A War Story.
by Harry Percival.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #12 (Mar 1906).
A stirring episode of the days of the Iron Duke.
The dancing and the music at the brilliant ball given by her Grace the Duchess of Richmond were at their height. A whirling and kaleidoscopic picture of colour, presented by dainty gowns and gorgeous uniforms, dazzled and fascinated the gaze.
Spurs jingled to the accompaniment of women's rippling laughter; and the frou-frou of silk softly united with the clink and clatter of accoutrements. Love and laughter reigned for the moment supreme. But, like a growing thunder-cloud, the shadow of approaching battle cast its darkness and its influence over all.
I was watching the ceaseless influx and efflux of brilliantly-uniformed officers, who, chattering, laughing, flirting, and dancing, were yet gravely conscious of the imminence of battle, when a Colonel of Hussars passed me, whose appearance at once impressed me. He was not what you might have described as an old man, though his face was heavily wrinkled and his hair and whiskers were snow-white. He was upright in his carriage, and his eyes gazed straight and bold and honest in front of him. Yet there was an indescribable air of depression—of sorrow, about the man; and with the sternness of his glance there mingled a subtle sadness, most plaintive and appealing.
"Who is that?" I asked of my partner, a Black Brunswicker. "He seems a stern man, and yet he seems a sad man."
"He is both," answered my partner. "That is Burnham of the –th Hussars. I know his story. Shall I tell it you?"
"Do," said I. "I have rarely felt so interested in a man before."
And, to the quaint accompaniment of a minuet, my Brunswicker told me the following sad, stern tale:
"You know what a martinet the Duke is—the Iron Duke, as they call him. His heart, like the colour of his eyes and the temper of the sabre he carries, is of steel. He exacts only one creed from those who serve him—obedience. He is not at all like 'Bony,' who loves the soldiers to love him, and kisses his privates on the parade-ground, and is mortified when they don't shout: 'Long live the Emperor!' every time he rides past. The Duke doesn't care whether he is loved or hated.
"Now, in the late campaign the one abuse he most sternly and relentlessly punished was looting. However short the commissariat might be, however sore the needs of his half-fed, half-clad soldiers, he treated the looter as a common robber would be treated by civil law in times of peace. In fact, the proceedings of the Duke's court were conducted with a deadly briefness unknown to any civil legal function. A few questions were asked, a few answers faltered, and—the nearest tree and its dangling burden proclaimed the summary verdict, sentence, and punishment.
"At first there was a good deal of murmuring and discontent amongst the officers and men; murmuring which, under any other commander, might have turned to mutiny. But the Duke has the special gift of getting his own way—of being thoroughly hated and thoroughly obeyed. There were so many figures, those of officers and privates, hanging from the arms of trees, like common pirates or highwaymen, that, from the very horror of a like fate, the men preferred to put up with short rations to receiving a short shrift, and looting became almost an obsolete offence.
"With that thoroughness so characteristic of him, Wellington had invested every commanding officer of his with power to execute any member of his regiment caught in the heinous act—nay, had impressed upon him the necessity of acting extremely, whatever personal reasons there might be to bias and soften his decision. Now, Fräulein, I am coming to the story of Burnham of the Hussars.
"Without the steel heart of his chief, Burnham was as rigid a disciplinarian as the Duke himself. Where punishment was due, he meted it out to the fullest—though with pangs only known to himself. Wellington had a high opinion of him (he is now on the general staff), for he knew that no general order, however minute, would fail to be carried out thoroughly under his command and supervision. Burnham had a son serving under him in his regiment—an only son; a handsome, daring, happy young cornet. A boy fresh from Eton, and still full of the spirit of irresponsible youth and dare-devilment.
"The love that existed between these two, the stern commanding officer and his junior, was the talk and admiration of the regiment. When off duty, and in the sacred privacy of their own companionship, they might have been brothers instead of father and son. A cornet, also fresh from Eton, dubbed them 'Burnham major and Burnham minor.' And as such they came to be known in the ranks of the –th Hussars.
"One evening, after a particularly hard day of scouting and skirmishing, and at a time when the rations, even in the officers' quarters, were at an unusually low ebb, Colonel Burnham, accompanied by his senior major, who, by the way, cordially detested his chief's son, was riding home to headquarters. Both were hungry, and both dismally contemplated the meagre fare that awaited them in their quarters.
"As they trotted along over the sodden, slushy ground, the Major observed: 'The Duke's orders as to looting seem hard, sir. There's many a sheep and calf to be had for the taking that would roast us a good supper this night. To which the Colonel sharply answered: 'Pardon me, Major, but I can't hear the General's orders criticised. The man who loots will be hanged. Those are the orders issued. Those are the orders I shall execute upon any offender who comes before me for judgment. If a good supper is more to you than your own life, by all means secure your sheep or calf. I promise not to string you up until you've had a square meal.' And the Colonel laughed at his own pleasantry. And, as I heard Burnham declare since, the Major laughed too, in a very unpleasant and significant way.
"The Major was still laughing, when suddenly he cried out: 'Here's a case in point, sir. The rascals are at their old pilfering games again.' 'Eh!' cried the Colonel angrily. 'Right under my very quarters. By Gad they shall pay dearly for their impudence.'
"He followed with his gaze the direction indicated by the Major's outstretched finger. Through the moist haze of the falling night he could just make out the figure of a man hastening towards the clump of tents that formed the quarters of the officers of the –th Hussars.
"The fugitive—for his gait seemed to betray its owner as one who fled before pursuit—sped silently as the dark shadows that were descending and enveloping him. But from the secret folds of his long, ample cavalry cloak there issued muffled sounds—sounds unmistakably suggestive of a quacking duck. 'That duck was never paid for,' said the Major grimly. 'We'll soon see,' replied Burnham. And, spurring his charger to a canter, he, followed immediately by his subordinate, rounded off the robber with his vociferous plunder.
"'Halt!' cried Burnham, suddenly reining up before the fugitive. 'What have you got there?' The robber at once came to attention and saluted; while, with a wild flapping of wings and many prolonged and piercing shrieks, the duck, released from its bondage, half waddled and half flew back to its native pond or farmyard. At the same moment the eyes of the Colonel and the offender met, and they knew each other. Each had faced death a score of times without flinching. Both were brave But in that first second of mutual recognition the hearts of both died within their breasts, and all hope of the future froze in them. The looter—the doomed man—was the Colonel's son.
"'What had you concealed under your cloak, young man?' asked the Colonel, in a cold, dead, far-away voice. 'A duck, sir.' 'Did you pay for it?' 'No, sir,' answered the lad, saluting. 'Was it given you?' 'No, sir.' 'You stole it?' The young man's face flushed a blood-red crimson. 'It was the spoil of war, sir,' he said proudly.
"Burnham passed a hand wearily over his eyes. He saw that the Major was watching him; and he remembered his own words of a few minutes since. 'You know the Duke's orders?' 'Yes, sir.' 'You know the penalty of looting?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Have you any explanation to offer?' 'None, sir.' 'Major, summon the Provost.'
"In the darkening shadows, the Provost, who was accompanied by a file of men, arrived by order of the Major. A sergeant carried a coil of rope. A gaunt, leafless tree, lonely and terrible-looking in the half darkness, stood near by: One giant limb stretched forth from its gnarled trunk, like an extended arm, whose hand was ready to seize or strike down some unwary victim. 'This will do, Provost,' said Burnham, in a low, hoarse voice. 'Be swift and sure in your work. Let there be as little pain as possible.'
"At that moment the condemned man, who was standing between two soldiers, said—and his tones were clear and unfaltering—'May I address one word to you in private, sir?' 'That would not be in order, young gentleman,' returned the Colonel. 'Whatever you have to say must be heard by all. If such an arrangement satisfies you, you may, under escort, approach me, and say what you have in your mind.'
"The young man, having expressed his willingness to this formality, drew near to his father's stirrup, and laid one hand upon his father's holster. It was almost dark by then, but the Provost has assured me that he distinctly saw Burnham's hand drop, as if by accident, upon the hand of his unhappy boy, and hold it tightly and lovingly during the brief interview.
"'I wish to say, sir,' said the lad, 'that in thus discharging your duty you are an honour to your country and an invaluable officer to your General. I am proud to have served under such an officer. At the same time, I would hope that you will not consider my offence as one that affects my honour. It has been a breach of discipline, and as such is punishable with death. I hope, sir, that I shall die as a brave man, worthy of yourself and the dear regiment you command. Please let my mother know, when the war is over, how I died; and that my sentence was just; and that I was proud and tender of my Colonel to the last. Good bye, sir.'
"With a last loving pressure of the hand of the silent, statuesque horseman, the young Cornet stepped quickly back between his two guards, saluted for the last time, and waited composedly for the end.
"Matters were mercifully expedited. The rope, with its ugly running noose, was already swaying in the wind, like a loath some serpent, from that one extended arm of the tree—that arm with the threatening hand. A few sharp, short, low-toned commands were issued by the Provost—commands swiftly and shudderingly obeyed by the sergeant and his men. A muttered prayer to a mother and a God, a little cry of pain—and another figure was dangling and turning as a reminder of Wellington's decree and a warning to all other looters.
"To the last—to the very awful last—Burnham sat stiff and still in the saddle, superintending the process of the ghastly tragedy. When the body swung into eternity he uttered a cry of agony—a cry as quickly checked as uttered, turned his horse's head, and rode in the direction of his quarters. The Major would have joined him, but Burnham waved him off with his hand, and cried in a loud voice, that could be heard by the sergeant and his men:
"'Go your own way, sir, and let me go mine. Never dare address me again in terms of friendship—never! as you value your life. You have children of your own at home in England. Go to your quarters, and thank God that they shall sleep this night beneath a roof and in beds, and not gather the hoar-frost on them while swinging from a tree, with crows and ravens to peck at them, like my poor boy—my only child. Go, sir! Go before I do you an injury!'
"The Colonel was never the same man after that night. His hair and whiskers whitened in a few hours. He became silent and morose, though always just and kind to those who served under him. He was desperate in action—so desperate that his brother-officers and men averred that he wilfully sought death as a means of escape from his ceaseless agony. But with the perversity that is characteristic of all Death's dealings, happy and ambitious men were cut short in the glories of their lives, while this one hopeless, suffering martyr survived, unscathed, the hottest battles and the direst dangers.
"Such is the story of the man you saw just now, Fräulein. To-night, if I am not mistaken, a storm will burst upon us all that may grant him the rest he needs and the meeting with his dead boy he craves."
My Brunswicker had hardly completed his narrative, when, as if in response to his foreboding, the silence without was sharply split by the calls of a hundred bugles. In a moment all was confusion. Officers ceased to dance and sup and gossip and flirt, and ran hither and thither for their helmets, sabretaches, and sabres. It was the knell of battle—the knell of death.
In the rush that followed I caught one brief glimpse of my Hussar Colonel. His face was fixed and placid—almost lifeless in its expression. But in the keen, sad eyes there burnt a light that seemed to me like hope and happy anticipation.
Those were awful hours that followed. Awful, anxious, wondering, and fearful hours for us in Belgium and in England. But at last a shout of triumph reached us, and we heard that the Duke had conquered, and that Napoleon lay broken in the dust.
At what a cost, History has told us again and again. My poor Brunswicker fell with the rest of his gallant regiment—for not one survived to tell the tale; and many another gallant gentleman who helped that night at the Duchess of Richmond's ball to swell the laughter and lead the dancing fell with him.
But first and foremost in that sacrificial host, to my thinking, was Colonel Burnham of the –th Hussars. Late in the day it was, and after Blücher's guns had commenced their thunder, that, at the head of his faithful regiment, he slipped from his saddle riddled with bullets and scored by lances. They say he must have ridden a corpse long before he fell.
I cried in the privacy of my chamber when I heard the news, though I had seen him but once in my life, and had never spoken to him. But I felt that his dearest wish had been granted him. Life to him had become an impossible thing. One cannot bear constant and hopeless suffering. He died a good death. He was with his boy in a land where no ducal orders or provestorial duties could come between them.