Although the passage of the Rhine was but the prelude to the attack on the fortress, that exploit being accomplished, Kehl was carried at the point of the bayonet, the French troops entering the outworks pell-mell with the retreating enemy, and in less than two hours after the landing of our first detachments, the tricolour waved over the walls of the fortress.

Lost amid the greater and more important successes which since that time have immortalised the glory of the French arms, it is almost impossible to credit the celebrity attached at that time to this brilliant achievement, whose highest merits probably were rapidity and resolution. Moreau had long been jealous of the fame of his great rival, Bonaparte, whose tactics, rejecting the colder dictates of prudent strategy, and the slow progress of scientific manouvres, seemed to place all his confidence in the sudden inspirations of his genius, and the indomitable bravery of his troops. It was necessary, then, to raise the morale of the army of the Rhine, to accomplish some great feat similar in boldness and heroism to the wonderful achievements of the Italian army. Such was the passage of the Rhine at Strasbourg, effected in the face of a great enemy, advantageously posted, and supported by one of the strongest of all the frontier fortresses.

The morning broke upon us in all the exultation of our triumph, and as our cheers rose high over the field of the late struggle, each heart beat proudly with the thought of how that news would be received in Paris.

‘You ‘ll see how the bulletin will spoil all,’ said a young officer of the army of Italy, as he was getting his wound dressed on the field. ‘There will be such a long narrative of irrelevant matter—such details of this, that, and t’ other—that the public will scarce know whether the placard announces a defeat or a victory.’

‘Parbleu!’ replied an old veteran of the Rhine army, ‘what would you have? You’d not desire to omit the military facts of such an exploit?’

‘To be sure I would,’ rejoined the other. ‘Give me one of our young general’s bulletins, short, stirring, and effective:—“Soldiers! you have crossed the Rhine against an army double your own in numbers and munitions of war. You have carried a fortress, believed impregnable, at the bayonet. Already the great flag of our nation waves over the citadel you have won. Forward, then, and cease not till it floats over the cities of conquered Germany, and let the name of France be that of Empire over the continent of Europe.’”

‘Ha! I like that, cried I enthusiastically; ‘that’s the bulletin to my fancy. Repeat it once more, mon lieutenant, that I may write it in my note-book.’

‘What! hast thou a note-book?’ cried an old staff-officer, who was preparing to mount his horse; ‘let’s see it, lad.’

With a burning cheek and trembling hand I drew my little journal from the breast of my jacket, and gave it to him.

‘Sacrebleu!’ exclaimed he, in a burst of laughter, ‘what have we here? Why, this is a portrait of old General Moricier, and although a caricature, a perfect likeness. And here comes a plan for manoeuvring a squadron by threes from the left. This is better—it is a receipt for an “Omelette À la Hussard”; and here we have a love-song, and a moustache-paste, with some hints about devotion, and diseased frog in horses. Most versatile genius, certainly!’ And so he went on, occasionally laughing at my rude sketches and ruder remarks, till he came to a page headed ‘Equitation, as practised by Officers of the Staff,’ and followed by a series of caricatures of bad riding, in all its moods and tenses. The flush of anger which instantly coloured his face soon attracted the notice of those about him, and one of the bystanders quickly snatched the book from his fingers, and, in the midst of a group all convulsed with laughter, proceeded to expatiate upon my illustrations. To be sure, they were absurd enough. Some were represented sketching on horseback, under shelter of an umbrella; others were ‘taking the depth of a stream’ by a ‘header’ from their own saddles; some again were ‘exploring ground for an attack in line,’ by a measurement of the rider’s own length over the head of his horse. Then there were ridiculous situations, such as ‘sitting down before a fortress,’ ‘taking an angle of incidence,’ and so on. Sorry jests all of them, but sufficient to amuse those with whose daily associations they chimed in, and to whom certain traits of portraiture gave all the zest of a personality.

My shame at the exposure, and my terror for its consequences, gradually yielded to a feeling of flattered vanity at the success of my lucubrations; and I never remarked that the staff-officer had ridden away from the group till I saw him galloping back at the top of his speed.

‘Is your name Tiernay, my good fellow?’ cried he, riding close up to my side, and with an expression on his features I did not half like.

‘Yes, sir,’ replied I.

‘Hussar of the Ninth, I believe?’ repeated he, reading from a paper in his hand.

‘The same, sir.’

‘Well, your talents as a draughtsman have procured you promotion, my friend; I have obtained your discharge from your regiment, and you are now my orderly—orderly on the staff, do you mind; so mount, sir, and follow me.’

I saluted him respectfully, and prepared to obey his orders. Already I foresaw the downfall of all the hopes I had been cherishing, and anticipated the life of tyranny and oppression that lay before me. It was clear to me that my discharge had been obtained solely as a means of punishing me, and that Captain Discau, as the officer was called, had destined me to a pleasant expiation of my note-book The savage exultation with which he watched me, as I made up my kit and saddled my horse—the cool malice with which he handed me back the accursed journal, the cause of all my disasters—gave me a dark foreboding of what was to follow; and as I mounted my saddle, my woeful face and miserable look brought forth a perfect shout of laughter from the bystanders.

Captain Discau’s duty was to visit the banks of the Rhine and the Eslar island, to take certain measurements of distances, and obtain accurate information on various minute points respecting the late engagement; for, while a brief announcement of the victory would suffice for the bulletin, a detailed narrative of the event in all its bearings must be drawn up for the minister of war, and for this latter purpose various staff-officers were then employed in different parts of the field.

As we issued from the fortress, and took our way over the plain, we struck out into a sharp gallop; but as we drew near the river, our passage became so obstructed by lines of baggage-waggons, tumbrils, and ammunition-carts, that we were obliged to dismount and proceed on foot; and now I was to see for the first time that dreadful picture which, on the day after a battle, forms the reverse of the great medal of glory. Huge litters of wounded men, on their way back to Strasbourg, were drawn by six or eight horses, their jolting motion increasing the agony of sufferings that found their vent in terrific cries and screams; oaths, yells, and blasphemies, the ravings of madness, and the wild shouts of infuriated suffering, filled the air on every side. As if to give the force of contrast to this uproar of misery, two regiments of Swabian infantry marched past as prisoners. Silent, crest-fallen, and wretched-looking, they never raised their eyes from the ground, but moved, or halted, wheeled, or stood at ease, as though by some impulse of mechanism; a cord coupled the wrists of the outer files one with another, which struck me less as a measure of security against escape, than as a mark of indignity.

Carts and charrettes with wounded officers, in which oftentimes the uniform of the enemy appeared side by side with our own, followed in long procession; and thus were these two great currents—the one hurrying forward, ardent, high-hearted, and enthusiastic; the other returning maimed, shattered, and dying!

It was an affecting scene to see the hurried gestures, and hear the few words of adieu, as they passed each other. Old comrades who were never to meet again, parted with a little motion of the hand; sometimes a mere look was all their leave-taking, save when, now and then, a halt would for a few seconds bring the lines together, and then many a bronzed and rugged cheek was pressed upon the faces of the dying, and many a tear fell from eyes bloodshot with the fury of the battle! Wending our way on foot slowly along, we at last reached the river-side, and having secured a small skiff, made for the Eslar island—our first business being to ascertain some details respecting the intrenchments there, and the depth and strength of the stream between it and the left bank. Discau, who was a distinguished officer, rapidly possessed himself of the principal facts he wanted, and then, having given me his portfolio, he seated himself under the shelter of a broken waggon, and opening a napkin, began his breakfast off a portion of a chicken and some bread-viands which, I own, more than once made my lips water as I watched him.

‘You’ve eaten nothing to-day, Tiernay?’ asked he, as he wiped his lips with the air of a man that feels satisfied.

‘Nothing, mon capitaine? replied I.

‘That’s bad,’ said he, shaking his head; ‘a soldier cannot do his duty if his rations be neglected. I have always maintained the principle: Look to the men’s necessaries—take care of their food and clothing. Is there anything on that bone there?’

‘Nothing, mon capitaine.’

‘I’m sorry for it—I meant it for you. Put up that bread, and the remainder of that flask of wine. Bourdeaux is not to be had every day. We shall want it for supper, Tiernay.’

I did as I was bid, wondering not a little why he said ‘we,’ seeing how little a share I occupied in the copartnery.

‘Always be careful of the morrow on a campaign, Tiernay—no squandering, no waste; that’s one of my principles,’ said he gravely, as he watched me while I tied up the bread and wine in the napkin. ‘You’ll soon see the advantage of serving under an old soldier.’

I confess the great benefit had not already struck me, but I held my peace and waited; meanwhile he continued—

‘I have studied my profession from my boyhood, and one thing I have acquired that all experience has confirmed—the knowledge that men must neither be taxed beyond their ability nor their endurance. A French soldier, after all, is human; eh, is’t not so?’

‘I feel it most profoundly, mon capitaine,’ replied I, with my hand on my empty stomach.

‘Just so,’ rejoined he; ‘every man of sense and discretion must confess it. Happily for you, too, I know it; ay, Tiernay I know it, and practise it. When a young fellow has acquitted himself to my satisfaction during the day—not that I mean to say that the performance has not its fair share of activity and zeal—when evening comes and stable duty finished, arms burnished, and accoutrements cleaned, what do you think I say to him?—eh, Tiernay—just guess now?’

‘Probably, sir, you tell him he is free to spend an hour at the canteen, or take his sweetheart to the theatre.’

‘What! more fatigue! more exhaustion to an already tired and worn-out nature!’

‘I ask pardon, sir, I see I was wrong; but I had forgotten how thoroughly the poor fellow was done up. I now see that you told him to go to bed.’

‘To bed! to bed! Is it that he might writhe in the nightmare, or suffer agony from cramps? To bed after fatigue like this! No, no, Tiernay; that was not the school in which I was brought up; we were taught to think of the men under our command; to remember that they had wants, sympathies, hopes, fears, and emotions like our own. I tell him to seat himself at the table, and with pen, ink, and paper before him, to write up the blanks. I see you don’t quite understand me, Tiernay, as to the meaning of the phrase, but I’ll let you into the secret. You have been kind enough to give me a peep at your note-book, and you shall in return have a look at mine. Open that volume, and tell me what you find in it.’

I obeyed the direction, and read at the top of a page the words, ‘Skeleton, 5th Prarial,’ in large characters, followed by several isolated words, denoting the strength of a brigade, the number of guns in a battery, the depth of a fosse, the height of a parapet, and such like. These were usually followed by a flourish of the pen, or sometimes by the word ‘Bom.,’ which singular monosyllable always occurred at the foot of the pages.

‘Well, have you caught the key to the cipher?’ said he, after a pause.

‘Not quite, sir,’ said I, pondering; ‘I can perceive that the chief facts stand prominently forward, in a fair round hand; I can also guess that the flourishes may be spaces left for detail; but this word “Bom.” puzzles me completely.’

‘Quite correct, as to the first part,’ said he approvingly; ‘and as to the mysterious monosyllable, it is nothing more than an abbreviation for “Bombaste,” which is always to be done to the taste of each particular commanding officer.’

‘I perceive, sir,’ said I quickly; ‘like the wadding of a gun, which may increase the loudness, but never affect the strength of the shot.’

‘Precisely, Tiernay; you have hit it exactly. Now I hope that, with a little practice, you may be able to acquit yourself respectably in this walk; and now to begin our skeleton. Turn over to a fresh page, and write as I dictate to you.’

So saying, he filled his pipe and lighted it, and disposing his limbs in an attitude of perfect ease, he began:—

‘"8th Thermidor, midnight—twelve battalions, and two batteries of field—boats and rafts—Eslar Island—stockades—eight guns—Swabian infantry—sharp firing, and a flourish—strong current—flourish—detachment of the 28th carried down—‘Bom.

‘"Let me see it now—all right—nothing could be better—proceed. “The 10th, 45th, and 48th landing together—more firing—flourish—first gun captured—Bom.—bayonet charges—Bom. Bom.—three guns taken—Bom. Bom. Bom.—Swabs in retreat—flourish. The bridge eighty toises in length— flanking fire—heavy loss—flourish.”’

‘You go a little too fast, mon capitaine,’ said I, for a sudden bright thought just flashed across me.

‘Very well,’ said he, shaking the ashes of his pipe out upon the rock, ‘I’ll take my doze, and you may awaken me when you’ve filled in those details—it will be a very fair exercise for you’; and with this he threw his handkerchief over his face, and without any other preparation was soon fast asleep.

I own that, if I had not been a spectator of the action, it would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for me to draw up anything like a narrative of it from the meagre details of the captain’s note-book. My personal observations, however, assisted by an easy imagination, suggested quite enough to make at least a plausible story, and I wrote away without impediment and halt till I came to that part of the action in which the retreat over the bridge commenced. There I stopped. Was I to remain satisfied with such a crude and one-sided explanation as the notebook afforded, and merely say that the retreating forces were harassed by a strong flank fire from our batteries? Was I to omit the whole of the great incident, the occupation of the ‘Fels Insel,’ and the damaging discharges of grape and round shot which plunged through the crowded ranks, and ultimately destroyed the bridge? Could I—to use the phrase so popular—could I, in the ‘interests of truth,’ forget the brilliant achievement of a gallant band of heroes who, led on by a young hussar of the 9th, threw themselves into the ‘Fels Insel,’ routed the garrison, captured the artillery, and directing its fire upon the retiring enemy, contributed most essentially to the victory. Ought I, in a word, to suffer a name so associated with a glorious action to sink into oblivion? Should Maurice Tiernay be lost to fame out of any neglect or false shame on my part? Forbid it all truth and justice! cried I, as I set myself down to relate the whole adventure most circumstantially. Looking up from time to time at my officer, who slept soundly, I suffered myself to dilate upon a theme in which somehow I felt a more than ordinary degree of interest. The more I dwelt upon the incident, the more brilliant and striking did it seem like the appetite, which the proverb tells us comes by eating, my enthusiasm grew under indulgence, so that, had a little more time been granted me, I verily believe I should have forgotten Moreau altogether, and coupled only Maurice Tiernay with the passage of the Rhine, and the capture of the fortress of Kehl. Fortunately, Captain Discau awoke, and cut short my historic recollections by asking me how much I had done, and telling me to read it aloud to him.

I accordingly began to read my narrative slowly and deliberately, thereby giving myself time to think what I should best do when I came to that part which became purely personal To omit it altogether would have been dangerous, as the slightest glance at the mass of writing would have shown the deception. There was, then, nothing left, but to invent at the moment another version, in which Maurice Tiernay never occurred, and the incident of the ‘Fels Insel’ should figure as unobtrusively as possible. I was always a better improvisatore than amanuensis; so that without a moment’s loss of time I fashioned a new and very different narrative, and detailing the battle tolerably accurately, minus the share my own heroism had taken in it. The captain made a few, a very few corrections of my style, in which the ‘flourish’ and ‘bom.’ figured, perhaps, too conspicuously; and then told me frankly, that once upon a time he had been fool enough to give himself great trouble in framing these kind of reports, but that having served for a short period in the ‘bureau’ of the minister of war, he had learned better—‘In fact,’ said he, ‘a district report is never read! Some hundreds of them reach the office of the minister every day, and are safely deposited in the “archives” of the department. They have all, besides, such a family resemblance, that with a few changes in the name of the commanding officer, any battle in the Netherlands would do equally well for one fought beyond the Alps! Since I became acquainted with this fact, Tiernay, I have bestowed less pains upon the matter, and usually deputed the task to some smart orderly of the staff.’

So, thought I, I have been writing history for nothing; and Maurice Tiernay, the real hero of the passage of the Rhine, will be unrecorded and unremembered, just for want of one honest and impartial scribe to transmit his name to posterity. The reflection was not a very encouraging one; nor did it serve to lighten the toil in which I passed many weary hours, copying out my own precious manuscript. Again and again during that night did I wonder at my own diffuseness—again and again did I curse the prolix accuracy of a description that cost such labour to reiterate. It was like a species of poetical justice on me for my own amplifications; and when the day broke, and I still sat at my table writing on, at the third copy of this precious document, I vowed a vow of brevity, should I ever survive to indite similar compositions.