city, and you are completely cut off. Even the king has retreated to West Prussia. All that can be done is to steal a march across the Oder.”
“We are Prussians, sir,” rejoined our commander, with haughty bearing, “and will not steal a passage by any route. We will cut our way through with our good swords.”
This daring resolve seemed to have some weight with the noisy hussar, for he stroked his black moustache, and approaching the commander with a respectful air, entered into a low discourse of some minutes.
“If you wish to join the troops which I have collected for the deliverance of my king, you are at liberty to do so,” observed Charles the Great, with an air of dignity, as he bowed to the hussar at the conclusion of the confab; “and in that case I appoint you to the command of the cavalry, which is somewhat in advance,” (said cavalry consisted of two dragoons and four trumpeters;) “but with this proviso, that all must be under my authority as head;” and acknowledging the hussar’s assent, he added, in loud tones—“And now, battalions, right about! The first man who looks towards Berlin shall be treated as a deserter and left hanging on yonder tree. March!” and so we went along the narrow, muddy path of honour towards Mittenwalde, no one daring even to turn his head towards Berlin, not through dread of the threatened gallows-tree, but fearful of the French, whose vicinity they had just learned.
Even Bess moderated her tone of triumph, and moved along with us as if totally dispirited. I also marched with my head drooping on my breast, now that I heard that Napoleon had become possessed of half of Prussia in its beautiful capital, Berlin; and worse yet, when I recollected that Frederica might, perhaps, be in his power. Ah! she was right when, at our parting, she exclaimed, “Ferdinand, dear Ferdinand, we shall never meet again!” What changes had a few days brought about! Our army completely defeated; our kingdom overrun with the enemy; my bride probably in the power of the most gallant and amorous nation under heaven; my patron in a besieged city; my parsonage I knew not where; and I, the peace-loving, quiet, studious doctor of philosophy, neither more nor less than adjutant-general to Charles the Great. Sometimes, when weary with pondering on my fate, I gave way to fantasy, and once more pictured Frederica’s presence, or dreamt that I was quietly busied in my Berlin attic; a false step of my charger would arouse me suddenly to a sense of my novel yet most disastrous situation, and then I would feel perfectly provoked with myself that I was not hurrying on the wings of love to Berlin, instead of taking part in any warlike adventures. But again a single thought would reconcile me to my fate; not the certainty of Frederica’s constant faith, nor the prospect of a conqueror’s trophies, but the wretched state of my purse. How could I subsist in Berlin? My pupils were by this time become another’s, my patriot songs but dead stock, my hopes of a curacy all vanished, while now, as adjutant-general, I lived at least free of cost and lodging. “Who knows, too,” thought I, “to what success I may not arrive in this my soldier-life. Moreau was once an advocate only, and yet as general he furnished an exact counterpart to the retreat of Xenophon. Who can tell but that I, a humble doctor of philosophy, may yet astonish the world by some similar successful action.”
CHAPTER NINTH.
CONFLICT AND VICTORY.
During the next two days there was incessant boasting with regard to the great deeds we were about to accomplish; but the hussar was half right when he advised a stolen march across the Oder; for we really moved with the greatest precaution, only stopping at the most miserable villages, where we always made ourselves secure with a strong guard.
“My intention,” observed our general to the hussar and myself, as on the third evening we halted at a small village at some distance from the main road, “my intention is to fall on the rear of Napoleon’s army;” and as he spoke there was a self-satisfied expression, that gave us to understand that even more was meant than spoken.
“It may be so,” rejoined the hussar; “if they are not on our heels before morning.”
This alarming suggestion furnished food for thought, and we all became suddenly silent, when, just then, there was a report of arms, and the cry of our troops, “The French! the enemy! they are on us!”
Meanwhile the drums beat, the four trumpeters vied with each other who should blow the loudest peal, and the brave hussar became deadly pale. To conceal my excessive alarm, I stormed about the little inn, exclaiming, “Out upon them, brave Prussians! out upon them, my countrymen!” and went towards the direction of the door; but strange to tell, I was struck as if by sudden blindness, and unable to find the portal, I sprang in my anguish upon the cupboard of the old landlady, still crying, “Prussians, brave Prussians, on—on! follow me! forsake me not!”
All was confusion. The hostess loudly lamented her fate; the children shrieked murder; cats and dogs leapt over chairs and tables, even to the top of the old Dutch tile stove; and such was the alarm and outcry, that it seemed to me the French must have already entered the inn, and were probably—the savage monsters—driving their spears into the hearts of the innocent children.
“God have pity on me but this once,” was my first thought, “and nought again shall tempt me to take part in any warlike deeds.” My noise and blustering, interpreted most favourably by my coadjutors, infused into them new courage, and draw-
