Charlotte Smith- Collected Poetical Works

by Charlotte Smith

  “Poor young man!” exclaimed Madame D’Alberg, “how much his affection interests me for him. Had we not better visit him, Madame?” added she, turning to her mother, “and prevail upon him to have some attention to himself?”

  To this proposal the Baroness assented, and went up together to the chamber. The door was open. The curtains of the bed undrawn, and by its side knelt the younger of the strangers, listening to the faint voice of his father, which could hardly be heard, they distinguished, however, his reply. “My father! have pity upon me, if you have none on yourself. All may yet be well!”

  “Never, never!” sighed the unhappy father. “The barbeddart of ingratitude tears my heart. Your cruel brother; it is he, D’Alonville! It is he, rather than these wounds, that has destroyed me.”

  “Think not of it, Sir,” answered D’Alonville. “Let me conjure you to drive from you mind all these cruel reflections, and endeavour to live.”

  “Ah, wherefore to live! banished and a beggar! At my time of life, D’Alonville, to become a wandering fugitive; No. Fayolles has no longer business in this world. But you may, unhappy boy! you, whose life opened with prospects so different!”

  “For God’s sake, Sir, forbear. If you indeed love me, would you not endeavour to preserve a life so precious? Ah! ladies!” continued he, perceiving the Baroness and Madame D’Alberg; who, greatly affected, had by this time softly approached him; “generous humanity has saved my father, if he will but endeavour to live; but he gives himself up to despair, and I shall lose him still.”

  “Compose yourself, dear Sir,” said Madame de Rosenheim. “You are now in a house where every thing that we can do for you, shall be done. Let me beg of you to be calm, if it be only that this young gentleman may be prevailed upon to attend to himself for a few moments.” The Chevalier D’Alonville turned towards her eyes, which expressed more powerfully than words, all the anguish of his soul. “I cannot thank you, Madame,” was all he could utter. “My almoner tells me you are wounded, Sir, added she; “Now that your father is so far recovered, let me entreat you to have some application to your wounds; and that you will go yourself to bed.”

  “A mattrass on the floor by my father, if you please, I will accept of; for I feel myself, indeed, exhausted; but I cannot leave him. As to my wound, I am not sensible of it; it is nothing. I had forgot it.”

  Madame D’Alberg left the room to order for him the only accommodation he seemed disposed to accept and as his head was now pressed to the hand of his father, as it lay on the quilt, the Baroness for some moments stood by him in silence. D’Alonville starting, as if suddenly recollection himself, said in a low voice, “Have you had any information, Madame, to-day, from the French frontier? Do you know how very near the wretches, who assume the name of patriots, have advanced to this place?”

  “Speak lower,” answered Madame de Rosenheim, perceiving the eyes of the elder stranger, already glazed by approaching death, were languidly opened as these words were uttered;— “Speak lower; or rather think only of the immediate evil.” Her own fear, however, prevented her following the advice she gave, and she immediately added, “Surely they are not so near as to make it probable that they will be here tonight!” The young stranger answered, “We were with a party of Austrians which engaged their advanced guard, not fifteen miles off, at twelve this morning.” A deep sigh from Monsieur de Fayolles recalled the thoughts of the Baroness to him. “If you would favour me with a moment’s conversation in the adjoining room, Sir,” said she to D’Alonville. De Fayolles faintly waved his hand for him to go, and arose to obey. By this time Madame D’Alberg was returned with two servants, who were making up a bed on the floor. The Baroness, unwilling to alarm her daughter with the detail of an encounter in which the might be but too nearly interested, left her, and attended her guest into the next apartment. She there learned, that in an affair which had been fatal to almost all the French royalists who were in it, and to many of the Germans, the Viscount de Fayolles had been wounded and left for dead on the field; that his son, the Chevalier D’Alonville, who was with another party a little farther on, that had not been engaged, no sooner saw the small remains of the troop that had retreated, join them without the Viscount, and understood he was left wounded or dead behind than he returned to seek him, attended by two servants. The Sans Culottes had already gone forward; but the wretches who follow armies for the sake of plunder were stripping the dying and the dead, with which the field of action was strewn. D’Alonville, in describing this scene of horror, seemed a new to feel all the emotions he had at the moment experienced. “I had not,” said he, “gone twenty paces, before I saw my father. He was living, but extended on the ground; he raised himself on his arm, and was looking around him; when at the same moment that I approached him on one side, two of those hideous women came towards him on the other; and one of them without regarding me, or rather, perhaps, thinking I was one of their own party, prepared to stab him; for they saw he was an officer of distinction, and mercy had no place in their savage hearts. I was not aware of their design, for this was my first campaign; and I knew not that such wretches in the human form disgraced the earth! Alas! I soon saw what I had to dread, for the poor remains of a life so precious. I threw myself before my father and with one of my servants, for the other had already deserted me, delivered him from the hands of those monsters. I made him sensible of his situation we led him off the field, and I placed him on horseback, and supported him till I hoped we were out of danger. We concealed ourselves for some hours among the reeds and alders in a morass; intending to remain there till evening, and tied up our two horses in a place where we hoped they would escape the parties which we continually heard pass; but in this we were deceived. As soon as it grew dusk, as we distinguished no longer any hostile sounds, we dispatched the servant to seek the horses; for my father was so weakened by loss of blood, hunger, and fatigue, that I found he must perish if I did not procure him some assistance: he had swallowed nothing but a little water, and his exhausted form could support itself no longer. Alas! the feeble hope that I should have been able to convey him to some place where he might have his wounds taken care of, and be restored by nourishment and repose, now escaped me: for my servant returned, but not till I despaired of seeing him anymore. He returned pale, aghast, and trembling. He told me that the horses being gone, he had hoped that they had only broke away to feed, and that he should find them in some neighbouring fields, or in a wood that was not far from thence, whether he crept as silently as he could, for he observed smoke to raise from its skirts, and was afraid of falling again among a party of Sans Culottes of marauders. Approaching under cover of brush wood and surze, he saw our two horses tied up with four or five others; and notwithstanding his precaution, was himself in the most imminent danger; for on all sides of him were scattered small parties of three or four soldiers, and women, who were preparing to pass the night under the shelter of this small wood; and some were putting up pieces of canvass and other contrivances, while others were preparing their repas. There seemed to be about thirty of them; who, wandering about in every direction to collect fuel for their fires, my servant found the utmost difficulty in escaping them, by crawling on his hands and knees among the rough ground, where he was, which being covered with fern bushes and brush wood, saved him from the view of these formidable people, more dreadful than an open and regular enemy; such as I knew them to be, however, and such my affrighted servant described them. I doubted whether I would not be better for us to throw ourselves on their mercy, than for me to risk what seemed, indeed, otherwise inevitable; seeing my father expire thus exhausted and desolate. Hardly was he, I thought conscious of the hurried narrative my servant had been giving: but when I began to debate with this faithful fellow, whether we had not better hazard all that could befall us, than suffer him to die without an attempt to relieve him, his recollection and strength seemed to be suddenly renewed. He eagerly grasped my hand, as I on my knee prevented his head resting on the ground, or
rather the marsh, for it was half under water. He grasped my hand and making an effort to speak, tho’ he could only whisper, he said, “No, D’Alonville, never, never! I had rather die! far rather, than owe my life, even if it could now be saved, to these infamous monsters. Death, honorable death, I welcome! Let me die my son, in your arms; but do not let the last moments of my life be embittered by the sight of these execrable beings, the refuse of my ruined country; these base instruments of superior villains who have destroyed us. “Promise me,” added my father, grasping me still harder, tho’ with a convulsive effort, “promise me that you will let me die here. It will not be long first, D’Alonville! and then that you will attend to your own safety. Promise me!” “I do, my father; I promise.” This I said, almost without knowing it; but as if satisfied. My father sunk into a stupor, which I believed to be the fore runner of death. He was apparently easy, however; he did not seem to suffer. I still sat on the ground supporting his head. I took off my coat to spread it over him, for the night was cold and wet: my servant, quite worn out with fatigue, famine, and despair, lay down near us. He offered me his clothes, but I absolutely refused them. His bodily sufferings seemed greater than mine. But it was not either him or myself who were the objects of my concern. My father alone engrossed all my attention.

  It was now dark; all was quiet around the spot where we were: the wind alone, sighing among the reeds, or the rain that sometimes fell, tho’ not very heavily, were the only sounds that broke the dreary stillness which reigned in this desolate wilderness. I turned my eyes to Heaven; I implored its mercy on my father. I distinguished thro’ the gathering tempest of the night, a few stars; and I invited the great governor of the universe. I supplicated him to hear a son in behalf of his dying parent. I had now time to reflect on the sad situation in which we were; and my reflections served only to convince me, that if my father survived till morning, we must inevitably fall into the hands either of that party from whom my servant had escaped, or some other of the same description, who were scattered.

  over the country in such numbers, that there was no chance of avoiding them. I had time enough to revolve in my mind every plan that occurred to it, but none appeared practicable; my father, however, seemed insensible of his present sufferings. I was under the necessity of remaining, without making any attempt to snatch him from the dangers which I knew the morning would bring with it.

  I believe it was about nine o’clock, but I could not distinguish the hour on my watch, when I thought I heard, thro’ the silence of the night, footsteps among the reeds. I listened, and was convinced of it. I found they approached, tho’ slowly; and that the step was like that of one who either desired to surprized, or feared to be surprized. The former of these was much the most probable; and I prepared to defend my father as well as I could; tho’ certain that any resistance I could make, would be otherwise useless, than as it was desirable to fell our lives as dearly as we could. I speak of myself only, because my father was so incapable of any effort, that he could hardly be said to live; and my servant, from excess of fatigue, had fallen into so sound a sleep, that I found it impossible to rouse him, without making more noise than was prudent; since it was possible, that whoever were the persons or person (for I now thought there was only one) who approached, they might not discover us, if I remained quite; for in the dark, the reeds beaten down by our having made our way among them, could not betray us, as probably would happen in the morning I looked around me as much as I could, but besides that the reeds which concealed us were in most places above my head, it was now too dark to distinguish objects. Still I heard footsteps more and more near; and at length a woman’s voice, who speaking low to another, said “Here I believe is the place;” and suddenly I saw before me a female peasant, who held in her hand a small lantern which she had concealed, and with her was a boy of twelve or thirteen years old. More alarmed at the sight of us, than I was at seeing her, she stood a moment amazed. I took advantage of it to offer her money, and to entreat that she should lead us to a place of shelter, and procure some sustenance for my father. Tempted by the money I shewed her, and by my promises of more, she seemed willing to assist us, tho’ she assured me, that far from being able to promise an asylum, their cottage had already been visited, and that they had bid what they had been able to save from the rapacity of the plunderers, in this marshy spot; whence she and her son now came to fetch it, intending, as they were every day liable to new inroads, and violence more destructive, to take refuge with what little property they could secure, in some of the fortified towns. They cared not under which party they put themselves, if they could only be sure of protection.

  As the sum I was able to offer her, was more than equal to any risk she could run of loss, and as the lives of herself and her family were nearly all that they could lose, the woman hesitated not to assist me and my servant in leading my father, or rather bearing him along among us to her small abode, which, as it was at the distance of more than a mile, we accomplished with difficulty. More than once during this long and painful march, he seemed at the point of death; and his wound, to which no proper application had yet been made, threatened again to baffle, by its fatal consequences, all my endeavours to save his precious life.

  On a miserable bedstead, where a few rags supplied the place of a bed or mattrass, which had been taken or burnt, my father was placed; and such nourishment as the cottage in its present state could afford, was administered to him he eat of this food and seemed to revive: fatigue and languor of body deprived his mind of the acute feelings which would have shewn him the horrors of his condition: he dozed rather than slept; and seemed insensible rather than easy. The dawn of day arrived without any material alteration. He breathed, I thought, more calmly; when I spoke to him he knew me; and received such nourishment as I could procure for him, which was only a little bad wine and black bread. But this pause from from actual suffering renewed my hopes of saving him, if I could but convey him to a secure asylum. Towards noon he appeared considerable better, and I hardly doubted of his life. But my sufferings on his account were far from being at an end. An alarm from the neighouring peasants, who in their flight announced the French were approaching, compelled them to hasten the resolution they had before taken to seek their safety in flight. To remain where we were, was to give ourselves up to certain destruction; yet how remove a man in such a state as my father was? As soon as he understood the cause of the alarm around him, he called me to him, and exerting all his strength, ordered me to leave him. “Go, my son,” cried he; since our evil destiny thus pursues us, seek your own safety, and suffer me not wholly to perish. In you, D’Alonville, I shall still live and the miserable remains of my existence are not worth a thought. As an emigrant, I shall be put immediately out of my pain, by the wretches who will soon arrive. Let me have the consolation, my son, of knowing you are out of their power; and detestable as they are, I shall submit to die by their hands without a murmur.” I positively refused to leave my father; and all that remained was to attempt conveying him away. Every thing we had left about us, except my arms and a cutlass, which I would not suffer my servant to part with, was the price of a miserable half starved horse, on which, with the utmost difficulty, we at length persuaded my father to suffer himself to be placed and we sat out with several unhappy beings, who were quitting their homes to wander they knew not whither. Mothers with their infant children! Daughters with infirm parents! Our sad group sensibly diminished as we moved along. Some could go no further from mere weariness, and others remained in the expectation of finding refuge among their acquaintance who lived by the way; for us, who were strangers in this part of France, our only hope lay in reaching before night-fall, some town or village in the dominions of the emperor; but when I cast my eyes on the pale and exhausted figure of my father, and saw with what extream difficulty he sat upon his horse, despair again took possession of my soul. However, slowly we yet moved on. About a mile, as near as I can guess from this place, my father assured me he c
ould go no further, and entreated me to suffer him to lie down and die quietly. I looked around me for some place where I might hope to find shelter from the storm which had been beating upon us all day, but now seemed to be coming on with redoubled violence; but I saw no place of shelter. The roads were almost impassable from the incessant rains; and the wretched horse, who’ I had endeavoured to spare him as much as possible, seemed quite disabled. Around us were thick enclosures terminating in woods; and had there been any village near, I knew it would be difficult or impossible for us to distinguish it. Thus circumstanced, I had no choice, but was compelled to yield to necessity, and choice, but was compelled to yield to necessity. We left then the road we were in, and struck into a coppice, where the leaves that yet remained offered us but little shelter; and where I saw from the situation in which my father was in, that he must inevitably perish before morning, unless assistance were procured. To procure it however seemed impossible. Terrible were my reflections! If I left him to seek some help, I feared he would expire in my absence; and it was a very great chance whether I found him again. My servant, tho’ honest and faithful, possessed neither courage nor sagacity sufficient for such and undertaking. He was besides dispirited by hunger, fear, and fatigue; and hardly able to support himself, was little in a condition to be of use to me in a talk so difficult as seeking a place of shelter in a country totally unknown, at such an hour, and at such a season. Not finding, however, any better expedient, I determined to send him, after an hour’s rest, in search of some place where we might remain for the night, at least, under cover. He was more willing than able to go. I divided with him the morsel of food with which I had provided ourselves; and he left us, promising to return in two hours, if he either found a shelter, or could not meet one within any distance that it was likely we could reach; and he assured me he would endeavour to make such remarks on his way, as should enable him to return to us. Two hours passed away; a third had nearly elapsed, and we had no tidings of him. In darkness and tempest, with a father expiring in my arms, what a situation was mine! Assured that if we remained where we were he would die in a few hours, I determined to make one effort more to save him, by returning into the road we had left, where it was barely possible that some human beings might pass; and to fall into the hands of the enemy, dreadful as it before appeared, now seemed preservable to the lingering horrors of the death that was otherwise inevitable. I had, however, the greatest difficulty to persuade my father to remove from the place where he was. “Let me die here, D’Alonville,” said he; “why should I be longer a burthen too you; why risk the loss of your life, to prolong mine for a few miserable hours. Take from my breast this mark of many years faithful services to my now undone country, that you may deliver it to my sovereign; it will be an honorable mission, my son! Heaven grant you may soon fulfill it. Endeavour to live to preserve at least the memory of de Fayolles from more disgrace than already overwhelms it by the conduct of your brother, and take with you my blessing, all I have left to give!”