Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II. Lever Charles James

have known her.”

      “What of her? where is she?” said I, burning with impatience.

      “She’s with the wounded, up at Reygern yonder. They sent for her to Heilbrunn yesterday, where she was with the reserve battalions. Ma foi! you don’t think our fellows would do without Minette at the ambulance, where there was a battle to be fought. They say they’d hard work enough to make her come up. After all, she’s a strange girl; that she is.”

      “How was that? Has she taken offence with the Fourth?”

      “No, that is not it; she likes the old regiment in her heart. I’d never believe she didn’t; but” (here he dropped his voice to a low whisper, as if dreading to be overheard by the wounded man), “but they say – who knows if it’s true? – that when she was left behind at Ulm or Elchingen, or somewhere up there on the Danube, that there was a young fellow – I heard his name, too, but I forget it – who was brought in badly wounded, and that mademoiselle was left to watch and nurse him. He got well in time, for the thing was not so serious as they thought. And what do you think was the return he made the poor girl? He seduced her!”

      “It’s false! false as hell!” cried I, bursting with passion. “Who has dared to spread such a calumny?”

      “Don’t be angry, mon lieutenant; there are plenty to answer for the report. And if it was yourself – ”

      “Yes; it was by my bedside she watched; it was to me she gave that care and kindness by which I recovered from a dangerous wound. But so far from this base requital – ”

      “Why did she leave you, then, and march night and day with the chasseur brigade into the Tyrol? Why did she tell her friends that she’d never see the old Fourth again? Why did she fret herself into an illness – ”

      “Did she do this, poor girl?”

      “Ay, that she did. But, mayhap, you never heard of all this. I can only say, mon lieutenant, that you’d be safer in a broken square, charged by a heavy squadron, than among the Fourth, after what you ‘ve done.”

      I turned indignantly from him without a reply; for while my pride revolted at answering an accusation from such a quarter, my mind was harassed by the sad fate of poor Minette, and perplexed how to account for her sudden departure. My silence at once arrested my companion’s speech, and we walked along the remainder of the way without a word on either side.

      The day was just breaking when the first wagon of the convoy entered the gates of the convent. It was an enormous mass of building, originally destined for the reception of about three thousand persons; for, in addition to the priestly inhabitants, there were two great hospitals and several schools included within the walls. This, before the battle, had been tenanted by the staffs of many general officers and the corps of engineers and sappers, but now was entirely devoted to the wounded of either army; for Austrians and Russians were everywhere to be met with, receiving equal care and attention with our own troops.

      It was the first time I had witnessed a military hospital after a battle, and the impression was too fearful to be ever forgotten by me.

      The great chambers and spacious rooms of the convent were soon found inadequate for the numbers who arrived; and already the long corridors and passages of the building were crowded with beds, between which a narrow path scarcely permitted one person to pass. Here, promiscuously, without regard to rank, officers in command lay side by side with the meanest privates, awaiting the turn of medical aid, as no other order was observed than the necessities of each case demanded. A black mark above the bed, indicating that the patient’s state was hopeless, proclaimed that no further attention need be bestowed; while the same mark, with a white bar across it, implied that it was a case for operation. In this way the surgeons who arrived at each moment from different corps of the army discovered, at a glance, where their services were required, and not a minute’s time was lost.

      The dreadful operations of surgery – for which, in the events of every-day life, every provision of delicate secrecy, and every minute detail which can alleviate dread, are so rigidly studied, – were here going forward on every side; the horrible preparations moved from bed to bed with a rapidity which showed that where suffering so abounded there was no time for sympathy; and the surgeons, with arms bare to the shoulder and bedaubed with blood, toiled away as though life no longer moved in the creeping flesh beneath the knife, and human agony spoke not aloud with every motion of their hand.

      “Place there! move forward!” said an hospital surgeon, as they carried up the litter on which Pioche lay stretched and senseless.

      “What’s this?” cried a surgeon, leaning forward, and placing his hand on the sick man’s pulse. “Ah! take him back again; it ‘s all over there!”

      “Oh, no!” cried I, in agony, “it can scarcely be; they lifted him alive from the wagon.”

      “He’s not dead, sir,” replied the surgeon, in a whisper, “but he will soon be; there’s internal bleeding going on from that wound, and a few hours, or less perhaps must close the scene.”

      “Can nothing be done? nothing?”

      “I fear not.” He opened the jacket of the wounded man as he spoke, and slitting the inner clothes asunder with a quick stroke of his scissors, disclosed a tremendous sabre-wound in the side. “That is not the worst,” said he. “Look here,” pointing to a small bluish mark of a bullet hole above it; “here lies the mischief.”

      An hospital aid whispered something at the instant in the surgeon’s ear, to which he quickly replied, “When?”

      “This instant, sir; the ligature slipped, and – ”

      “Remove him,” was the reply. “Now, sir, I have a bed for your poor fellow here; but I have little hope to give you. His pulse is stronger, otherwise the endeavor would be lost time.”

      While they carried the litter forward, I perceived that another party were lifting from a bed near a figure, over whose face the sheet was carelessly thrown. I guessed from the gestures that the form they lifted was lifeless; the heavy sumph of the body upon the ground showed it beyond a doubt. The bearers replaced the dead man by the dying body of poor Pioche; and from a vague feeling of curiosity, I stooped down and drew back the sheet from the face of the corpse. As I did so, my limbs trembled, and I leaned back almost fainting against the wall. Pale with the pallor of death, but scarcely altered from life, I beheld the dead features of Amédée Pichot, the captain whose insolence had left an unsettled quarrel between us. The man for whose coming I waited to expiate an open insult, now lay cold and lifeless at my feet. What a rush of sensations passed through my mind as I gazed on that motionless mass! and oh, what gratitude my heart gushed to think that he did not fall by my hand!

      “A brave soldier, but a quarrelsome friend,” said the surgeon, stooping down to examine the wound, with all the indifference of a man who regarded life as a mere problem. “It was a cannon-shot carried it off.” As he said this, he disclosed the mangled remains of a limb, torn from the trunk too high to permit of amputation. “Poor Amédée! it was the death he always wished for. It was a strange horror he had of falling by the hand of an adversary, rather than being carried off thus. And now for the cuirassier.”

      So saying, he turned towards the bed on which Pioche lav, still as death itself. A few minutes’ careful investigation of the case enabled him to pronounce that although the chances were many against recovery, yet it was not altogether hopeless.

      “All will depend on the care of whoever watches him,” said the surgeon. “Symptoms will arise, requiring prompt attention and a change in treatment; and this is one of those cases where a nurse is worth a hundred doctors. Who takes charge of this bed?” he called aloud.

      “Minette, Monsieur,” said a sergeant. “She has lain down to take a little rest, for she was quite worn out with fatigue.”

      “Me voici!” said a silvery voice I knew at once to be hers. And the same instant she pierced the crowd around the bed, and approached the patient. No sooner had she beheld the features of the sick man than she reeled back, and grasped the arms of the persons on either side. For a few seconds