened long before the last of the infantry had formed on the low grounds, and all
the cannon were in full march by the road immediately above them; when Turenne—
having dispatched one aid-de-camp to d'Harquincourt, with orders to draw off the
cavalry, and form them in the rear, and sent another to the van to set the troops in
motion—cantered down from his stand, and wheeled into the lane, by which he could
communicate at his ease with any portion of the column. Just as he turned the corner
from the causeway, the quick eye of the great commander fell on the broken carriage
of Sir Henry Oswald; which, all stripped and dismantled, had been dragged into the
low brushwood on the roadside by the pioneers of the vanguard. About it lay the
bodies of seven or eight horses, their housings and rich harness plundered; and not
less than a score of human corpses, entirely naked, as they had been left by those
human harpies, the foragers of their own party, and showing by the terrific wounds
which seamed their ghastly limbs, the prowess of their daring conquerors. Turenne
pointed toward the hideous pile, as he rode by with his leading staff, and turned to the
duke—

“This proves,” he said, “the perfect truth of Bellechassaigne's relation; and, by
my word! although in contradiction of all military order—as gallant an onslaught as
ever was made yet by four men upon forty. Tête dieu, each man of the assailants,
not to exclude Bellechassaigne's troopers, must have killed three men with his own
hand!”

“And this, I trust,” replied the duke, “will prove a good defence to them—especially
now that their indiscretion has had no evil consequences.”

“No! no! your highness,” answered the general, laughing; “that last were a poor
reason. They must not get off quite so lightly. Had that been possible, I would not
have refused so slight a matter to your gracious intercession. Consider, this was a very
grave offence—directly contrary to orders—and actually imperilling the whole army,
the whole cause of the king. Besides, our cavaliers, all independent as they are, and
serving with their own men for loyalty and honor, with neither pay nor profit, are ever
insubordinate, and reader to consult their own rash fancies than to obey commands;
especially, of such as suit not their headlong and absurd caprices. No! no! this was
too flagrant, and we want an example.”

“Surely—oh! surely,” the duke interposed again, with an expression of strong
interest displayed in his harsh features, and his voice actually quivering from the agitation
of his mind; “you do not think of a military execution! Two such fine gallant
youths—it were too horrible!”

“Not I,” replied Turenne, quite quietly—“not I, indeed! Good officers are not
so plenty on his majesty's side now-a-days that I can afford to shoot them. As for

Bellechassaigne, too, we cannot spare him possibly; he is the life and sould of the
whole army—half the most desperate things that are done he does himself—and all the
rest by proxy, driving all our young fellows half mad with rivalry and hot ambition.
No! no! we can't spare Bellechassaigne! and as to this young English fellow, by the
Lord! I believe he is the madder of the two. Fancy a charge, in a velvet hat and
coat, with four unarmed retainers, upon two score or better of well-appointed troopers.
I half believe I should have shot Bellechassaigne, if he had obeyed his orders and left
him to his fate, as he should have done. What does your highness know of this young
devil with the unpronounceable name? has he ever been such a dare-devil?”

“I have heard say,” answered the duke, “that in the long civil war, though he was
then very young, scarcely indeed more than a boy, he was the shrewdest and most
daring of all Goring's officers; and in this last unfortunate affair, he was undoubtedly
among the best of all my brother's partisan commanders. In fact, it is to him that his
majesty is indebted for his own personal escape from his rebels. It is said, moreover,
and I fear truly, that if the king had followed Wyvil's counsel, and charged with all
his horse, while Cromwell's men were in confusion—for they were beaten back, and
all their cannon taken by a sally from the town—the fatal fight at Worcester might well
have had a different conclusion.”

“Ha! he is something more, then, than a mere swordsman,” said Turenne. “I
wonder what induced him to make this escapade. He could scarce hope for success,
I should think; and the risk far surpassed the object to be attained—unless indeed he
had been smitten by the beaux yeux of this fair Oswald, who they tell me has turned
the heads of half our gallants.”

“Oh no, it cannot, I am sure, be that; for I am certain he had never seen her till
that day. It is but a little more than five months since he came to Paris, having with
difficulty made his escape from England. Since that time he has been constantly about
my person; and from the 21st of April, has been upon my staff with the army. In the
mean time, Sir Henry Oswald has been, as you know, in the low countries on business
of his eminence, and this young lady with him; so that I feel quite sure that they have
never met till yesterday. If I am right in my opinion, it is but an ambitious craving for
distinction, joined to a spirit naturally bold and ardent, that has led him into this deed
of rashness. Besides this, marechal, there was a story how he effected his escape by
the aid of a beautiful young girl, to whom he is said to be troth-plighted.”

“Well;” answered Turenne, “since no harm is done, we can hold them under
arrest until this battle has been fought with Monsieur of Lorraine—it will be something
of a punishment to these men, such as I know Bellechassaigne, and such as you describe
the other, to hinder them from the honor of this field. After that, we can call them to
a court-martial, and sentence them to be reprimanded. By my faith! the next time
Bellechassaigne gives me any trouble, I'll sentence him to serve in the army and not to
draw his sword for a whole campaign. But come, your royal highness, the vanguard
must be nearing the fords of the Hyère; we were best gallop on, and see what goes on
there. If monsieur is on the alert, and has sent some of his horse to dispute our passage,
we may have something to do yet.” And with the words he put spurs to his horse,
and with the Duke of York and his staff, rode forward as fast as he could for the
obstruction offered by the guns and tumbrils of the artillery, until he passed beyond
them all, when he galloped forward at full speed, and reached the leading regiments
of infantry just as they reached the first ford.

The little river at this point spread out to several times its ordinary width, rippling
rapidly over a gravelly bed in several channels, with narrow islands of meadow land
intervening—above this, for about a quarter of a mile, the stream flowed between deep
banks in a strong and sluggish volume; and then another ford, somewhat deeper and
narrower than the former, but still quite passable for horse, occurred, where the sandy
road wound down from the hill and crossed the bed of the Hyère. The third and best
ford was still a quarter of a mile higher, and there the river was easy to be passed by
five hundred men in front at a time. On the farther side, the meadows were quite open,

so that Turenne could overlook them for more than a mile in distance; and not a brake
or thicket was in sight, that could conceal a dozen skirmishers.

Halting upon a little knoll beside the upper of the three fords, the general sent off his
aids-de-camp in all directions, to hasten the march of the infantry to the spot where he
stood—to direct the artillery to come down from the hill, and pass by the lower ford of
the three—and to bring up the cavalry, with all speed, to the deepest passage. All this
was brilliantly and successfully conducted, and before sunset several regiments of infantry
had crossed over, and had been formed in line of battle, facing almost due west, and
having the high road from Brie-compte-Robert to Grosbois—from which last place they
might be something more than three miles distant—on their right hand, and the river,
which they had forded, on their left. About the same time the guns were got across,
though not without much labor and some difficulty, and placed in a second line behind
the advanced infantry, which had been pushed forward so as to cover all the three fords
from the army of Lorraine, in case it should advance to meet them. At this time, just
as the cavalry—which, when it was evident that no attack would be made on the rear,
had gained the road on the hill side, and so outstripped the centre and rear of that—
were beginning to defile toward the low grounds on the river, the general, who had taken
no refreshment since the army had left Balacour before sunrise, ordered a halt, that the
men might cook and get their suppers—it being his intention to make no longer pause
than was necessary, but to march directly on Villeneuve. Fires were lighted now in all
directions, and nothing could be fancied or described more wildly picturesque and striking
than the scene that was presented on both sides of the river, in the soft, rich light, of
the summer sunset: the splendid uniforms and glittering armor of the confused and
busy groups that bustled round the camp-fires, or sat in lounging attitudes on the soft
green sward—the long line of stately chargers picketed in advance of the dismounted
cavalry—the number of bright standards, and many-colored pennons, pitched in the
ground at the head of every regiment and squadron—the mounted officers careering to
and fro, amid the whirling crowds—the frequent stacks of arms, flashing and twinkling
in the sunbeams; and over all, the broad blue shadows silently creeping, as some great
cloud swept across the sky, before the soft west wind, and intercepted the now level
rays of the setting sun! Close to the margin of the river, hard by the upper ford, a group
of three tall ash trees—the only trees, indeed, which were to be seen in the meadows—
overhung a small limpid basin, from which a tiny rill of crystal water stole away
through the long thick grass, to join the broader stream.

Under these trees a Persian carpet had been spread on the ground, and a large piece
of scarlet cloth stretched over the shafts of three or four long pikes extended from tree
to tree, forming a sort of rude extemporaneous pavilion, under the shade of which the
Marechal Turenne with several of his principal officers, and among these the Duke of
York and two or three of his personal attendants, sat jesting and conversing merrily;
while round a blazing heap of faggots at a short distance four or five servants were at
work unloading a stout sumpter mule, and making preparations for the evening meal
of their masters. Two or three hampers had been unpacked already, and their contents,
in the shape of sundry cups and platters, and other implements of silver were
displayed on the carpet, about which the officers were sitting; while in the basin of
the spring a dozen or more of the long-necked flasks, which from time to time almost
immemorial have been consecrated to the rich sparkling wines of Champagne, were in
process of cooling for the banquet.

While this was going on, and many a lively quib and repartee were passing round
that merry circle, the quick glance of the marechal detected a slight bustle in the lines
of the cavalry that were the highest on the hill side—a dozen or two of the troopers
getting in haste to their chargers, and falling into order as if they half expected an attack.
The next minute, a single man came into view galloping very fast down the forest
road, and instantly some five or six more followed him at the same hurried pace. On
reaching the little squad of mounted men, who had ridden out to receive them, they
halted for a few seconds, and then, an orderly accompanying them, came down without
relaxing their speed toward the general's station.

“Whom have we here, in such hot haste?” cried Turenne, gazing anxiously at the
approaching riders; “messengers from the rear? It cannot be that Conde has followed
us in force—no! no! impossible! nor can Lorraine I think, have marched on Charenton.
Who is it, gentlemen? who is it? I thought I had known every officer of the
army—and yet I cannot make him out at this distance. It is an old man, too!” And,
while he was yet speaking, before indeed any one of his train had time to answer, a
tall fine-looking veteran, with a stern acquiline countenance, a profusion of long silvery
hair, and a pair of thick white mustaches, came up at the gallop; and checking his
horse slightly alighted at a few paces only from the ash trees. He was clad in a rich
suit of half-armor, with a buff coat magnificently laced with gold worn over the cuirass;
a high-crowned broad-leafed hat with a black feather covered his head, his morion
being carried by one of his servants, and his long basket-hilted rapier hung from a broad
scarf of blue silk; his air was highly proud and military, but neither port nor his complexion—which
must have been, before it was embrowned by wind and moonshine,
unusually fair and florid—at all resembled that of a Frenchman. All seemed to recognize
him as soon as he dismounted, for all rose up to greet him; and Turenne himself,
accompanied by the English duke, advanced some two or three steps, the first
exclaiming:

“Ha! I am charmed to see you, good Sir Henry—such men as you are ever well
met with, upon the eve of battle. We heard too that we were in some danger of having
lost you altogether yesterday.”

“To which indeed you owe the fact of my being here—advantage I will not call it,
notwithstanding that you are pleased to be so complimentary. I was indeed desirous
of seeing you even earlier in the day, but I had difficulty in getting men and horses in
Corbeil. I had gone out across the river in the direction of Montlebery, where I
expected to meet with my servants, before you entered, and I did not return until it
was past noon. There, having learned that the two gallant gentlemen, to whose good
service I owe my life and my daughter's honor are in disgrace, under arrest, and in
some danger, I have made all the haste I could accomplish to overtake your excellency,
and beseech your pardon for them; which I sincerely trust you will not think too much
to grant me, seeing that I have fought some years for the same cause with you, and
done—as you have been good enough to say—some service to the king, our master!”

“Sir Henry Oswald,” Turenne replied, very gravely, “you are too old, and far too
good an officer, not to be well aware what detriment arises ever to our armies from the
determination—for I can use no other term to express what I mean—of our young gallants
to act on their own impulse and responsibilities, instead of obeying orders. In
this case, the positive instructions, given by myself to these gentlemen, were to discover
themselves, on no account whatever, to the enemy—my object being a surprise! Their
conduct in disobeying such instructions, to say the least, was utterly unpardonable. I scruple
not to say, that had Monsieur de Lorraine acted with one-half his accustomed foresight,
all we should ever have seen of his army would have been the last files of his
rear-guard crossing the bridge at Charenton; if we had even got up thither in time to
witness that. As it is, even now, to-morrow's noon will show whether I can prevent
his junction with the princes. Had Monsieur de Bellechassaigne obeyed orders, and
returned to me undiscovered, we should have fallen on him unawares, and beaten him
ere this, God willing! You must perceive, Sir Henry, that in this matter martial law
must take its course. Had it been possible for me to gratify you, it would have given
me the highest pleasure—if in aught else I can oblige you, it shall be done forthwith!”

“Monsieur de Turenne,” answered Sir Henry haughtily, “I hardly thought to have
been refused at all, in a thing of so slight moment. Not when you promised me of your
own accord, upon the breaches of Hesdin, to grant me any possible request, did I expect
that I should have occasion to remind you of your words: as it is, marechal, I recall that
promise to your recollection, and claim this as my first—my last request.”

“But, sir,” Turenne made answer, with cold inflexible politeness, “your request is
not possible. Had it been in my power to grant it, you would have no need to prefer

it. For, in that case, I should have been too proud to oblige his grace of York, to
whom, within the hour, I have been reluctantly compelled to make the same denial.
One thing I can assure you, and I do so with much pleasure, as your strong interest in
their behalf is natural, that neither their honor or their lives will be perilled; further
than this, I cannot speak, nor should you ask me. And now to change the subject,
which cannot be agreeable to either of us, we are about to sup, or dine, if you have not
done so already; will you not join our party? I know not well what we can offer you,
but I doubt not that Merlache, yonder, will make us tolerable cheer; and I am sure we
have got some right good wine. Come, come, old fellow-soldier, lay by that brow of
gloom, and sit down with us.”

“I must request your excellency,” answered the veteran, with a deep and formal
bow, “to excuse me—seeing—”

“But if his excellency do so,” said the Duke of York, taking a step in advance,
and cutting him short in the middle of his sentence, “I cannot. So, Sir Henry Oswald,
you will be seated; I command, on your allegiance to his majesty, my brother. What,
man,” he added with a gay smile, which pleasingly illumined his dark features—
“what, man; would you have the marechal grant you a boon, which he has, not one
hour ago, refused to the blood royal? Tush! you forget your manners: but a word in
your ear—our good friends will be cared for—and so sit down, and prove yourself, as
the dons have it, buar camarado.

To this of course there could be no reply—the veteran, half satisfied, yet half reluctant,
joined the gay circle; supper was served, and the bright wine went round, and
flashing repartees, and keen wit, and light laughter, became the order of the evening:
until at length after the sun had set, and darkness spread over the festive host, and
torches had been lighted for more than an hour, the general rose from the carpet, which
served his company for seats and board alike, and gave the word for the drums of the
infantry to beat to arms, and the trumpets to sound, “Boot and Saddle!”