Arthur O'Leary: His Wanderings And Ponderings In Many Lands

‘Plunged in these sad reflections, I sat on a little eminence of rock behind the party, while they reposed themselves during the heat of noon. The point I occupied afforded a view for some miles of the road we had travelled, and I turned to see if our cavalry detachment was coming up; when, as I strained my eyes in the direction, I thought I could perceive an object moving along the road, and stooping from time to time. I seized my glass, and now could distinctly perceive the figure of a man coming slowly onwards. That we had not passed him on the way was quite evident, and he must therefore have been on the mountain, or in concealment beside the road. Either thought was sufficient to excite my suspicion, and without a second’s delay I sprang into the saddle, and putting my horse to his speed galloped back as fast as I could. As I came nearer, I half fancied I saw the figure move to one side and then back again, as though irresolute how to act; and fearing lest he should escape me by taking to the mountain, I called to him aloud to halt. He stood still as I spoke, and I now came up beside him. He was an old man, seemingly over eighty years of age; his hair and beard were white as snow, and he was bent almost double with time; his dress was the common costume of a Tyrolese, except that he wore in addition a kind of cloak with a loose hood, such as the pilgrims wear in Austria; and indeed his staff and leathern bottle bespoke him such. To all my questions as to the road and the villages he replied in a kind of patois I could make nothing of, for although tolerably well versed in all the dialects of Southern Germany, his was quite unintelligible to me. Still, the question how he came there was one of great moment; if he had been concealed while we passed so near, why not others? His age and decrepitude forbade the thought of his having descended the mountain, and so I felt puzzled in no common degree. As these doubts passed through my mind, the poor old man stood trembling at my side as though fearing what fate might be in store for him. Anxious to recompense him for the trouble I had caused him, I drew out my purse; but no sooner did he see it than he motioned it away with his hand, and shook his head in token of refusal.

‘“Come, then,” said I, “I never met a pilgrim who would refuse a cup of wine;” and with that I unslung my canteen and handed it to him. This he seized eagerly and drained it to the bottom, holding up both hands when he had finished, and muttering something I conjectured to be a prayer. He was the only living object belonging to the country that I had seen; a sudden whim seized me, and I gave him back the flask, making a sign that he should keep it. He clutched the gift with the avidity of old age, and sitting down upon a stone began to admire it with eager eyes. Despairing of making him understand a word, and remembering it was time to move forward, I waved my hand in adieu and galloped back.

‘The cavalry detachment came up soon after; and guess my astonishment to learn that they had not seen the old man on the road, nor, although they narrowly watched the mountain, perceived any living thing near. I confess I could not dismiss a feeling of uncomfortable suspicion from my mind, and all the reflections I bestowed upon his age and decrepitude were very far from reassuring me. More than once I regretted not having brought him forward with us; but again the fact of having such a prisoner would have exposed me to ridicule at headquarters, if not to a heavy reprimand.

‘Full of these reflections, I gave the word to move forward. Our object was, if possible, to reach the opening of the Mittenwald before night, where I was informed that a small dismantled fort would afford a secure position if attacked by any mountain party. On comparing the route of the map, however, with the road, I discovered that the real distances were in many cases considerably greater than they were set down, and perceived that with all our efforts we could not hope to emerge from the ravine of the Schwartz-thal before the following day. This fact gave me much uneasiness; for I remembered having heard that as the glen approaches the Mittenwald, the pass is narrowed to a mere path, obstructed at every step by masses of fallen rock, while the mountains, more thickly covered with underwood, afford shelter for any party lying in ambush. Nothing could be more fatal than an attack in such a position, where a few determined men in front could arrest the march of a whole regiment; while from the close sides of the pass, a well-directed fire must sweep the ranks of those below. This gorge, which, narrowing to a mere portal, has been called the Mitten-Thor, was the scene of some fearful struggles between the French troops and the Tyrolese, and was always believed to be the most dangerous of all the passes of the Tyrol – every despatch to the headquarters of the army referring to the disasters that befell there, and suggesting plans for the occupation of the blockhouse near it, as a means of defence.

‘By the advice of my officers, one of whom was already acquainted with all the circumstances of the ground, I determined on halting at a part of the glen about two miles from the Mitten-Thor, where a slight widening of the valley afforded more space for movement if attacked; and here we arrived as evening was beginning to fall. It was a small oval spot between the mountains, through which a little stream ran, dividing it almost into equal portions, and crossed by a bridge of rude planks, to which a little path conducted, and led up the mountains. Scarcely were our watch-fires lighted when the moon rose, and although herself not visible to our eyes as we lay in the deep valley, a rich flood of silver light fell on one range of the mountains, marking out every cliff and crag with the distinctness of day. The opposite mountain, wrapped in deepest shadow, was one mass of undistinguishable blackness, and seemed to frown ominously and gloomily upon us. The men were wearied with a long march, and soon lay down to rest beside their fires; and save the low subdued hum of the little encampment, the valley was in perfect silence. On the bridge, from which the pass was visible for a good distance in both directions, I had placed a lookout sentry; and a chain of patrols was established around the bivouac.

‘These arrangements, which occupied me some time, being completed, I threw myself down beside my fire, and prepared for sleep. But somehow, though I had passed a day of fatigue and exertion, I could not slumber; every time I closed my eyes the vision of the old pilgrim was before me, and a vague, undefined feeling of apprehension hung over me. I tried to believe it was a mere fancy, attributable to the place, of whose terrors I had heard so much; but my mind dwelt on all the disasters of the Schwartz-thal, and banished every desire for repose.

As I lay there, thinking, my eyes were attracted by a little rocky point, about thirty feet above me on the mountain, on which the full splendour of the moonlight shone at intervals as the dark clouds drifted from before her; and a notion took me – why and how I never could explain to myself – to ascend the crag, and take a view down the valley. A few minutes after, and I was seated on the rock, from which I could survey the pass and the encampment stretched out beneath me. It was just such a scene as Salvator used to paint – the wild fantastic mountains, bristling with rude pines and fragments of granite; a rushing torrent, splashing and boiling beneath; a blazing watch-fire, and the armed group around it, their weapons glancing in the red light; while, to add to the mere picture, there came the monotonous hum of the soldier’s song as he walked to and fro upon his post.

‘I sat a long while gazing at this scene, many a pleasant thought of that bandit life we Germans feel such interest in, from Schiller’s play, passing through my mind, when I heard the rustling of leaves, and a crackling sound as of broken branches, issue from the mountain almost directly above me. There was not a breath of wind nor a leaf stirring, save there. I listened eagerly, and was almost certain I could hear the sound of voices talking in a low undertone. Cautiously stealing along, I began to descend the mountain, when, as I turned a projecting angle of the path, I saw the sentry on the bridge with his musket at his shoulder, taking a steady and deliberate aim at some object in the direction of the noise. While I looked, he fired; a crashing sound of the branches followed the report, and something like a cry, and as the echoes died away in the distance a heavy mass tumbled over the cliff, and fell from ledge to ledge till it rolled into the deep grass below. I had but time to perceive it was the corpse of a man fully armed, when the quick roll of the drum beat to arms. In an instant the men were formed; the cavalry standing beside their horses, and the officers crowding around me for orders. It was the discharge of the sentry’s musket had given the alarm; for, save himself, no one had seen anything.

‘Just then a wild unearthly cry of “Ha! ha!” rang out from one mountain and was answered from the other; while the sounds, increasing and multiplied by the echoes, floated hither and thither, as though ten thousand voices were shouting there. They ceased; all was still for a few seconds, and then a hailstorm of bullets tore through our ranks, and the valley rang again with the roar of musketry. Every cliff and crag, every tuft of brushwood, seemed to be occupied; while the incessant roll of the fire showed that our assailants were in great numbers. Resistance was vain; our enemy was unseen; our men were falling at each discharge; what was to be done? Nothing remained but to push forward to the Mittenwald, where, the valley opening into a plain, we should be able to defend ourselves against any irregular troops that might be brought against us. The order was given, and the men advanced in a run, the cavalry leading the way. Meanwhile the fire of the Tyrolese increased, and the fatal marksmen seldom missed a shot; two of our officers already lay dead, and three others dangerously wounded could scarce keep up with our party.

‘“The road is barricaded and intrenched,” cried the sergeant of the dragoons, galloping back to the main body in dismay.

‘A cry broke from the soldiers as they heard the sad tidings, while some springing from their ranks called out, “Forward, and to the storm!”

‘Rushing to the head of these brave fellows, I waved my cap, and cheered them on; the others followed, and we soon came in sight of the barrier, which was formed of large trees thrown crossways, and forming, by their massive trunks and interwoven branches, an obstacle far beyond our power to remove. To climb the stockade was our only chance, and on we rushed; but scarcely were we within half-musket-shot, when a volley met us directed point-blank. The leading files of the column went down like one man, and though others rushed eagerly forward, despair and desperation goading them, the murderous fire of the long rifles dealt death at every discharge; and we stood among the cumbered corpses of our fellow comrades. By this time we were attacked in rear as well as front; and now, all hope gone, it only remained to sell life as dearly as we could. One infuriated rush to break through the barricade had forced a kind of passage, through which, followed by a dozen others, I leaped, shouting to my men to follow. The cry of my triumph was, however, met by a wilder still, for the same instant a party of Tyrolese, armed with the two-handed sword of their country, came down upon us. The struggle was a brief and bloody one; man for man fell at either side, but overcome by numbers I saw my companions drop dead or wounded around me. As for myself, I clove the leader through the skull with one stroke. It was the last my arm ever dealt; the next instant it was severed from my body. I fell covered with blood, and my assailant jumped upon my body, and drawing a short knife from his belt was about to plunge it in my bosom, when a shout from a wounded Tyrolese at my side arrested the stroke, and I saw an uplifted arm stretched out as if to protect me. I have little memory after this. I heard – I think I hear still – the wild shouts and the death-cries of my comrades as they fell beneath the arm of their enemies. The slaughter was a dreadful one; of eight hundred and forty men, I alone survived that terrible night.

‘Towards daybreak I found myself lying in a cart upon some straw, beside another wounded man dressed in the uniform of the Tyrolese Jagers. His head was fearfully gashed by a sabre-cut, and a musket-ball had shattered his forearm. As I looked at him, a grim smile of savage glee lit up his pale features, and he looked from my wound to his own with a horrid significance. All my efforts to learn the fate of my comrades were fruitless; he could neither comprehend me nor I him, and it was only by conjecturing from the tones and gestures of those who occasionally came up to the cart to speak to him, that I could learn the fearful reality.

‘That day and the following one we journeyed onwards, but I knew naught of time. The fever of my wound, increased by some styptic they had used to stop the bleeding, had brought on delirium, and I raved of the fight, and strove to regain my legs and get free. To this paroxysm, which lasted many days, a low lingering fever succeeded, in which all consciousness was so slight that no memory has remained to tell of my sensations.

‘My first vivid sensation – it is before me at this minute – was on entering the little mountain village of the Marien Kreutz. I was borne on a litter by four men, for the path was inaccessible except to foot passengers. It was evening, and the long procession of the wounded men wound its way up the mountain defile and along the little street of the village, which now was crowded by the country-people, who with sad and tearful faces stood looking on their sons and brothers, or asking for those whom they were never to behold again. The little chapel of the village was converted into a hospital, and here beds were brought from every cabin, and all the preparations for tending the sick began with a readiness that surprised me.

‘As they bore me up the aisle of the chapel, a voice called out some words in Tyrolese; the men halted and turned round, and then carried me back into a small chapelry, where a single sick man was lying, whom in an instant I recognised as my wounded companion of the road. With a nod of rude but friendly recognition, he welcomed me, and I was placed near him on a straw mattress stretched beneath the altar.

‘Why I had been spared in the fearful carnage, and for what destiny I was reserved, were thoughts which rapidly gave way to others of deep despondency at my fortune – a despair that made me indifferent to life. The dreadful issue of the expedition would, I well knew, have ruined more prosperous careers than mine in that service, where want of success was the greatest of all crimes. Careless of my fate, I lived on in gloomy apathy, not one gleam of hope or comfort to shine upon the darkness of my misery.

‘This brooding melancholy took entire possession of me, and I took no note of the scenes around me. My ear was long since accustomed to the sad sounds of the sickbeds; the cries of suffering, and the low moanings of misery had ceased to move me; even the wild and frantic ravings of the wounded man near broke not in upon my musings, and I lived like one immured within a solitary dungeon.

‘I lay thus one night – my sadness and gloom weightier than ever on my broken spirits – listening to the echoed sounds of suffering that rose into the vaulted roof, and wishing for death to call me away from such a scene of misery, when I heard the low chanting of a priest coming along the aisle; and the moment after the footsteps of several persons came near, and then two acolytes, carrying lighted tapers, appeared, followed by a venerable man robed in white, and bearing in his hands a silver chalice. Two other priests followed him, chanting the last service, and behind all there came a female figure dressed in deep mourning; she was tall and graceful-looking, and her step had the firm tread of youth, but her head was bowed down with sorrow, and she held her veil pressed closely over her face. They gathered round the bed of the wounded man, and the priest took hold of his hand and lifted it slowly from the bed; and letting it go, it fell heavily down again, with a dull sound. The old man bent over the bed, touched the pale features, and gazed into the eyes, and then with clasped hands he sank down on his knees and prayed aloud; the others knelt beside him – all save one; she threw herself with frantic grief upon the dead body (for he was dead) and wept passionately. In vain they strove to calm her sorrow, or even withdraw her from the spot. She clung madly to it, and would not be induced to leave it.

‘I think I see her still before me – her long hair, black as night, streaming back from her pale forehead, and hanging down her shoulders; her eyes fixed on the dead man’s face, and her hands pressed hard upon her heart, as if to lull its agony. In all the wild transport of her grief she was beautiful; for although pale to sickness, and worn with watching, her large and lustrous eyes, her nose straight and finely chiselled like the features of an antique cameo, and her mouth, where mingled pride and sorrow trembled, gave her an expression of loveliness I cannot convey. Such was she, as she watched beside her brother’s death-bed day and night, silent and motionless; for as the first burst of grief was over she seemed to nerve her courage to the task; and even when the hour came, and they bore the body away to its last resting-place, not a sigh or sob escaped her.

‘The vacant spot – though it had been tenanted by suffering and misery – brought gloom to my heart. I had been accustomed each day to look for him at sunrise, and each evening to see him as the light of day declined; and I sorrowed like one deserted and alone. Not all alone! for, as if by force of habit, when evening came, she was at her place near the altar.

‘The fever, and my own anxious thoughts, preyed on my mind that night; and as I lay awake I felt parched and hot, and wished to drink, and I endeavoured with my only arm to reach the cup beside me. She saw the effort, and sprang towards me at once; and as she held it to my lips, I remembered then that often in the dreary nights of my sickness I had seen her at my bedside, nursing me and tending me. I muttered a word of gratitude in German, when she started suddenly, and stooping down, said in a clear accent —

‘“Bist du ein Deutscher (Are you a German)?”

‘“Yes,” said I, mournfully, for I saw her meaning.

‘“Shame! shame!” cried she, holding up her hands in horror. “If the wolves ravage the flocks it is but their nature; but that our own kindred, our very flesh and blood, should do this – ”

‘I turned my head away in very sorrow and self-abasement, and a convulsive sob burst from my heart.

‘“Nay, nay, not so,” said she, “a poor peasant like me cannot judge what motives may have influenced you and others like you; and after all,” and she spoke the words in a trembling voice – “and after all, you succoured him when you believed him sick and weary.”

‘“I! how so? It never was in my power – ”

‘“Yes, yes,” cried she, passionately; “it was you. This gourde was yours; he told me so; he spoke of you a hundred times.” And at the instant, she held up the little flask I had given to the pilgrim in the valley.

‘“And was the pilgrim then – ”

‘“Yes,” said she, as a proud flash lit up her features, “he was my brother; many a weary mile he wandered over mountain and moor to track you; faint and hungry, he halted not, following your footsteps from the first hour you entered our land. Think you but for him that you had been spared that nights slaughter, or that for any cause but his a Tyrolese girl had watched beside your sick-bed, and prayed for your recovery?”

‘The whole truth now flashed upon me; every circumstance doubtful before became at once clear to my mind, and I eagerly asked the fate of my comrades.

‘A gloomy shake of the head was the only reply.

‘“All?” said I, trembling at the word.

‘“All!” repeated she, in an accent whose pride seemed almost amounting to ferocity.

‘“Would I had perished with them!” cried I, in the bitterness of my heart, and I turned my face away and gave myself up to my grief.

‘As if sorry for the burst of feeling she had caused me, she sat down beside my bed, took my hand in hers, and placed her cold lips upon it, while she murmured some words of comfort. Like water to the seared, parched lips of some traveller in the desert, the accents fell upon my almost broken heart, suggesting a thought of hope where, all was darkness and despair, I listened to each word with a tremulous fear lest she should cease to speak, and dreading that my ecstasy were but a dream. From that hour, I wished to live; a changed spirit came over me, and I felt as though with higher and more ennobling thoughts I should once more tread the earth. Yes, from the humble lips of a peasant girl I learned to feel that the path I once deemed the only road to heroism and high ambition could be but “the bandit’s trade,” who sells his blood for gain. That war which animated by high-souled patriotism can call forth every sentiment of a great and generous nature, becomes in an unjust cause the lowest slavery and degradation. Lydchen seldom quitted my bedside, for my malady took many turns, and it was long – many months – after that I was enabled to leave my bed and move up and down the chapel.

‘Meanwhile the successes of our army had gradually reduced the whole country beneath French rule, and except in the very fastnesses of the mountains the Tyrolese had nowhere they could call their own. Each day some peasant would arrive from the valleys with information that fresh troops were pouring in from Germany, and the hopes of the patriotic party fell lower and lower. At last one evening as I sat on the steps of the little altar, listening to Lydchen reading for me some Tyrol legend, a wild shout in the street of the village attracted our notice, which seemed to gain strength as it came nearer. She started up suddenly, and throwing down her book rushed from the chapel. In another moment she was back beside me, her face pale as a corpse, and her limbs trembling with fear.

‘“What has happened? Speak, for God’s sake! what is it?” said I.

‘“The French have shot the prisoners in the Platz at Innspruck! twenty-eight have fallen this morning,” cried she, “seven from this very village; and now they cry aloud for your blood; hear them, there!”

‘And as she spoke a frightful yell hurst from the crowd without, and already they stood at the entrance to the chapel, which even at such a time they had not forgotten was a sanctuary. The very wounded men sat up in their beds and joined their feeble cries to those without, and the terrible shout of “blood for blood!” rang through the vaulted roof.

‘“I am ready,” said I, springing up from the low step of the altar. “They must not desecrate this holy spot with such a crime. I am ready to go where you will.”

‘“No, no,” cried Lydchen; “you are not like our enemies. You wish us naught of evil; your heart is with the struggle of a brave people, who fight but for their homes and Fatherland. Be of us, then; declare that you are with us. Oh, do this, and these will be your brothers and I your sister; ay, more than sister ever was.”

‘“It cannot be; no, never,” said I; “it is not when life is in the balance that fealty can change.”

‘With difficulty I freed myself from the clasp of her arms, for in her grief she had thrown herself at my feet, when suddenly we heard the deep accents of the aged priest, as he stood upon the steps of the altar, and commanded silence. His tones were those of severity and sternness, and I could mark that not a murmur was raised as he continued.

‘“You are safe,” whispered Lydchen; “till to-morrow you are safe; before that you must be far away.”

‘The respite of the priest was merely to give me time to prepare for death, which it was decreed I should suffer the following morning in the Platz of the village.

‘Scarcely had evening begun to fall when Lydchen approached my bed and deposited a small bundle upon it, whispering gently, “Lose no time; put on these clothes, and wait for my return.”

‘The little chapelry where I lay communicated by a small door with the dwelling of the priest, and by her passing through this I saw that the father was himself conniving at the plan of my escape. By the imperfect glimmer of the fading day I could perceive that they were her brother’s clothes she had brought me; the jacket was yet stained with his blood. I was long in equipping myself, with my single arm, and I heard her voice more than once calling to me to hasten, ere I was ready.