University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

Throughout the livelong night, the meadows and the banks of the Hyère were
lighted by the ruddy blaze of many a flitting torch, borne by the fast succeeding regiments,
and the yet broader glare of many a beacon, kindled along the line of march, to
indicate the route to the rear of the army. Midnight was passed already, before the
last of the royal host had extricated themselves from the ford, and formed themselves
in line of battle across the meadows on the farther side. This feat having, by vast exertion
on the part of the officers, been accomplished, the trumpets sounded the advance,
and they marched on, all through the hours of darkness, at the best pace the obscurity
of the night, which was much overclouded, and the obstacles they encountered—in the
shape of marshy ground, and of many small rivulets, and brooks, which made down to
the river, from the hills beyond—permitted. At length the day broke, clear and promising,
and the great sun came forth, just as the army had passed partially through,
but principally to the left of the village of Grosbois, a little better than a league from
Villeneuve St. George, where the Duke of Lorraine was supposed to be still posted.
As soon as it was quite light, so that objects could be perceived at a sufficient distance,
Turenne began to press the advance, urging the men to march as fast as possible; and
throwing forward advanced parties of light infantry and horse to reconnoiter, keeping
the higher grounds himself with the Duke of York and his staff, to the right of the line.
It had not been long day, however, before a party of the cavalry, who had been pushed
forward, was seen returning at a smart trot along the high road from the direction of
Villeneuve; and, when they drew so near as to render the recognition of particular
persons possible, Monsieur de Beaujeu, a friend of the cardinal's, who had been employed
by him in negotiations, which had been going on uninterruptedly with the Duke

of Lorraine; and Monsieur d'Agecourt, captain of the Duke's guards, were discovered
to be of the number. A few minutes sufficed to disclose, that Monsieur of Lorraine
was well disposed to treat; the purpose of his envoy being to request Turenne to delay
his advance for the present; and to acquaint the Duke of York that the king of England
was in the camp of Lorraine, whither he had come, on the preceding evening,
with the hopes of effecting an accommodation. After a short pause of reflection, the
marechal requested the duke to ride back with the envoy, who was empowered to
plight the Duke of Lorraine's honor, that he should be safe to come and go, in as much
as his brother was desirous of conversing with him on the subject. The prince immediately
consented; and being charged with Turenne's ultimate conditions, which were
comprised in three brief articles—“that the Duke of Lorraine should immediately
destroy the bridge of boats at Charenton, subject to the instructions of Monsieur de
Varenne, who went for that purpose with the Duke of York—that he should engage to
quit the boundaries of France within the space of fifteen days—and that he should
pledge his honor to give no further aid to the princes”—rode off, with a few personal
attendants only, to the duke's quarters. In the mean time, however, seriously doubting
the good faith of the duke, and fancying that his object was only to gain time, Turenne
continued to advance as fast as he was able, taking advantage of every favorable position,
and keeping himself in readiness to act at a moment's notice on the offensive.
Meantime, the Duke of York made his way to the position above Villeneuve, extending
from that town on the right flank, to the road from Grosbois to Paris on the left, which
Monsieur of Lorraine was fortifying with all the skill of an able general, added to all
the personal activity of a shrewd soldier. As the young English prince rode up the
gentle slope, at the southern base of which the town was situated, he was struck very
forcibly by the strength of the position, and formed a high opinion of the ability by which
it had been made tenable, as it certainly seemed to be, against a superior force. All
the night had been spent in unintermitted labor at the construction of five strong earthen
works, in which the main part of the infantry had been placed, one powerful battalion
having its post as a division of reserve, behind the principal redobut in the centre of the
line. Behind the foot, which did not amount to above three thousand men, the cavalry,
five thousand strong, were drawn up in two lines of battle; and, above these, upon a
height near the junction of the rivers, his cannon overlooked the whole from a small
barbette battery, at which the duke himself was laboring like a common pioneer, pickaxe
in hand, when his noble visitor approached him. But Monsieur de Lorraine, before
receiving him, sent one of his equerries to conduct him to the quarters of his brother,
who was at that time in the town hall of Villeneuve.

Charles, who was seriously desirous of accommodating matters between the court
and the duke, expressed his apprehensions that the latter would never consent to them.
“I tell you, James,” he said, “he has so strongly promised the princes, that he cannot,
od's fish! he cannot now turn back.”

“Then must the sword decide it; for certainly the marechal will not relax one tittle,”
answered his brother; and as he did so, the Duke of Lorraine entered the apartment,
and having received the message of Turenne, continued for some time to joke and trifle
in his accustomed strain of half-sneering badinage with the princes. It was not long,
however, before the Duke of York was convinced by his manner that much of his
raillery was forced, and at variance with his real sentiments. With regard to the destruction
of the bridge, he readily assented, and dispatched several of his officers with
Monsieur de Varenne, to order his engineers to cease from the construction for the
present; but as to the rest, he protested vehemently that nothing ever should induce
him to affix his signature to conditions so dishonorable. Then, finding that the duke
would give him no hope that any others would be accepted by Turenne, he begged the
king to send Lord Jermyn back with the duke as a mediator, saying, in a manner half
complimentary and half sarcastic, that he feared much his royal highness would be
led, by his chivalric and martial disposition, to cast his vote on the side of war rather
than of peace. To this Charles willingly assented; and after a few more compliments,

the Duke of York returned to the royal army, and Monsieur de Lorraine hastened away
to complete his arrangements for receiving the attack of Turenne.

It did not take the duke and Lord Jermyn many minutes to reach the advanced parties
of the marechal, which were already almost within cannon-shot of the Lorrainers;
while the whole meadows were filled with the bright lines of the compact and orderly
foot regiments, pushing on very fast with an unbroken front, their standards fluttering
gayly in the light summer wind, and the steel heads of their pikes and the long barrels
of their polished muskets flashing back the early rays of the morning sunshine. The
field-pieces, with their caissons and tumbrils, which had been drawn along the high road
on the right flank, were moving down toward the centre of the front; and interspersed
among the dense files of the fantassins, the squadrons of the gayly-equipped cavalry were
pressing forward, or wheeling round from the rear so as to gain the flanks, with hundreds
of brilliantly-colored pennons flaunting above their clear steel morions, and gorgeous
scarfs and cassocks partially covering their polished armor. It was a splendid
spectacle indeed to unpracticed eyes; but those who now looked on it, had been too
long accustomed to all the pomp and pageantry of warfare to contemplate it in any other
light, than as a combination of scientific movements—a living game of chess, played at
by one who, in those days, and for full many an after year, had no superior in his knowledge
of that terrific art. Galloping on as fast as they were able, and constantly inquiring
where they should find the marechal, the envoys made their way among the
regiments, several of which, as the duke passed, cheered him with the wild homage of
their Irish acclamations. They soon reached a spot were, surrounded by his staff, the
noble general was standing on the ground, with his charger held by a groom beside
him, while his attendants were engaged in putting on his armor.

“Well: you have come back in good season,” he said merrily, “Monsieur le Duc—
and as I judge in vain; since the Lorrainers hold the height in force, and we might
see just now the cannoneers at work loading the guns in the battery yonder—your men
are in the rear,” he added, pointing with the leading-staff, which he still held, “but
not far off—you were best ride to them at once, and arm yourself; for we shall be
engaged, I fancy, before half an hour—but who is this you have brought with you?”

“My Lord Jermyn; who seeks, on the part of monsieur, to bring your excellency,”
answered the duke, “to accept some more moderate conditions.”

“It is impossible—utterly!” Turenne interrupted him very quickly; and though Lord
Jermyn employed every argument that he could think of, to persuade the marechal, all
was in vain; and after an ineffectual attempt to prevail on the Duke of York to return
with him, he galloped back, as hard as his horse could carry him, to the works of the
Lorrainers.

Meanwhile, Turenne had finished arming; and, riding forward to the centre of his
advance, was making all his dispositions for the attack, when—to the surprise of all
parties—the King of England himself came down to prefer the same request, which he
asked as a personal favor to himself: but finding that Turenne was still inflexible, he
begged him once more to send the same terms to the duke. Monsieur de Gadaque
was then dispatched with the conditions written fairly out, and with instructions to have
them signed upon the spot, in default of which the signal would be given instantly to
commence firing. No halt was made, however, and now the cannon were unlimbered,
having been placed in battery against the enemy's works upon a little rising ground;
and the different corps, which had been ordered to storm the redoubts, took up their
position, while a strong force of tirailleurs was seen wheeling round the right, with a
view to occupy the great woods which covered the left flank of the duke's army.
Everything seemed to denote the approach of a great action; and the hearts of all men
were filled with that strange and awful feeling, which is not fear, nor yet impatience,
but an inexplicable blending of the two, which all have, at some time experienced,
before the step is taken that throws them into imminent peril. It was at this critical
moment—just as the Duke of York had armed himself from head to foot in a complete
suit of beautifully-finished Spanish steel, and was in the act of mounting a strong

charger, which was held ready for him by a dismounted trooper—that several figures
came into sight on the meadows in the rear, riding very fast from the fords of the Hyère.
There was something so peculiar in the appearance of one of these figures, even when
seen at a very great distance, that the attention of the prince was attracted to it instantly;
so much so, that after gazing fixedly for a minute or two, he called to an orderly to give
him the perspective glass, which was slung in a leathern case across his shoulders: he
had scarce received this, and looked through it for a moment, before he closed it with
an exclamation of extreme surprise at seeing that the person was no other than a female,
splendidly mounted, and habited in the richest costume of the day. He paused a
moment, and raised his hand to his forehead thoughtfully; then turning his horse's head
toward the new comers, rode swiftly a few yards in that direction; but again, as the
thought struck him that he was riding away from the enemy, and that too at the very
time when they might be expected to open their fire, he drew in his bridle, and, casting
one more look to the group in question, wheeled his horse round, and took his way to
rejoin Turenne in the centre of the front line. At this moment, he could see the
marechal, who was sitting on his charger within point-blank range of the cannon on
the hill, and scarcely out of musket-shot of the foot in the principal redoubt, raise himself
slightly in his stirrups and wave his truncheon, pointing toward the works. The
regiments of Picardy and Carignan, which were the nearest to the marechal, taking the
signal as soon as it was given, advanced at a quick steady pas-de-charge toward the
great redoubt, with their pikes levelled, and expecting every instant to receive the volley
of the duke's fautassins—but, as they moved, the regiment of York, or royal Irish, who
were a little to the left of the centre, jealous of the French troops, and fearful that any
others should be under fire before themselves, set up the wild and thrilling cheer of
their country, and dashed forward, brandishing their arms, at a pace that would have
precipitated them before many minutes into the hostile lines.

Perceiving this, the duke set spurs to his war-horse, and drove across the open ground
at the top of his speed, taking three or four small ditches in his stride, until he overtook
his regiment, which was perhaps two, or at most three hundred yards from the breast-works.
The pace which they had rushed forward was so great, that they were quite
unable to sustain it for the whole distance; and the consequence was that, some of the
men outstripping the rest, the line was much shaken and disordered, and, had it continued
its impetuous and uneven progress, must very soon have fallen into entire disarray.
In some respects, however, this was fortunate; for the subaltern officers, who
in the first instance had been infected with the same rashness which had overset the
discipline of their men, had found time for reflection, and had perceived the fatal consequences
of the headlong rush by which they were now hurried on themselves, powerless
to control their soldiery. The men themselves, moreover, were many of them
breathless and overdone; so that when the duke overtook them, and wheeled his horse
round their right, pulling him up in the face of their lines, midway between them and
the enemy, and raising his leading-staff high in air, called to them in a voice full of
determination and authority to “halt,” they did so on the instant. Ashamed of their
own mad precipitation, the officers toiled strenuously to reform the shaken ranks, and
in less time than it has taken to describe it, the lines presented an unbroken regular
front, ready to march in steady order against the fortified posts of the Lorrainers. The
duke addressed them in a few words of high and somewhat harsh remonstrance; and
then, perceiving that the French columns, which had been outstripped by the headlong
rush of the Irish, had in the interval come up and formed an even line, drawing his
sword from the sheath dismounted, giving his horse and leading-staff to Colonel Worden,
his equerry. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “we will advance together—so in God's
name, for Ireland and France—forward—ma—” but the word died upon his tongue
before the order was pronounced—for as he raised his voice to give it audibly, his eye
fell upon a broad white ensign, which was displayed from the barbette-battery on the
hill, and on the forms of several mounted officers galloping down to the redoubts, as if
in obedience to some new and sudden order. Within the space of a few seconds,

before he had time to consider well the meaning of the movement, a small white flag
was hoisted on each of the redoubts, and the next minute the French regiments to his
left halted, so that now doubting nothing but that the Duke of Loraine had consented
to the marechal's condition, he gave the word to his men to halt and stand firm; and
immediately remounted his charger, and resumed his truncheon. He had scarce settled
himself, however, firmly in his saddle, before an orderly rode up, and informed him that
an accommodation had been made, and that the marechal required his presence, begging
him to leave orders with the lieutenant colonel of the Irish, to hold them steady
to their arms, as there might well be treachery; but not to stir a pace without fresh
orders. The duke gave the directions necessary, and without loss of time returned to
join the marechal; but long before he reached him, he saw the female figure, whom he
had noticed at a distance, gallop up to the assembled officers, amid the undisguised
astonishment and noisy exclamations of the soldiery, and springing from the saddle,
throw herself on the ground before the general's charger, clasping her hands about his
booted leg, and seeming to address him with wild vehemence. It may be readily supposed,
that a sight so strange as this prompted the young prince to hurry, even faster
than before, to the spot where it was enacting; but it was not mere curiosity that
urged him to make haste, for, from the moment of her first appearance, he had suspected
who the lady was that dared to brave, not only the dread terrors of a battle-field, but
the world's censure, which must follow proceedings so unfeminine and rash. Rapidly
as he spurred, however, he could not come up to the presence of Turenne in time to
witness all that passed; for, in the first place, several servants, in liveries which he
well knew, followed their mistress at full speed to the spot, covering the group beyond
from his gaze; and, in the second, all the staff had simultaneously leaped from their
horses, and gathered round the lady and the general. For some short space it seemed
to the duke, that the press was so dense around the latter as to prevent him from dismounting;
for his plumed hat and noble head were clearly visible above the crowd,
though bending down toward the suppliant at his feet—presently these, however, disappeared;
and it was evident from the motions of the group, beginning to diverge, that
he had alighted and was conversing with the lady. In virtue of his rank and illustrious
birth, as soon as he had come up and given his horse to one of the equerries, way
was made for the Duke of York; and in a moment he perceived that his suspicions
had been too correct, and that it was indeed Isabella Oswald, who had actually ridden
through a great part of the night, and made her way—exposed to rude surmise at least,
if not to actual contumely—through the disorderly and vicious followers of the camp,
to prefer, as it seemed, some personal request to the marechal upon the very field of
battle. The first words that fell on the duke's ears were from the lips of that lovely
girl; and although under circumstances so unusual, and at a time so fearful to the nature
of a delicate woman, her voice faltered not the least, nor were her accents tremulous
or hurried; but every tone, though low and femininely soft, was clear, and evenly
pitched, and thrilling as a silver trumpet.

“I have your word, then, Marechal Turenne—a word which never yet was questioned,
much less broken—pledged for their liberty and honor.”

“You have, indeed—you have, indeed, dear lady,” answered the general, in tones
that manifested his strong sympathy. “They are free from this moment; and, had I
deemed it possible that you, the daughter of my old friend and comrade, could possibly
have been exposed to this, by all my hopes of heaven! I would have cast down rank
and power, and life and all—save honor—as I cast down that gilded bauble;” and with
the words he tossed away his marshal's baton—“rather than so much as arrest them!
For God's sake now, dear lady, let there be no more said about it, but presently withdraw;
peace is concluded here—and I will send you with a trumpet, and a befiting
train, into Villeneuve St. George; until such time as I can leave Sir Henry, summoned
from the woods yonder, where he commands our tirailleurs, to take charge of you. I
pray, no words young lady. You know not—cannot dream, what risks you have run
last night, or what will be said of this hereafter.”

“I come of a bold race, marechal,” she answered, with a scornful motion of her
head, tossing away the ringlets which had fallen over her high brow and flashing features;
“nor am I the first daughter of it that has looked on a foughten field, if annals tell
the truth—that I should shrink from doing right for the risk of a little peril!”

“There are some risks, lady,” the general made reply, with an impressive and grave
air, “which none, however rash, should incur ever! some perils which the bravest
should avoid! Honor is not a thing to risk, nor repute to peril! and—”

“Honor! repute!” she interrupted him, her clear voice ringing supernaturally shrill,
and her eyes blazing with indignant anger; “my honor! who dare question it? My
repute never has been risked! or, if it have, I know how to defend the one—how to
avenge the other! But you mean kindly, and, I am certain, honorably, marechal,” she
continued, her momentary anger vanishing, as she perceived and appreciated the general's
motives; “and with thanks for your kindness, I will submit to your dictation.”

“Indeed, I do, dear lady,” Tureme made answer; “and so far from impugning your
repute, or questioning your honor, there is no gentleman in France, who would so
gladly draw his sword to right you—nor did I mean to say that you had risked them;
though I must say you have acted rashly, and given some scope to ill tongues, which
everywhere abound! but, by my honor! were I Sir Henry Oswald, I should know how
to deal with the knaves that led you hither!”

“It was Sir Henry's own fault,” answered she, somewhat more meekly than before,
“if fault there be, that I am here at all! He promised, when he left Corbeil, that he
would send me tidings when he saw you; and here you tell me that he knew last night
these gentlemen were in no peril, yet hath he sent me no word of it—and all the town
was ringing with rumor that they should die this evening! Believe me, sir—believe
me,” she went on, speaking with much feeling and some vehemence, “I felt and knew
that much might be said against my coming hither; but I knew likewise that, with
six trusty followers, there could no real risk befal my father's daughter, even from the
basest of the king's army! and I felt, more than all the rest, that it would comport ill
indeed with my honor, that two brave gentlemen should fall disgraced upon the scaffold
for rescuing that honor, and I not move a step to aid them. These, noble Turenne,
only these were my motives! The gentlemen we speak of I never saw till two days
since! never may see again! and scarce should recognize if I did see them!” she broke
off suddenly; and overpowered quite with the revulsion of her feelings, burst into a
paroxysm of violent and convulsive weeping.

Greatly distressed by this occurrence, at a time too when he was deeply occupied
with other matters, and when his presence was indeed momentarily called for, the
marchal looked anxiously about him for a moment ere he spoke—then, “Monsieur
de Clairvilliers,” he cried, turning to an old officer of very high rank, “you are, I think,
a dear friend of this young lady's father; and those gray hairs, blanched in the service
of two kings of France, may well dafy all scandal. Will you not, with our good Duke
of York here, taking a trumpet with you, and a fit escort, lead this young lady to Villeneuve,
and see her suited with apartments and proper female tendance? Meanwhile,
I will dispatch a message to the Duke of Lorraine; and our good friend Laloge here
will spur his barbary horse, from his pure love of the fair sex, until he find Sir Henry
Oswald, and conduct him to his fair daughter.” The gay young officer bowed low,
and darted away like a swallow over the level meads in the direction of the great woods
to the right; while Turenne, taking Isabella's hand in his own, kissed it respectfully,
and said—“And now farewell, dear lady—all will go well—trust me! And now I must
beseech you to excuse me, for I have pressing calls upon my time; and his majesty
must not have reason to complain that, besides pardoning his officers for disobeying
orders, all for the bright eyes of a lovely lady, I, his commander in the field, neglect
myself his service; even although the cause should be so worthy a true chevalier's
devotion!”

His tone of badinage did much to reassure her, and she soon wiped her tears away,
and was assisted to her horse by the young prince himself; but though she wept no

more, she was extremely grave and unwilling to converse, replying in monosyllables to
such remarks as were addressed to her, until she was installed in safety in handsome
lodgings without the gates of Villeneuve; when, thanking the duke and the other gentlemen
who had accompanied her, she expressed a wish to be left alone, and retired to
her chamber, there to reflect upon the strange events of the past days.