If the natural perils of the expedition were sufficient to suggest grave thoughts, the sight of the troops that were to form it was even a stronger incentive to fear. I could not believe my eyes, as I watched the battalions which now deployed before me. Always accustomed, whatever the hardships they were opposed to, to see French soldiers light-hearted, gay, and agile, performing their duties in a spirit of sportive pleasure, as if soldiering were but fun, what was the shock I received at sight of these careworn, downcast, hollow-cheeked fellows, dragging their legs wearily along, and scarcely seeming to hear the words of command; their clothes, patched and mended, sometimes too big, sometimes too little, showing that they had changed wearers without being altered; their tattered shoes, tied on with strings round the ankles; their very weapons dirty and uncared for; they resembled rather a horde of bandits than the troops of the first army of Europe. There was, besides, an expression of stealthy, treacherous ferocity in their faces, such as I never saw before. To this pitiable condition had they been brought by starvation. Not alone the horses had been eaten, but dogs and cats; even the vermin of the cellars and sewers was consumed as food. Leather and skins were all eagerly devoured; and there is but too terrible reason to believe that human flesh itself was used to prolong for a few hours this existence of misery.

As they defiled into the ‘Piazza,’ there seemed a kind of effort to assume the port and bearing of their craft; and although many stumbled, and some actually fell, from weakness, there was an evident attempt to put on a military appearance. The manner of the adjutant, as he passed down the line, revealed at once the exact position of affairs. No longer inspecting every little detail of equipment, criticising this, or remarking on that, his whole attention was given to the condition of the musket, whose lock he closely scrutinised, and then turned to the cartouch-box. The ragged uniforms, the uncouth shakos, the belts dirty and awry, never called forth a word of rebuke. Too glad, as it seemed, to recognise even the remnants of discipline, he came back from his inspection apparently well satisfied and content.

‘These fellows turn out well,’ said Colonel de Barre, as he looked along the line; and I started to see if the speech were an unfeeling jest. Far from it; he spoke in all seriousness. The terrible scenes he had for months been witnessing; the men dropping from hunger at their posts; the sentries fainting as they carried arms, and borne away to the hospital to die; the bursts of madness that would now and then break forth from men whose agony became unendurable, had so steeled him to horrors, that even this poor shadow of military display seemed orderly and imposing.

‘They are the 22nd, colonel,’ replied the adjutant, proudly, ‘a corps that always have maintained their character, whether on parade or under fire!’

‘Ah! the 22nd, are they? They have come up from Ronco, then?’

‘Yes, sir; they were all that General Soult could spare us.’

‘Fine-looking fellows they are,’ said De Barre, scanning them through his glass. ‘The third company is a little, a very little to the rear—don’t you perceive it?—and the flank is a thought or so restless and unsteady.’

‘A sergeant has just been carried to the rear ill, sir,’ said a young officer, in a low voice.

‘The heat, I have no douht; a colpo di sole, as they tell us everything is,’ said De Barre. ‘By the way, is not this the regiment that boasts the pretty vivandiÈre? What’s this her name is?’

‘Lela, sir.’

‘Yes, to be sure, Lela. I’m sure I’ve heard her toasted often enough at cafÉs and restaurants.’

‘There she is, sir, yonder, sitting on the steps of the fountain’; and the officer made a sign with his sword for the girl to come over. She made an effort to arise at the order, but tottered back, and would have fallen if a soldier had not caught her. Then suddenly collecting her strength, she arranged the folds of her short scarlet jupe, and smoothing down the braids of her fair hair, came forward, at that sliding, half-skipping pace that is the wont of her craft.

The exertion, and possibly the excitement, had flushed her cheek, so that as she came forward her look was brilliantly handsome; but as the colour died away, and a livid pallor spread over her jaws, lank and drawn in by famine, her expression was dreadful. The large eyes, lustrous and wild-looking, gleaming with the fire of fever, while her thin nostrils quivered at each respiration.

Poor girl, even then, with famine and fever eating within her, the traits of womanly vanity still survived, and as she carried her hand to her cap in salute, she made a faint attempt at a smile.

‘The 22nd may indeed be proud of their vivandiÈre,* said De Barre gallantly.

‘What hast in the tonnslet, Lela?’ continued he, tapping the little silver-hooped barrel she carried at her back.

‘Ah, que voulez-vous? cried she laughing, with a low, husky sound, the laugh of famine.

‘I must have a glass of it to your health, ma belle Lela, if it cost me a crown-piece’; and he drew forth the coin as he spoke.

‘For such a toast, the liquor is quite good enough,’ said Lela, drawing back at the offer of money; while slinging the little cask in front, she unhooked a small silver cup, and filled it with water.

‘No brandy, Lela?’

‘None, colonel,’ said she, shaking her head; ‘and if I had, those poor fellows yonder would not like it so well.’

‘I understand,’ said he significantly; ‘theirs is the thirst of fever.’

A short, dry cough, and a barely perceptible nod of the head, was all her reply; but their eyes met, and any so sad an expression as they interchanged I never beheld! it was a confession in full of all each had seen of sorrow, of suffering, and of death—the terrible events three months of famine had revealed, and all the agonies of pestilence and madness.

‘That is delicious water, Tiernay,’ said the colonel, as he passed me the cup, and thus trying to get away from the sad theme of his thoughts.

‘I fetch it from a well outside the walls every morning,’ said Lela; ‘ay, and within gunshot of the Austrian sentries, too.’

‘There’s coolness for you, Tiernay,’ said the colonel; ‘think what the 22nd are made of when their vivandiÈre dares to do this!’

‘They’ll not astonish him,’ said Lela, looking steadily at me

‘And why not, ma belle?’ cried De Barre. ‘He was a Tapageur, one of the “Naughty Ninth,” as they called them.’

‘How do you know that, Lela? Have we ever met before?’ cried I eagerly.

‘I’ve seen you, sir,’ said she slyly. ‘They used to call you the corporal that won the battle of Kehl. I know my father always said so.’

I would have given worlds to have interrogated her further; so fascinating is selfishness, that already at least a hundred questions were presenting themselves to my mind. Who could Lela be? and who was her father? and what were these reports about me? Had I really won fame without knowing it? and did my comrades indeed speak of me with honour? All these, and many more inquiries, were pressing for utterance, as General MassÉna walked up with his staff. The general fully corroborated De Barre’s opinion of the ‘22nd.’ They were, as he expressed it, a ‘magnificent body.’ It was a perfect pleasure to see such troops under arms.’ ‘Those fellows certainly exhibited few traces of a starved-out garrison.’

Such and such like were the observations bandied from one to the other, in all the earnest seriousness of truth What more terrible evidence of the scenes they had passed through, than these convictions! What more stunning proof of the condition to which long suffering had reduced them!

‘Where is our pleasant friend, who talked to us of the Black Forest last night? Ah, there he is; well, Monsieur Tiernay, do you think General Moreau’s people turned out better than that after the retreat from Donau-eschingen?’

There was no need for any reply, since the scornful burst of laughter of the staff already gave the answer he wanted; and now he walked forward to the centre of the piazza, while the troops proceeded to march past.

The band, a miserable group, reduced from fifty to thirteen in number, struck up a quick step, and the troops, animated by the sounds, and more still, perhaps, by MassÉna’s presence, made an effort to step out in quick time; but the rocking, wavering motion, the clinking muskets and uncertain gait, were indescribably painful to a soldier’s eye. Their colonel, De Vallence, however, evidently did not regard them thus, for as he joined the staff, he received the general’s compliments with all the good faith and composure in the world.

The battalions were marched off to barracks, and the group of officers broke up to repair to their several quarters. It was the hour of dinner, but it had been many a day since that meal had been heard of amongst them. A stray cafÉ here and there was open in the city, but a cup of coffee, without milk, and a small roll of black bread, a horrid compound of rye and cocoa, was all the refreshment obtainable; and yet, I am bold to say that a murmur or a complaint was unheard against the general or the Government. The heaviest reverses, the gloomiest hours of ill fortune, never extinguished the hope that Genoa was to be relieved at last, and that all we had to do was to hold out for the arrival of Bonaparte. To the extent of this conviction is to be attributed the wide disparity between the feeling displayed by the military and the townsfolk.

The latter, unsustained by hope, without one spark of speculation to cheer their gloomy destiny, starved, and sickened, and died in masses. The very requirements of discipline were useful in averting the despondent vacuity which comes of hunger. Of the sanguine confidence of the soldiery in the coming of their comrades, I was to witness a strong illustration on the very day of which I have been speaking.

It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, the weather had been heavy and overcast, and the heat excessive, so that all who were free from duty had either lain down to sleep, or were quietly resting within doors, when a certain stir and movement in the streets, a rare event during the hours of the siesta, drew many a head to the windows. The report ran, and like wildfire it spread through the city, that the advanced guard of Bonaparte had reached Ronco that morning, and were already in march on Genoa. Although nobody could trace this story to any direct source, each believed and repeated it; the tale growing more consistent and fuller at every repetition. I need not weary my reader with all the additions and corrections the narrative received, nor recount how now it was Moreau with the right wing of the army of the Rhine; now it was Kellermann’s brigade; now it was Macdonald, who had passed the Ticino; and last of all, Bonaparte. The controversy was often even an angry one, when, finally, all speculation was met by the official report, that all that was known lay in the simple fact, that heavy guns had been heard that morning, near Ronco, and as the Austrians held no position with artillery there, the firing must needs be French.

This very bare announcement was, of course, a great ‘come down’ for all the circumstantial detail with which we had been amusing ourselves and each other, but yet it nourished hope, and the hope that was nearest to all our hearts, too! The streets were soon filled; officers and soldiers hastily dressed, and with many a fault of costume were all commingled, exchanging opinions, resolving doubts, and even bandying congratulations. The starved and hungry faces were lighted up with an expression of savage glee. It was like the last flickering gleam of passion in men whose whole vitality was the energy of fever! The heavy debt they owed their enemy was at last to be paid, and all the insulting injury of a besieged and famine-stricken garrison to be avenged. A surging movement in the crowd told that some event had occurred; it was MassÉna and his staff, who were proceeding to a watch-tower in the bastion, from whence a wide range of country could be seen. This was reassuring. The general himself entertained the story, and here was proof that there was ‘something in it.’ All the population now made for the walls; every spot from which the view towards Ronco could be obtained was speedily crowded, every window filled, and all the housetops crammed. A dark mass of inky cloud covered the tops of the Apennines, and even descended to some distance down the sides. With what shapes and forms of military splendour did our imaginations people the space behind that sombre curtain! What columns of stern warriors, what prancing squadrons, what earth-shaking masses of heavy artillery! How longingly each eye grew weary watching—waiting for the veil to be rent, and the glancing steel to be seen glistening bright in the sun-rays!

As if to torture our anxieties, the lowering mass grew darker and heavier, and, rolling lazily adown the mountain, it filled up the valley, wrapping earth and sky in one murky mantle.

‘There, did you hear that?’ cried one; ‘that was artillery.’

A pause followed, each ear was bent to listen, and not a word was uttered for full a minute or more; the immense host, as if swayed by the one impulse, strained to catch the sounds, when suddenly, from the direction of the mountain top, there came a rattling, crashing noise, followed by the dull, deep booming that every soldier’s heart responds to What a cheer then burst forth! never did I hear—never may I hear—such a cry as that was; it was like the wild yell of a shipwrecked crew, as some distant sail hove in sight; and yet, through its cadence, there rang the mad lust for vengeance! Yes, in all the agonies of sinking strength, with fever in their hearts, and the death sweat on their cheeks, their cry was Blood! The puny shout, for such it seemed now, was drowned in the deafening crash that now was heard; peal after peal shook the air, the same rattling, peppering noise of musketry continuing through all.

That the French were in strong force, as well as the enemy, there could now be no doubt. Nothing but a serious affair and a stubborn resistance could warrant such a fire. It had every semblance of an attack with all arms. The roar of the heavy guns made the air vibrate, and the clatter of small-arms was incessant. How each of us filled up the picture from the impulses of his own fancy! Some said that the French were still behind the mountain, and storming the heights of the Borghetto; others thought that they had gained the summit, but not en force, and were only contesting their position there; and a few, more sanguine, of whom I was one myself, imagined that they were driving the Austrians down the Apennines, cleaving their ranks, as they went, with their artillery.

Each new crash, every momentary change of direction of the sounds, favoured this opinion or that, and the excitement of partisanship rose to an immense height. What added indescribably to the interest of the scene, was a group of Austrian officers on horseback, who, in their eagerness to obtain tidings, had ridden beyond their lines, and were now standing almost within musket range of us. We could see that their telescopes were turned to the eventful spot, and we gloried to think of the effect the scene must have been producing on them.

‘They’ve seen enough!’ cried one of our fellows, laughing, while he pointed to the horsemen, who, suddenly wheeling about, galloped back to their camp at full speed.

‘You ‘ll have the drums beat to arms now; there’s little time to lose. Our cuirassiers will soon be upon them,’ cried another, in ecstasy.

‘No, but the rain will, and upon us, too,’ said Giorgio, who had now come up; ‘don’t you see that it’s not a battle yonder, it’s a burrasca. There it comes.’ And as if the outstretched finger of the dwarf had been the wand of a magician, the great cloud was suddenly torn open with a crash, and the rain descended like a deluge, swept along by a hurricane wind, and came in vast sheets of water, while high over our heads, and moving onward towards the sea, growled the distant thunder. The great mountain was now visible from base to summit, but not a soldier, not a gun, to be seen! Swollen and yellow, the gushing torrents leaped madly from crag to crag, and crashing trees, and falling rocks, added their wild sounds to the tumult.

There we stood, mute and sorrow-struck, regardless of the seething rain, unconscious of anything save our disappointment. The hope we built upon had left us, and the dreary scene of storm around seemed but a type of our own future! And yet we could not turn away, but with eyes strained and aching, gazed at the spot from where our succour should have come.

I looked up at the watch-tower, and there was Massena still, his arms folded, on a battlement; he seemed to be deep in thought. At last he arose, and, drawing his cloak across his face, descended the winding-stair outside the tower. His step was slow, and more than once he halted, as if to think. When he reached the walls, he walked rapidly on, his suite following him.

‘Ah, Monsieur Tiernay,’ said he, as he passed me, ‘you know what an Apennine storm is now; but it will cool the air and give us delicious weather’; and so he passed on with an easy smile.