Майн Рид
The Child Wife
Chapter Twenty Five.
The Fifth Avenue House
The Newport season was over. Mrs Girdwood had returned to her splendid mansion in the Fifth Avenue, soon to receive a visitor, such as even Fifth Avenue houses do not often entertain – an English lord – Mr Swinton, the nobleman incog., had accepted her invitation to dinner.
It was to be a quiet family affair. Mrs Girdwood could not well have it otherwise, as the circle of her acquaintance fit to meet such a distinguished guest was limited. She had not been long in the Fifth Avenue house – only since a little before the death of her late husband, the deceased storekeeper, who had taken the place at her earnest solicitations.
In fact it was whispered that the grand mansion had caused his death. It was too splendid for comfort – it required a complete change in his habits; and perhaps he was troubled about the expense, which was wholesale, while he had been all his life accustomed to the retail.
From whatever cause, his spirits sank under its lofty ceilings, and after wandering for three months through the spacious apartments, listening to his own lonely tread, he lay down upon one of its luxurious couches and died!
It was more cheerful after his demise; but as yet unvisited by the élite. Mr Swinton was the first of this class who was to stretch his limbs under the Girdwood mahogany; but then he was at the head of it. A good beginning, reflected widow Girdwood.
“We shall have no one to meet you, my lord. We are too busy in preparing for our voyage to Europe. Only the girls and myself. I hope you won’t mind that.”
“Pway madam, don’t mention it. Yaw own intewesting family; just the sort of thing I take pleasyaw in. Nothing baws me more than one of those gweat pawties – gwand kwushes, as we call them in England.”
“I’m glad of it, my lord. We shall expect you then on next Tuesday. Remember, we dine at seven.”
This brief dialogue occurred in the Ocean House at Newport, just as Mrs Girdwood was getting into the hack to be taken to the New York boat.
Tuesday came, and along with it Mr Swinton, entering the Fifth Avenue mansion at 7 p.m., punctual to his appointment. The house was lit up brilliantly, and in the same style was the guest got up, having dressed himself with the greatest care. So, too, the hostess, her daughter, and niece.
But the dining party was not yet complete; two others were expected, who soon came in.
They were Mr Lucas and his acolyte, also returned to New York, and who, having made Mrs Girdwood’s acquaintance at Newport, through the medium of Mr Swinton, were also included in the invitation.
It made the party compact and in proportion; three ladies, with the same number of gentlemen – the set of six – though perhaps in the eyes of the latter their hostess was de trop. Lucas had conceived thoughts about Julia, while his friend saw stars in the blue eyes of Cornelia. All sorted together well enough; Mr Swinton being of course the lion of the evening. This from his being a stranger – an accomplished Englishman. It was but natural courtesy. Again, Mrs Girdwood longed to make known how great a lion he was. But Mr Swinton had sworn her to secrecy.
Over the dinner-table the conversation was carried on without restraint. People of different nations, who speak the same language, have no difficulty in finding a topic. Their respective countries supply them with this. America was talked of; but more England. Mrs Girdwood was going there by the next steamer – state-rooms already engaged. It was but natural she should make inquiries.
“About your hotels in London, Mr Swinton. Of course we’ll have to stop at an hotel. Which do you consider the best?”
“Clawndon, of cawse. Clawndon, in Bond Stweet. Ba all means go there, madam.”
“The Clarendon,” said Mrs Girdwood, taking out her card-case, and pencilling the name upon a card. “Bond Street, you say?”
“Bond Stweet. It’s our fashionable pwomenade, or rather the stweet where our best twadesmen have their shops.”
“We shall go there,” said Mrs Girdwood, registering the address, and returning the card-case to her reticule.
It is not necessary to detail the conversation that followed. It is usually insipid over a dinner-table where the guests are strange to one another; and Mrs Girdwood’s guests came under this category.
For all that, everything went well and even cheerfully, Julia alone at times looking a little abstracted, and so causing some slight chagrin both to Lucas and Swinton.
Now and then, however, each had a glance from those bistre-coloured eyes, that flattered them with hopes for the future.
They were dread, dangerous eyes, those of Julia Girdwood. Their glances had come near disturbing the peace of mind of a man as little susceptible as either Louis Lucas or Richard Swinton.
The dinner-party was over; the trio of gentlemen guests were taking their departure.
“When may we expect you in England, my lord?” asked the hostess, speaking to Mr Swinton apart.
“By the next steamaw, madam. I wegwet I shall not have the pleasyaw of being your fellaw passengaw. I am detained in this countwy by a twifle of business, in connection with the Bwitish Government. A gweat baw it is, but I cannot escape it.”
“I am sorry,” answered Mrs Girdwood. “It would have been so pleasant for us to have had your company on the voyage. And my girls too, I’m sure they would have liked it exceedingly. But I hope we’ll see you on the other side.”
“Undoubtedly, madam. Indeed, I should be vewy misewable to think we were not to meet again. You go diwect to London, of cawse. How long do you pwopose wemaining there?”
“Oh, a long time – perhaps all the winter. After that we will go up the Rhine – to Vienna, Paris, Italy. We intend making the usual tour.”
“You say you will stop at the Clawndon?”
“We intend so, since you recommend it. We shall be there as long as we remain in London.”
“I shall take the libawty of pwesenting my wespects to you, as soon as I weach England.”
“My lord! we shall look for you.”
The drawing-room door was closed, the ladies remaining inside. The three gentlemen guests were in the entrance hall, footman and butler helping them to hat and surtout. Though they had not come in, all three went out together.
“Where now?” asked Lucas, as they stood upon the flags of the Fifth Avenue. “It’s too early to go to bed.”
“A vewy sensible obsawvation, fwiend Lucas!” said Swinton, inspired by a free potation of the widow’s choice wines. “Where do yaw say?”
“Well, I say, let’s have some sport. Have you got any money upon you, Mr Swinton?”
Mr Lucas was still ignorant that his companion was a lord.
“Oh, yas – yas. A thousand of your demmed dollars, I believe.”
“Excuse me for putting the question. I only asked in case you might require a stake. If you do, my little pile’s at your service.”
“Thanks – thanks! I’m weady for spawt – stake all pawvided.”
Lucas led the way, from the Fifth Avenue to Broadway, and down Broadway to a “hell;” one of those snug little establishments in an off-street, with supper set out, to be eaten only by the initiated.
Swinton became one of them. Lucas had reasons for introducing him. His reflections were:
“This Englishman appears to have money – more than he knows what to do with. But he didn’t drop any of it in Newport. On the contrary, he must have increased his capital by the plucking of certain pigeons to whom I introduced him. I’m curious to see how he’ll get along with the hawks. He’s among them now.”
The introducer of Swinton had an additional reflection suggested by the remembrance of Julia Girdwood.
“I hope they’ll get his dollars – clear him out, the cur – and serve him right too. I believe he’s a devilish schemer.” The wish had jealousy for its basis.
Before the gambler proclaimed his bank closed for the night, the false friend saw the realisation of his hopes.
Despite his customary astuteness, the ex-guardsman was not cunning in his cups. The free supper, with its cheap champagne, had reduced him to a condition of innocence resembling the pigeons he was so fain to pluck, and he left the hawks’ nest without a dollar in his pocket!
Lucas lent him one to pay for the hack that carried him to his hotel; and thus the two parted!
Chapter Twenty Six.
Eljen Kossuth!
An autumn sun was just rising over the plains of the yellow Theiss, when two travellers, issuing from the gates of the old fortified city of Arad, took their way toward the village of Vilagos, some twenty miles distant.
It is scarce necessary to say they were on horseback. Men do not journey afoot on the plains of the “Puszta.”
Their military costume was in keeping with the scene around. Not as it would have been in its normal and usual state, with the ihaz quietly attending his swine drove, and the csiko galloping after his half-wild colts and cattle. For Arad was now the headquarters of the Hungarian army, and the roads around it hourly echoed the tread of the Honved, and hoofstroke of the hussar.
The patriot force of less than thirty thousand men had moved upon Vilagos, there to meet the Austro-Russian advance, of just four times their number; Geörgei the commanding general on one side, and Rüdiger on the other.
The two horsemen had reached Arad but the night before, coming from the West. They had arrived too late to go out with the patriot troops, and seemed now hurrying on to overtake them.
Though in uniform, as we have already said, it was not that belonging to any branch of the Hungarian service. No more did it resemble any one of the varied military costumes worn by the allied enemy. Both were habited very much alike; in simple undress frocks of dark-blue cloth, with gold-lace pantaloons of brighter blue, and banded forage-caps.
With Colt’s revolver pistols – then an arm scarce known – worn in a holstered waistbelt, steel sabres hanging handy against their thighs, and short Jäger rifles slung, en bandolier; behind them, the dress looked warlike enough; and, on whatever side, it was evident the two travellers intended fighting.
This was further manifest from their anxious glances cast ahead, and the way they pressed their horses forward, as if fearing to be too late for the field.
They were of different ages; one over forty, the other about twenty-five.
“I don’t like the look of things about Arad,” said the elder, as they checked up for a time, to breathe their horses.
“Why, Count?” asked his companion.
“There seems to be a bad electricity in the air – a sort of general distrust.”
“In what, or whom?”
“In Geörgei. I could see that the people have lost confidence in him. They even suspect that he’s playing traitor, and has thoughts of surrendering to the enemy.”
“What! Geörgei – their favourite general! Is he not so?”
“Of the old army, yes. But not of the new levies or the people. In my opinion, the worst thing that could have happened to them is his having become so. It’s the old story of regulars versus volunteers. He hates the Honveds, and Kossuth for creating them, just as in our little Mexican skirmish, there was a jealousy between West Pointers and the newly-raised regiments.
“There are thousands of donkeys in Hungary, as in the United States, who believe that to be a soldier a man must go through some sort of a routine training – forgetting all about Cromwell of England, Jackson of America, and a score of the like that might be quoted. Well, these common minds, running in the usual groove, believe that Geörgei, because he was once an officer in the Austrian regular army, should be the trusted man of the time; and they’ve taken him up, and trusted him without further questioning. I know him well. We were at the military school together. A cool, scheming fellow, with the head of a chemist and the heart of an alchemist. Of himself he has accomplished nothing yet. The brilliant victories gained on the Hungarian side – and brilliant have they been – have all been due to the romantic enthusiasm of these fiery Magyars, and the dash of such generals as Nagy Sandor, Damjanich, and Guyon. There can be no doubt that, after the successes on the Upper Danube, the patriot army could have marched unmolested into Vienna, and there dictated terms to the Austrian Empire. The emperor’s panic-stricken troops were absolutely evacuating the place, when, instead of a pursuing enemy, news came after them that the victorious general had turned back with his whole army, to lay siege to the fortress of Ofen! To capture an insignificant garrison of less than six thousand men! Six weeks were spent in this absurd side movement, contrary to the counsels of Kossuth, who had never ceased to urge the advance on Vienna. Geörgei did just what the Austrians wanted him to do – giving their northern allies time to come down; and down they have come.”
“But Kossuth was Governor – Dictator! Could he not command the advance you speak of?”
“He commanded it all he could, but was not obeyed. Geörgei had already sapped his influence, by poisoning the minds of the military leaders against him – that is, the factious who adhered to himself, the old regulars, whom he had set against the new levies and Honveds. ‘Kossuth is not a soldier, only a lawyer,’ said they; and this was sufficient. For all their talk, Kossuth has given more proofs of soldiership and true generalship than Geörgei and his whole clique. He has put an army of two hundred thousand men in the field; armed and equipped it. And he created it absolutely out of nothing! The patriots had only two hundred pounds weight of gunpowder, and scarce such a thing as a gun, when this rising commenced. And the saltpetre was dug out of the mine, and the iron smelted, and the cannon cast. Ay, in three months there was a force in the field such as Napoleon would have been proud of. My dear captain, there is more proof of military genius in this, than in the winning of a dozen battles. It was due to Kossuth alone. Alone he accomplished it all – every detail of it. Louis Kossuth not a general, indeed! In the true sense of the word, there has been none such since Napoleon. Even in this last affair of Ofen, it is now acknowledged, he was right; and that they should have listened to his cry, ‘On to Vienna!’”
“Clearly it has been a sad blunder.”
“Not so clearly, Captain; not so clearly. I wish it were. There is reason to fear it is worse.”
“What mean you, Count?”
“I mean, treason.”
“Ha!”
“The turning back for that useless siege looks confoundedly like it. And this constantly retreating down the right bank of the Theiss, without crossing over and forming a junction with Sandor. Every day the army melting away, becoming reduced by thousands! Sacré! if it be so, we’ve had our long journey for nothing; and poor liberty will soon see her last hopeless struggle on the plains of the Puszta, perhaps her last in all Europe! Ach!”
The Count, as he made this exclamation, drove the spur hard against the ribs of his horse, and broke off into a gallop, as if determined to take part in that struggle, however hopeless.
The younger man, seemingly inspired by the same impulse, rode rapidly after.
Then gallop was kept up until the spire of Vilagos came in sight, shooting up over the groves of olive and acacia embowering the Puszta village.
Outside on the skirts of the far-spreading town they could see tents pitched upon the plain, with standards floating over them – cavalry moving about in squadrons – infantry standing in serried ranks – here and there horsemen in hussar uniforms hurrying from point to point, their loose dolmans trailing behind them. They could hear the rolling of drums, the braying of bugles, and, away far beyond, the booming of great guns.
“Who goes there?” came the abrupt hail of a sentry speaking in the Magyar tongue, while a soldier in Honved dress showed himself in the door of a shepherd’s hut. He was the spokesman of a picket-guard concealed within the house.
“Friends!” answered the Austrian Count, in the same language in which the hail had been given. “Friends to the cause: Eljen Kossuth!”
At the magic words the soldier lowered his carbine, while his half-dozen comrades came crowding out from their concealment.
A pass to headquarters, obtained by the Count in Arad, made the parley short, and the two travellers continued their journey amidst cries of “Eljen Kossuth!”
Chapter Twenty Seven.
The Broken Swords
In half an hour afterwards, Count Roseveldt and Captain Maynard – for it was they who were thus rapidly travelling – reached Vilagos, and passed on to the camp of the Hungarian army.
They halted near its centre, in front of the marquee occupied by its commander-in-chief. They had arrived just in time to witness a remarkable scene – none more so on military record.
Around them were officers of all ranks, and of every conceivable arm of service. They were standing in groups talking excitedly, now and then an individual crossing hastily from one to the other.
There was all the evidence of warlike preparation, but as if under some mysterious restraint. This could be read in scowling looks and mutinous mutterings.
In the distance was heard the continuous roaring of artillery.
They knew whence it came, and what was causing it. They knew it was from Temesvar, where Nagy Sandor, with his attenuated corps of heroes, was holding the large army of Rüdiger in check.
Yes, their brilliant and beloved comrade; Nagy Sandor, that splendid cavalry officer – before whom even the beau sabreur of France sinks into a second place – was fighting an unequal fight!
It was the thought of this that was causing the dark looks and angry mutterings.
Going up to a group of officers, the Count asked for an explanation. They were in hussar uniforms, and appeared to be more excited than the others.
One of them sprang forward, and grasped him by the hand, exclaiming:
“Roseveldt!”
It was an old comrade, who had recognised him.
“There’s some trouble among you?” said the Count, scarce staying to return the salutation. “What is it, my dear friend?”
“You hear those guns?”
“Of course I do.”
“It’s the brave Sandor fighting against no end of odds. And this scheming chemist won’t give us the order to go to his assistance. He stays inside his tent like some Oracle of Delphi. Dumb, too, for he don’t make a response. Would you believe it, Roseveldt; we suspect him of treason?”
“If you do,” responded the Count, “you’re great fools to wait for his bringing it to maturity. You should advance without his orders. For my part, and I can speak, too, for my comrade here, I shan’t stay here, while there’s fighting farther on. Our cause is the same as yours; and we’ve come several thousand miles to draw swords in it. We were too late for the Baden affair; and by staying here with you we may again get disappointed. Come, Maynard! We have no business at Vilagos. Let us go on to Temesvar!”
Saying this, the Count strode brusquely back toward his horse, still under the saddle, the captain keeping pace with him. Before they could mount, there arose a scene that caused them to stand by their stirrups, holding their bridles in hand.
The hussar officers, among whom were several of high rank, generals and colonels, had overheard the speeches of Roseveldt. The Count’s friend had made them acquainted with his name.
It needed not for them to know his title, to give influence to what he had said. His words were like red-hot cinders pitched into a barrel of gunpowder, and almost as instantaneous was the effect.
“Geörgei must give the order?” cried one, “or we shall advance without it. What say you, comrades?”
“We’re all agreed!” responded a score of voices, the speakers clutching at their sword-hilts, and facing toward the marquee of the commander-in-chief.
“Listen?” said their leader, an old general, with steel-grey moustaches sweeping back to his ears. “You hear that? Those are the guns of Rüdiger. Too well do I know their accursed tongues. Poor Sandor’s ammunition is all spent. He must be in retreat?”
“We shall stop it!” simultaneously exclaimed a dozen. “Let us demand the order to advance! To his tent, comrades! to his tent!”
There could be no mistaking which tent; for, with the cry still continuing, the hussar officers rushed toward the marquee – the other groups pouring in, and closing around it, after them.
Several rushed inside; their entrance succeeded by loud words, in tones of expostulation.
They came out again, Geörgei close following. He looked pale, half-affrighted, though it was perhaps less fear than the consciousness of a guilty intent.
He had still sufficient presence of mind to conceal it.
“Comrades!” he said, with an appealing look at the faces before him, “my children! Surely you can trust to me? Have I not risked my life for your sake – for the sake of our beloved Hungary? I tell you it would be of no use to advance. It would be madness, ruin. We are here in an advantageous position. We must stay and defend it! Believe me, ’tis our only hope.”
The speech so earnest – so apparently sincere – caused the mutineers to waver. Who could doubt the man, so compromised with Austria?
The old officer, who led them, did.
“Thus, then!” he cried, perceiving their defection. “Thus shall I defend it!”
Saying this, he whipped his sabre from its sheath; and grasping it hilt and blade, he broke the weapon across his knee – flinging the fragments to the earth!
It was the friend of Roseveldt who did this.
The example was followed by several others, amidst curses and tears. Yes; strong men, old soldiers, heroes, on that day, at Vilagos, were seen to weep.
The Count was again getting into his stirrup, when a shout, coming from the outer edge of the encampment, once more caused him to keep still. All eyes were turned toward the sentry who had shouted, seeking the explanation. It was given not by the sentinel, but something beyond.
Far off, men mounted and afoot were seen approaching over the plain. They came on in scattered groups, in long straggling line, their banners borne low and trailing. They were the débris of that devoted band, who had so heroically held Temesvar. Their gallant leader was along with them, in the rear-guard – still contesting the ground by inches, against the pursuing cavalry of Rüdiger!
The old soldier had scarce time to regret having broken his sword, when the van swept into the streets of Vilagos, and soon after the last link of the retreating line.
It was the final scene in the struggle for Hungarian independence!
No; not the last! We chronicle without thought. There was another – one other to be remembered to all time, and, as long as there be hearts to feel, with a sad, painful bitterness.
I am not writing a history of the Hungarian war – that heroic struggle for national independence – in valour and devotedness perhaps never equalled upon the earth. Doing so, I should have to detail the tricks and subterfuges to which the traitor Geörgei had to resort before he could deceive his betrayed followers, and, with safety to himself, deliver them over to the infamous enemy. I speak only of that dread morn – the 6th day of October – when thirteen general officers, every one of them the victor in some sternly contested field, were strung up by the neck, as though they had been pirates or murderers!
And among them was the brave Damjanich, strung up in spite of his shattered leg; the silent, serious Perezel; the noble Aulich; and, perhaps most regretted of all, the brilliant Nagy Sandor! It was in truth a terrible taking of vengeance – a wholesale hanging of heroes, such as the world never saw before! What a contrast between this fiendish outpouring of monarchical spite against revolutionists in a good cause, and the mercy lately shown by republican conquerors to the chiefs of a rebellion without cause at all!
Maynard and Roseveldt did not stay to be spectators of this tragical finale. To the Count there was danger upon Hungarian soil – once more become Austrian – and with despondent hearts the two revolutionary leaders turned their faces towards the West, sad to think that their swords must remain unsheathed, without tasting the blood of either traitor or tyrant!
