Ten
Simplicius survives an unwelcome dip in the river
I want to get a couple more things off my chest before I tell you how I slipped my musket, as it were. One concerns the huge danger to life and limb from which God in his mercy rescued me, the other the spiritual risk I courted so stubbornly. Fact is, I’m as anxious to reveal my vices as I am to highlight my virtues – not only for the sake of keeping my tale as complete as I can but also to teach the stay-at-home reader that there are some very odd bods out there.
As reported at the end of the previous chapter, I was also allowed to accompany others on raiding parties. This is a privilege that in garrisons is not accorded to any Tom, Dick or Harry but marks out your proper soldier. So it was that, one fine day, nineteen of us rode out together into the under-margravate. Our task was to see if we could spot, upriver from Strasbourg, a boat secretly carrying a number of Weimar officers and stores. Above Ottenheim we commandeered a fishing vessel to take us across to an island that was ideally situated for forcing boats coming down from Basel into the bank. Ten of us made the crossing successfully, but when one of our number (who was usually good with boats) was ferrying the other nine, including myself, the vessel suddenly capsized, dumping us all in the drink. Rather than waste time looking around for the others, I looked after myself. I splashed around with all my might, using all the skills of the good swimmer. However, the river played with me like a ball, now tossing me high, now plunging me to the depths. I reacted valiantly, drawing a deep breath each time I surfaced. Had the water been colder, I wouldn’t have lasted so long and escaped with my life. I made umpteen attempts to reach the bank, but the currents wouldn’t let go of me, hurling me this way and that. In no time, it seemed, I was sweeping past Goldscheuer, and yet the seconds dragged by as despair descended. As I left the village behind me and was preparing, dead or alive, to pass beneath the bridge at Strasbourg, what was left of my attention was drawn to some branches poking out of the water up ahead. The river, luckily, was carrying me straight towards them, and by harnessing the force of the water and my own exertions I grabbed the biggest one and hauled myself up into what I’d originally taken for a solidly rooted tree. However, the rushing river and the tumbling waves made the branch I was sitting on bounce about violently, making me feel so sick I could have spewed my guts up. As I clung on, the whole scene started to whirl before my eyes. I was tempted just to slip back into the water, but I knew I wasn’t up to mustering a fraction of the effort I’d made so far. I must stay where I was, waiting for an uncertain rescue that could only come from God – but it had better come soon, I muttered, otherwise I’d be toast. My conscience was small comfort to me, reminding me over and over again how, only a couple of years earlier, I’d so lightly refused his most gracious offer of assistance. However, hoping against hope, I now prayed as fervently as a product of convent school. I vowed solemnly to live a holier life in future. In fact, I made various vows: I renounced the soldier’s life altogether and swore I’d never go on another raiding party. I flung away my ammo pouch and satchel, and I was all for becoming a hermit again, doing penance for my sins, throwing myself on God’s mercy, and giving thanks to him day after day for my eventual rescue (hopefully) until my life’s end. As things turned out, I spent another two or three hours clinging to my branch before I saw, approaching down the Rhine, the very vessel that I and my party had come there to watch for. My cry for help, though uttered for the sake of God and the Last Judgement, was a tad feeble. However, since the boat had to pass quite close to me, giving those on board a better idea of my confoundedly dangerous plight, the crew and passengers were all moved to pity. I knew because they steered for the bank immediately to discuss how best to come to my aid.
The whirlpools set up by the roots and branches of the tree I was perched on made it impossible for anyone to swim to me in safety or for any kind of craft to approach. So it took time for words to become deeds, and you can well imagine my feelings meanwhile. Finally, a couple of fellows rowed over in a dinghy to a point just upstream. They floated a rope down towards me, keeping hold of one end as I grabbed the other and with great difficulty bound it around my body as well as I could. Then, like a hooked fish, I was hauled in and bundled over the side of the dinghy.
Having thus escaped death, I ought really to have dropped to my knees on the bank and thanked God in his mercy for rescuing me. In other respects, too, I should have made a start at improving my modus vivendi as in my hour of need I’d vowed to do. Hell, no! When asked who I was and how I’d got into that pickle, I began lying fit to bust. What I thought was, if you say you were out to help loot them, they’ll chuck you right back in the water. So I pretended to be an unemployed organist heading for Strasbourg and trying to get another job on the other side, possibly in a school or somewhere of the sort. However, a raiding party had seized me, stripped me, and tossed me in the Rhine, which had then swept me down to said tree. Realizing that such tall tales might fill my belly, particularly when backed up with oaths, I made them thoroughly convincing and was rewarded with any amount of food and drink. To put me back on my feet, they said – and I certainly needed that.
At the Strasbourg customs, most of the crew went ashore and I went with them. As I was thanking the men heartily, I noticed among the disembarkees a young tradesman whose face, gait and gestures struck me as familiar. I’d seen him before, I thought, and as soon as he spoke I remembered where: he was that cornet of horse who’d taken me prisoner. How such a bold young military man had descended to commercial traveller, I couldn’t imagine, particularly when he was such a gent. Curious to know whether my eyes and ears had deceived me, I went up to him and said, ‘Von Schönstein, surely?’ But he retorted, ‘I’m no von Schönstein, I’m in trade.’ ‘And I’m no Huntsman of Soest,’ I replied. ‘I’m an out-of-work organist. Correction: I’m a common beggar.’ ‘Friend!’ he cried. ‘What the deuce brings you here?’ ‘Brother!’ I exclaimed. ‘If heaven has appointed you my life-saver (and this is the second time it’s happened), fate has clearly ordained that I must dog your heels!’ And we promptly linked arms, two bosom friends who’d once sworn to love each other until the grave. He insisted that I accompany him to his lodgings and give him all my news from the time I’d left L. for Cologne to collect my hoard. I complied willingly, even including in my account how I’d been a member of a raiding party sent to look out for the boat he’d been on, plus what had happened to us. However, about Paris I kept mum. I was worried he might say something back in L. and create a stink with my wife. He for his part told me in confidence that the Hessian generals had sent him to consult Duke Bernard, Prince of Weimar, regarding various matters of huge importance to the war effort and to discuss future assaults and campaigns. He was now on his way back, disguised as a commercial traveller, as I could see. He also reported that at the time of his departure my dearest (now in the family way) had, together with her parents and relations, been in good health, and that the colonel was keeping my ensign’s position open. He also teased me lightly about my pockmarks, saying my looks were now so ruined that neither my wife nor any of the L. womenfolk would still recognize me as the Huntsman – that sort of thing. We further agreed that I should move in with him and that we should make the journey back to L. together, which chimed perfectly with my plans. Moreover, since I had only the rags I stood up in, he lent me some money to kit myself out as a salesman’s assistant.
However, they say: if a thing’s not meant to happen, it doesn’t. And I was soon to have proof of that. As we sailed on down the river and the boat was inspected at Rheinhausen, I was spotted by the men from Philippsburg, seized again and whisked back to my life as a musketeer in that town. My cornet friend was as vexed as I was at having to say goodbye for the second time. However, there wasn’t much he could do for me; he had his own life to live.
Eleven
Why holy men shouldn’t eat hare that’s been noosed
So, gentle readers will have learnt into wh
at physical danger I fell. However, as regards spiritual risk, too, I want them to know what a hellraiser I became as a musketeer. God and his word I’d no time for. No mischief was too great for me. No mercy that God had ever shown me, no good deed he’d ever done me did I spare a thought for. I lived neither for this world nor the next; I lived only for the day. I was an animal. No one, but no one would have thought so pious a hermit had raised me. I went to church only rarely; to confession, never. And while I cared nothing for the salvation of my soul, my fellow man obsessed me. If there was anyone I could cheat, I cheated them. I wanted to be famous for it. No one was safe from me – no one. I took many beatings. Even more often I got to sit on the donkey. I was even threatened with the gallows and the ducking stool. But none of it deterred me from my godless career. ‘He’s going to hell in a handcart,’ they all said, and I was in a hurry. I took care to dodge crimes that might have cost me my life, but I was a hellraiser – that they agreed. Such a hellraiser, indeed, that, wizards and sodomites aside, you’d meet few more wicked individuals.
This brought me to the attention of our regimental chaplain, and although he was one of your more pious Holy Joes, when Easter came and went without my presenting myself for confession and communion, he wanted to know why. However, his many well-intentioned reminders came up against the same brick wall as the priest back at L. had run into. The good Lord just wasn’t my bag, I told him. And since it seemed neither Christ nor his Holy Baptism did anything for me, he said eventually, ‘You poor fellow! I’d put your errors down to ignorance, but now I see that you persist in sinning through a blend of pure wickedness and sheer stubbornness. Oh dear! And who do you suppose will take pity on your poor soul and mourn your downfall? I for my part declare before God and the world that I am in no way to blame for your damnation. I’ve done all I can and was prepared to go on, undaunted, doing whatever was necessary to promote your salvation. However, I fear that in future my sole duty will be to see to it that, when your poor soul departs to hell, your body is not buried in the consecrated ground set apart for other pious Christians but dragged to the lime pit and flung in with the corpses of dead beasts or dumped in the place where other godforsaken creatures go.’
This solemn threat did as little good as previous warnings, for the simple reason that I was embarrassed to visit the confessional. I was a fool, possibly. I’d often brag in company about my fiendish tricks, even throwing in a few porkies for good measure. But kneeling at the feet of a single bloke who represented my Maker, confessing my sins to him, and humbly receiving absolution – that took my breath away, it really did! I thought, ‘I fight in the Emperor’s army. I serve him as a soldier, so it will hardly be a surprise if I die as a soldier. And not all soldiers get to be buried in consecrated ground. In a corner of the battlefield, maybe. Or in a ditch somewhere. Or they end up in the bellies of wolves or crows. Whatever, there’s a good chance it won’t be in a graveyard.’
That’s how we parted, the cleric and I. The only thing his God-bothering got him was that once, when he’d eagerly begged a hare off me, I said ‘No’, pointing out that, having strung itself up (in the snare, you see) and so taken its own life, the creature ought not to be buried in consecrated ground.
Twelve
Simplicius is unexpectedly spared further musketry
I didn’t improve, then; in fact, I grew worse as time went on. One day the colonel told me that, since I was determined to behave badly, he was thinking of giving me a dishonourable discharge. But so confident was I that he didn’t mean it, I asked: wouldn’t it be simpler to hand me over to his hangman? As a result he changed his mind, knowing full well that I’d see it not as a punishment but as a favour if he let me go. So a musketeer I had to stay, much against my will, plagued with hunger until summer arrived. But the nearer Count von Götz advanced, the nearer came my salvation. Götz was based in Bruchsal, you see, from where his generals dispatched my Herzbruder (the man I’d unquestioningly helped out with money in the camp outside Magdeburg) to the citadel in which I was serving. Ulrich was received with great pomp. I happened to be on sentry duty outside the colonel’s quarters at the time, and although he was dressed in a black velvet gown I recognized him instantly. However, I didn’t have the nerve to address him there and then; I knew I must tread carefully. Given the way of the world, that might have embarrassed him or presented him with some other excuse for not recognizing me. His outfit suggested he was a big cheese, while I was a flea-ridden musketeer. But once I’d been relieved I did hunt out his servant and enquire after his rank and name; I wanted to be sure I wasn’t talking to the wrong person. Still unable to summon up the courage to talk to him, I wrote him this note instead and had his man deliver it to him next day:
Monsieur, etc.,
If the est. gent. so desired, the wretched captive he once so valiantly set free from irons and shackles at the Battle of Wittstock he could now, through His highly adventitious appearance, deliver from the state of inestimable misery into which that unfortunate has sunk as the abandoned plaything of an inconstant fate. Not only would he find this a simple matter to accomplish; he would also, in accomplishing it, earn the undying gratitude of his faithfully obligated but currently utterly forlorn and abandoned servant,
S. Simplicissimus
As soon as he’d read this he sent for me and said, ‘My compatriot, where is the fellow who gave you this note?’ I replied, ‘Sir, he’s imprisoned in this very citadel.’ ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I want you to go to him and say: I’ll help him escape even if he’s got a noose around his neck already.’ ‘Sir,’ I said, ‘there’s no need for that. I’m that poor Simp, and I’ve come in person not just to thank the gentleman for rescuing me at Wittstock but also to ask him to relieve me of my musket immediately – the one I’ve been made to carry against my will.’ He wouldn’t let me finish but gave plentiful proof of his eagerness to help me. To cut a long story short, he did everything one faithful friend should do for the other, and before asking me how I came to be in the place at all, let alone trapped in such servitude, he sent his servant out to the local Jew to buy me a horse and some new togs. Meanwhile I told him everything that had happened to me since his father had died in that camp outside Magdeburg, and when he found out I was the Huntsman of Soest (whom he’d heard many a fighting man praise to the skies) he said how sorry he was not to have known that before. He’d have been glad to help get me a command.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 33
