The Second G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  The artery was first found and tied up; for Prussian surgery was, at that time, far ahead of our own. The bruised flesh was pressed up, the bone cut off neatly, above the point where it was splintered, the flesh brought down again over it and trimmed, then several thicknesses of lint put over it, and the whole carefully bandaged up.

  “There,” he said to Karl, as he rose from his work, “that is all that I can do for him; and unless it bursts out bleeding again, he is likely to do well. If it does, you must tighten that tape still more. All there is to do is to keep him as quiet as possible.

  “Have you any spirits?”

  “Yes, doctor, there is a flask in his holster.”

  “Mix some with as much water, and pour a little down his throat from time to time. Fold his cloak, and put it under his head. He will probably recover consciousness in a short time. When he does so, impress upon him the necessity of lying perfectly quiet. As soon as the battle is over, we must get him moved into shelter.”

  In half an hour Fergus opened his eyes. Karl, who was kneeling by him, placed one hand on his chest and the other on the wounded arm.

  “You must not move, colonel,” he said. “You have been hit, but the doctor says you will get over it; but you must lie perfectly still.”

  Fergus looked round in bewilderment. Then, as the roar of the battle came to his ears, he made an instinctive effort to rise.

  “It is going on still,” Karl said, repressing the movement. “We shall thrash them, presently; but you can do nothing more today, and you must do as the doctor bids you, sir.”

  “Where am I hit?”

  “It is on the left arm, colonel. An Austrian cannonball did the business. If it had been three or four inches farther to the right, it would have finished you. As it is, I hope that you will soon get about again.”

  “Then it has taken off my arm,” Fergus said feebly.

  “Better that than your head, sir. The left arm is of no great account, except for holding a bridle; and there is a good bit of it left.

  “Drink a little more of this brandy and water. How do you feel now, sir?”

  “I feel cold,” Fergus replied. “My feet are like ice.”

  Karl wrapped Fergus’s fur-lined pelisse round his feet, undid his blanket and cloak from his saddle, and laid them over him.

  “That will be better, sir. Now, if you will promise to lie quite quiet, I will fasten your horse up—I don’t know what has become of mine—and will go and collect some firewood and get up a good blaze. I am afraid there is no chance of getting you into a shelter, tonight.”

  “I am afraid we are being driven down the hill again, Karl. The roll of musketry is coming nearer.”

  “That is so, colonel; but we shall have the cavalry up soon, and that will make all the difference.”

  Just as Karl came back with an armful of firewood, a staff officer rode up.

  “The king has sent me to inquire how Colonel Drummond is,” he said. “His majesty has heard that he is badly wounded, and has been carried here.”

  “This is the colonel, major,” Karl said, leading him to the side of Fergus.

  “I am sorry to see you here,” the officer said. “The king has sent me to inquire after you.”

  “Will you thank his majesty, Major Kaulbach; and tell him that it is nothing worse than the loss of a left arm, and that the surgeon’s opinion is that I shall do well. How goes the battle?”

  “Badly, badly; but Holstein will be up in a quarter of an hour, and then we shall have another try. We broke their line badly, last time; and if we had had cavalry to launch at them, we should have managed the business.”

  “The king is unhurt, I hope.”

  “Not altogether. He was struck from his horse by a piece of case shot, but his pelisse saved him. He was able to mount again in a few minutes, making very light of the affair; and was in the middle of the fight, as usual. I was next you when you were hit, and I saw your orderly lift you on to your horse before him and, as soon as we got down here, reported it to the king.”

  “Our loss must be terribly heavy.”

  “Terrible! There is no saying how severe it is, yet; but not half the grenadiers are on their feet.

  “There is nothing I can do for you?”

  “Nothing at all. My orders are to lie still; and as I feel too weak to move, and there is no one to carry me away, and nowhere to take me to, I am not likely to disobey the order.”

  The officer rode off again. Karl soon had a fire lighted, sufficiently close to Fergus for him to feel its warmth. Wounded men, who had made their way down the hill, came and sat down on the other sides of it. Many other fires were lighted, as it grew dusk.

  In front the battle had broken out again, as furiously as ever; and ere long wounded men began to come down again. They brought cheering news, however. The Prussians were still pressing forward, the cavalry had thrown the Austrian line into terrible confusion. No one knew exactly where any of the Prussian battalions had got to, but all agreed that things were going on well.

  At five o’clock the roar gradually ceased, and soon all was quiet. The wounded now came in fast, but none could say whether the battle was won or lost; for the night was so dark that each could only speak of what had happened to his own corps.

  Presently the number round the fires was swelled by the arrival of numerous Austrians, wounded and unwounded. Most of these laid their rifles by, saying:

  “It is a bitter night, comrades. Will you let us have a share of the fire?”

  “Come in, come in,” the Prussians answered. “We are all friends for tonight, for we are all in equally bad plight. Can you tell us how matters have gone, up there?”

  But these knew no more than the Prussians. They had got separated from their corps in the confusion and, losing their way altogether, had seen the glow of the fires in the forest, and had come down for warmth and shelter.

  Presently Major Kaulbach rode up again.

  “How have things gone, major?” Fergus asked eagerly.

  “No one knows,” he said. “The Austrians are broken up; and our battalions and theirs are so mixed that there is no saying where they are, or how matters will stand in the morning. The king has gone to Elsnig, two or three miles away.”

  “Is there no news of Ziethen?”

  “None. They have just begun to fire heavily again in that direction, but what he has been doing all day, no one has any idea.”

  But little was said round the fires. A short distance away the surgeons were still at work with the more serious cases, while the soldiers roughly bandaged each other’s wounds; but as, gradually, the distant firing increased in fury, and seemed to grow in distinctness, men who had lain down sat up to listen. There was no longer any talking, and a hush fell upon the forest.

  “It is certainly coming closer, colonel,” Karl said at last. “It seems that Ziethen has woke up in earnest. May the good God grant that he win his way up on to the heights!”

  “If he does, we shall have the Austrians, in the morning. If he doesn’t, we shall have a poor chance with them.”

  “I am afraid we sha’n’t, colonel; but it certainly sounds as if Ziethen was making way.”

  At nine o’clock a cavalry officer came riding along. He drew rein at the fire.

  “Can anyone tell me where I can find the king?”

  “He is at Elsnig, captain,” Karl said, rising and saluting. “May I ask what is the news, sir?”

  “The news is good. Ziethen has gained the heights. We can see the flash of fire round the Siptitz hill.”

  A cheer broke from all the Prussians within hearing. There was not a man but knew that the fate of Prussia hung on the result of this battle, and for the moment wounds were forgotten. Men shook hands, with tears of joy streaming down their rugged cheeks; and as others came running up from the other fires, to know what was the news, and then hurried off again to tell their companions, the forest rang with their cheering.

  All was not over yet. For a t
ime the firing was louder and heavier than before, but towards ten o’clock news came that Ziethen was firmly established on the Siptitz hill, and that the Austrian battalions were drawing off. Then all lay down to sleep, rejoiced and thankful; and even the Austrians, disconcerted as they were, were not altogether sorry that they must now consider themselves prisoners; and free, for a long time to come, from further risk of battle.

  The news, in the morning, that the Austrian army had already crossed the river and was in full retreat southwards, afforded the most intense satisfaction. There was now a hope of shelter and rest in Torgau, instead of the prospect of remaining in the forest, drenched to the skin by the rain that had come down, without intermission, for the last twenty-four hours.

  An hour later Major Kaulbach again rode up, accompanied by four infantry men bearing a stretcher.

  “The king has already gone on to Torgau, and he has given me orders to see that you are carried there, at once. There will be no more fighting, at present. Daun has got a long start, and there will be enough to do here, for the next twelve hours, in collecting the wounded. Lacy has retreated this side of the river, and Ziethen’s cavalry started in pursuit, some hours ago.”

  Fergus was carefully lifted onto the litter, and carried down to Torgau; where several large houses had already been assigned for the use of wounded officers, while the soldiers were to be placed in the hospitals, public buildings, and churches, Austrians and Prussians being distributed indiscriminately; and by nightfall some twelve thousand wounded were housed in the town. A small body of troops was left there. The inhabitants undertook the charge of the wounded, and the next morning the king marched away south, with the army.

  Soon after Fergus was brought in, Frederick paid a visit to the house where he had been carried, and said a few words to each of the wounded officers.

  “So you are down again, Drummond. Fortune is not treating you so favourably as she used to do.”

  “It might have been a good deal worse, your majesty. I think that one who has got off with only the loss of his left arm has no reason to complain.”

  “No, it might have been worse,” the king replied. “I have lost many good friends, and thousands of brave soldiers. However, I too must not complain; for it has saved Prussia.

  “Don’t hurry to rejoin too soon, Drummond. Another month, and we shall all be in winter quarters.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Home

  Fergus remained at Torgau for six weeks. He had, two days after the battle, sent Karl off to carry a letter to Thirza; telling her that he had been wounded, but that she need have no uneasiness about him; the surgeon saying that the wound was going on well, and that, should it not break out bleeding in the course of another week, he would make a quick cure, and would be fit for service again, long before the spring.

  Karl had not found his horse again, but had bought, for a trifle, an Austrian officer’s horse that was found riderless; and had become the prize of a trooper, who was glad to part with it at a quarter of its value. He took with him the disguise of a countryman, to put on when he approached the ground held by the Austrians near Dresden; and, leaving his horse fifteen miles away, had no difficulty in making his way in on foot. Karl went round to the back of the house. The servants recognized him as soon as he entered.

  “Will one of you ask the count to see me? Let him have the message quietly, when he is alone.”

  “Your master is not killed?” one of the women exclaimed, in consternation.

  “Killed! No, Colonel Drummond is not so easily killed,” he replied scornfully. “I have a letter from him in my pocket. But he has been somewhat hurt, and it were best that I saw the count first, and that he should himself give the letter to the Countess Thirza.”

  In two or three minutes the man returned, and led Karl to a room where the count was awaiting him, with a look of great anxiety on his face.

  “All is well, your excellency,” Karl said, in answer to the look. “At least, if not altogether well, not so bad as it might be. The colonel was hit at Torgau. A cannonball took off his left arm at the elbow. Fortunately, there were surgeons at work a quarter of a mile away, and he was in their hands within a very few minutes of being hit; so they made a job of his wound, at once. They had not taken the bandages off, when I came away; but as there had been no bleeding, and no great pain or fever, they think it is going on well. They tell him that he will be fit for service, save for his half-empty sleeve, in the spring.

  “Here is a letter for the Countess Thirza. It is not written by his own hand, except as to the signature; for the surgeons insist that he must lie perfectly quiet, for any exertion might cause the wound to break out afresh. He is quite cheerful, and in good spirits, as he always is. He bade me give this note into your hands, so that you might prepare the young countess a little, before giving it to her.”

  “’Tis bad news, Karl, but it might have been much worse; and it will, indeed, be a relief to us all; for since we heard of that desperate fight at Torgau, and how great was the slaughter on both sides, we have been anxious, indeed; and must have remained so, for we should have had little chance of seeing the list of the Prussian killed and wounded.

  “Now, do you go into the kitchen. They all know you there. Make yourself comfortable. I will give orders that you shall be well served.”

  He then proceeded to the room where Thirza and her mother wore sitting. The former was pale, and had evidently been crying.

  “Some news has come,” he said. “Not the very best, and yet by no means the worst. Drummond is wounded—a severe wound, but not, it is confidently believed, a dangerous one.”

  Thirza ran to her father and threw her arms round his neck, and burst into a passion of tears. He did not attempt to check them for some little time.

  “Now, my dear,” he said at last, “you must be brave, or you won’t be worthy of this lover of yours. There is one bad point about it.”

  She looked up in his face anxiously, but his smile reassured her.

  “You must prepare yourself for his being somewhat disfigured.”

  “Oh, that is nothing, father; nothing whatever to me! But how is he disfigured?”

  “Well, my dear, he has lost his left arm, at the elbow.”

  Thirza gave a little cry of grief and pity.

  “That is sad, father; but surely it is no disfigurement, any more than that sabre scar on his face. ’Tis an honour, to a brave soldier, to have lost a limb in battle. Still, I am glad that it is his left arm; though, had it been his right and both his legs, it would have made no difference in my love for him.”

  “Well, I am very glad, Thirza, that your love has not been tested so severely; as I confess that, for my part, I would much prefer having a son-in-law who was able to walk about, and who would not have to be carried to the altar. Here is a letter to you from him—that is to say, which has been written at his dictation, for of course the surgeons insist on his lying perfectly quiet, at present.”

  Thirza tore it open, and ran through its contents.

  “It is just as you say, father. He makes very light of it, and writes as if it were a mere nothing.”

  She handed the letter to her mother, and then turned to the count.

  “Is there anything we can do, father?”

  “Nothing whatever. With such a wound as that, he will have to lie perfectly still for some time. You may be sure that, as one of Frederick’s personal staff, he will have every attention possible; and were we all in the town, we could do nothing. As soon as he is fit to be moved, it will be different; but we shall have plenty of time to talk over matters before that.

  “For some few months travelling will be dangerous. Frederick’s army is in the neighbourhood again and, as Daun and Lacy are both in their intrenchments behind the Plauen, there is no chance of his again besieging Dresden; but his flying columns will be all over the country, as doubtless will the Croats, and the roads will be altogether unsafe for travelling. No doubt, as soon as he is able
to be moved, he will be taken to Frederick’s headquarters, wherever they may be established. The king will assuredly have the hospitals at Torgau cleared, as soon as he can; lest, when he has retired, the Austrians might make another dash at the town.”

  The next morning Karl set out again, bearing a letter from the count; and one from Thirza which was of a much less formal character than that which he had dictated to her, and which, as he told her afterwards, greatly assisted his cure. A month after the battle he was pronounced fit to travel, and with a large train of wagons filled with convalescents, and under a strong escort, he was taken to Leipzig; where the king had just established his headquarters, and to which all the wounded were to be sent, as soon as they could safely be moved. Here he was established in comfortable quarters, and Karl again carried a letter to Thirza.

  Ten days later Count Eulenfurst entered his room.

  “You here, count!” he exclaimed. “How kind of you! What a journey to make through the snow!”

  “I have been dragged hither,” the count said, with a smile.

  “Dragged hither, count?”

  “Yes. Thirza insisted on coming to see you. Her mother declared that she should accompany her, and of course there was nothing for me to do but to set out, also.”

  “Are they here, then, count?” Fergus exclaimed incredulously.

  “Certainly they are, and established at the Black Eagle Hotel. I could not bring them here, to a house full of officers. You are well enough to walk to the hotel?”

  “Yes, indeed. I walked a mile yesterday.”

  As Karl was helping Fergus into his uniform, he asked:

  “How long were you in coming here, count?”

  “We did it in a day. I sent on relays of horses, two days before; and as the carriage is of course on runners, and the snow in good order, we made quick work of it. Your man went on with the horses, and rode with us from the last place where we changed. I did most of the journey sitting by the coachman; which gave them more room inside, and was more pleasant for me, also.”