Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I

It was the season of gifts, too. And what scenes of pleasure and delight were there, as some new arrival from the valley displayed before the admiring eyes of a household some little toy, the last discovery of inventive genius: Bauer-houses, that took to pieces and exhibited all their interior economy at will; saw-mills, that actually seemed to work, so vigorously did they perform the incessant time that mark their labour; dolls of every variety of attraction, but all in Tyrol taste; nutcrackers that looked like old men, but smashed nuts with the activity of the youngest; soldiers of lead, stout-looking fellows, that never quitted the posts committed to them, if the wire was not too powerful – all were there; appearing, besides, with a magic in true keeping with their wonderful properties. Some emerged from unknown pockets in the cuff of a jacket; others, from the deep waistband of particoloured leather; some, from the recesses of a hat: but all in some wonderful guise that well became them.

In one cottage only this little festive scene was not enacted. Hanserl’s mother, who for some time back had been in declining health, was unable to contribute, as she was wont, to their support. Too proud to confess her poverty in the village, she contrived to keep up all the externals of their condition as before. She and her son were seen on Sunday as well dressed as ever; perhaps, if any thing, a more than ordinary attention in this respect could be detected. Her offering to the curate rather exceeded than fell short of its customary amount, These were, however, costly little sacrifices to pride; for these, their meal was made scantier and poorer; for these, the hours of the wintry night were made longer and drearier, as, to save the cost of candle-light, they sat in darkness beside the stove; a hundred little privations, such as only poverty knows or can sympathise with, fell to their lot; all, borne with fortitude and patience, but in their slow process chilling and freezing up the hope from which these virtues spring.

“Hanserl, my love,” said the poor widow, and her eyes swam and her tongue faltered as she spoke, “thou hast had none of the pleasures of this joyous day. Take these twelve kreutzers and buy thyself something in the Dorf. There be many pretty things cost not more than twelve kreutzers.”

Hanserl made no answer; his thoughts were wandering far away. Heaven knows whether they had strayed back to the bold days of Wallenstein, or the siege of Prague, or were now, with the stormy cataract of the Danube – at the iron gate, as it is called, the desperate scene of many a bloody meeting between Turks and Austrians.

“Hans, love, dost hear me? I say, thou canst buy a bow with arrows; thou hast long been wishing for one. But bring no more books of battles, child,” added she, more feelingly; “strife and war have cost us both dearly. If thy father had not served the Kaiser, he would not have fallen at Elchingen.”

“I know it well,” said the boy, his features flashing as he spoke. “He would not have stood beside the ammunition-waggons when the French dragoons bore down, and with a loud voice called out, ‘Halt! these tumbrels are powder; another step and I’ll explode the train!’ How they reined up and fled! My father saved the train; didn’t he, mother?”

“He did,” sobbed the widow; “and fell under the wall of the citadel as the last waggon entered the gate.‘’

“God preserve Franz the Emperor!” said the boy, with a wild enthusiasm; “he has given many a brave soldier a glorious grave. But for this,” here he struck his shrunken limb violently with his hand, “I, too, had been able to serve him. But for this – ” a passion of sorrow, that found vent in tears, checked his words, and he buried his head in his hands and sobbed hysterically.

The poor mother did everything she could think of to console her son. She appealed to his piety for submission under a visitation of God’s own making; she appealed to his affection for her, since, had it not been for his helplessness, he might one day have left her to be a soldier.

“The conscription is so severe now, Hanserl that they take only sons away, like the rest – ay, and when they are but thirteen years of age! Take them away, and leave the mothers childless! But they cannot take thee, Hans!”

“No, that they cannot,” cried the boy, in a burst of grief. “The cripple and the maimed have not alone to weep over their infirmity, but to feel themselves dishonoured before others.”

The widow saw the unhappy turn her consolations had taken, and tried in different ways to recall her error. At last, yielding to her entreaties, Hans left the cottage, taking the twelve kreutzers in his hand to buy his Easter gift.

It was from no want of affection to his mother he acted, nor was it from any deficiency of gratitude that when he left the hut he forgot all about the toy, and the twelve kreutzers, and the fête itself. It was that a deeper sentiment had swallowed up every other, and left no place in his heart for aught else.

Hans then sauntered along, and at last found himself on the little projecting point of rock from which he usually surveyed the valley of the Kaunser-Thal. There, he sat down and watched till the darkness thickened around and hid out every thing.

When he arose to turn homeward the lights were glittering in every window of the village, and the merry sounds of rustic music filled the air. Hans suddenly remembered it was Easter-night, the glad season of home rejoicings, and he thought of his poor mother, who sat alone, unfriended and suffering, in her little cabin. A feeling of self-reproach at once struck him, and he turned speedily toward the cottage. His shortest way was through the village, and thither he bent his steps. The night was starlit but dark, and none of the villagers were in the street; indeed, all were too happy within doors to wander forth. In the Vorsteher’s house the village band was assembled, and there the merry notes of a hopsa waltz were accompanied by the tramp of feet and the sound of mirthful voices. A little farther on was a rich peasant’s house. Hans stopped to peep through the half-closed shutters, and there sat the family at their supper. It was a well-filled board, and many a wine-flask stood around, while the savoury steam rose up and hung like a feint cloud above the dishes – not sufficiently, however, to obscure a little larch-tree, which, set in a small bucket, occupied the centre of the table. On this all the candles were fastened, glittering like stars through the sprayey branches, and glancing in bright sparkles over a myriad of pretty toys that hung suspended around. For this was the Easter-tree, to which every friend of the house attaches some little present. Many a more gorgeous epergne has not yielded one hundredth part of the delight. Every eye was fixed upon it; some in pure astonishment and wonder, others speculating what might fall to their share; and while the old grandfather tried to curb impatience among the elder children, the young baby, with the destructive privilege that belongs to infancy, was permitted to pull and tear from time to time at the glittering fruit, – little feats which excited as much laughter from the grown people as anxiety from the younger.

Hans moved on, with a sigh, at these new signs of home happiness in which he had no share. The next was the Curate’s cabin, and there sat a pleasant party round the stove, while the old priest read something from an amusing volume; the lecture never proceeding far without some interruption to comment upon it, to indulge a laugh, or mayhap clink their glasses together, as, in token of friendship, they pledged each other health and long life. Beyond this again was a new cabin, just taken possession of; and here Hans, peeping in, beheld a young Tyroler exhibiting to his wife – (they had been married but a few weeks) – his new rifle. It was strange to see how she admired the weapon, gazing at it with all the delight most of her sex reserve for some article of dress or decoration. She balanced it, too, in her hand, and held it to her shoulder, with the ease of one accustomed to its use.

In every cabin some group, some home picture, met his eye; peaceful age, happy manhood, delighted childhood, beamed around each hearth and board. The song, the dance, the merry story, the joyous meal, succeeded each other, as he went along. He alone, of all, was poor and sad: in his mother’s hut all was darkness and gloom; the half-suppressed sigh of pain the only sound. The last cabin of the village, and the poorest too, belonged to an old peasant, who had been a soldier under the Emperor Joseph; he was a very old man, and being burdened with a large family of grandchildren, whose parents were both dead, all he could do by hard labour was to maintain his household, “Here,” thought Hans, as he stopped to look in, “here are some poor as ourselves, – I hope they are happier.” So they seemed to be. They were all seated on the floor of the cabin, with the grandfather among them on a low stool, while he performed for them the evolutions of the Grand Army at Presburg – the great review which Maria Theresa held of all the Imperial troops. The old man was sorely puzzled to convey a sufficiently formidable notion of the force, for he had only some twenty little wooden soldiers to fill up the different arms of the service, and was obliged to plant individuals to represent entire corps, while walnut-shells answered for field-pieces and mortars; the citadel of Presburg being performed by the bowl of hit Meerschaum pipe.

There were many more brilliant displays met Hans’ eyes that evening than this humble spectacle, and yet not one had the same attraction for him. What would he not have given to be among that group – to have watched all the evolutions, many of which were now hidden from his view – perchance to be permitted to move some of the regiments, and suggest his own ideas of tactics! Ah, that would have been happiness indeed! How long he might have watched there is no saying, when a slight incident occurred which interrupted him – slight and trivial enough was it, and yet in all its seeming insignificance to be the turning point of his destiny!

It chanced that one of the little soldiers, from some accident or other, would not stand upright, and a little boy, whose black eyes and sunburnt cheeks bespoke a hasty temper, in endeavouring to set him on his legs, broke one of them off. “Ah, thou worthless thing!” cried he passionately, “thou art no use now to King or Kaiser, for thou art as lame as Hans Jörgle;” and as he spoke he opened the little pane of the window, and flung the little figure into the street.

“Shame on thee, Carl!” said the old man reprovingly; “he would have done for many a thing yet. The best scout we ever had on the Turkish frontier was so lame, you couldn’t think him able to walk. Besides, don’t you remember the Tyrol proverb? —

‘Gott hat sein plan Fur Jedenmann:’

God has his plan For every man.

So never despise those who are unfit for thine own duties; mayhap, what thou deemest imperfection, may fit them for something far above thee.”

Oh, how Hans drank in these words! the grief that filled him, on the insulting comparison of the child was now changed to gratitude, and seizing the little soldier, his own sad emblem, he kissed it a hundred times, and then placed it in his bosom.

Hanserl’s mother was asleep when he reached home, so, creeping silently to his bed, he lay down in his clothes, dreading lest he might awaken her; and with what a happy heart did he lie down that night! How full of gratitude and of love as he thought over the blessed words! How he wished to remain awake all night long and think over them, fancying, as he could do, the various destinies which, even to such as him, might still fall! But sleep, that will not come when wooed, stole over him as he lay, and in a deep, heavy slumber, he clasped the little wooden figure in his hands.

The first effect of weariness over, Hans dreamed of all he had seen; vague and confused images of the different objects passed and re-passed before his mind, in that disorder and incoherency that belong to dreams. The scene of the Vorsteher’s house became mingled with the remembrance of the Pontlatzer bridge, where, until nightfall, he had been watching the Bavarian sentinel; and the curate’s parlour beside its listening group, had, now, a merry mob of children dancing around the Easter-tree, under whose spreading branches a cavalry picquet were lying – the horses grazing – while the men lay stretched before the watch-fires, smoking and chattering.

The memory of the soldiers once touched upon, every other fled; and now he could only think of the evolutions around Presburg: and he fancied he saw the whole army defiling oyer the bridge across the Danube, and disappearing within the ancient gates of the city. The white-cloaked cuirassiers of Austria, gigantic forms, seeming even greater from the massive folds of their white drapery; the dark Bohemians on their coal-black horses; the Uhlans with their banners floating from their tall lances; the prancing Hungarians mounted on their springing white steeds of Arab blood; the gay scarlet of their chakos, the clink of their dolmans, all glitter-* ing with gold, eclipsing all around them. Then came the Jagers of the Tyrol, a countless host, marching like one man, their dark plumes waving like a vast forest for miles in distance. These followed again by the long train of guns and ammunition carts.

Fitful glances of distant lands, of which he had once read, passed before him: the wide-spreading plains of the Lower Danube – the narrow passes of the Styrian Alps – the bleak, vast tracts of sterile country on the Turkish frontier, with here and there a low mud-walled village, surmounted by a minaretted tower; – all, however, were peopled with soldiers, marching or bivouacking, striking their tents at day-break, or sitting around their camp-fires by night. The hoarse challenge of the sentries, the mellow call of the bugle, the quivering tramp of a mounted patrol, were all vividly presented to his sleeping senses. From these thoughts of far-away scenes, he was suddenly recalled to home, and his own Tyrol land. He thought he stood upon the rocky cliff and looked down into the valley which he had left so tranquil at nightfall, but which now presented an aspect of commotion and trouble. The inhabitants of the little village at the head of the Kaunser-Thal were all preparing to quit their homes and fly up the valley; carts covered with their furniture and effects crowded the little street; pack-horses and mules laden with every thing portable; while in the eager and affrighted gestures of the peasants it was easy to see that some calamity impended. Now and then some horseman would ride in amongst them, and by his manner it was plain the tidings he brought were full of disaster. Hans looked towards the bridge: and there, to his astonishment, he saw the very same soldiers the old man had manoeuvred with. They had, seemingly, come off a long march, and with their knapsacks unstrung, and their arms piled, were regaling themselves with wine from the guard-house.

Hans’ first thought was to hasten back and tell his mother what he saw; and now he stood up and leaned over her bed, but her sleep was so tranquil and so happy he could not bear to awaken her. “What can it mean?” thought he. “Are these the movements of our own people? or are the French wolves coming down upon us?” As he ruminated thus, he thought there came a gentle tap at the door of the hut: he opened it cautiously, and there, who should be standing before him but the lame soldier, his own poor little fellow, the castaway?

“Come along, Hans,” said he in a friendly voice; “there is little time to lose. The Wolves are near.” He pressed his finger to his lips, in token of caution, and led Hans without the door. No sooner were they outside than he resumed, —

“Thou art maimed and crippled like myself, Hans Jörgle. We should be but indifferent front-rank men before the enemy: but remember the Tyrol proverb, —

‘Gott hat sein plan Für Jedenmann.’

Who knows if even we cannot serve the Vaterland? We must away, Hanserl – away to the top of the Kaiser-fells, where the fagots lie ready for the signal fire. The Bavarians have found out where it lies, and have sent a scout party to destroy it, while their battalions are advancing by forced marches up the Inn Thai. Thou knowest all these paths well, Hans; so lead the way, my brave boy, and I’ll do my best to follow.”

Hans waited for no further bidding, but hastily crossing the little wooden bridge, commenced the ascent of the mountain with an activity that bore no trace of his infirmity.

“We must light the beacon, Hans,” said the lame soldier. “When it is seen blazing, the signal will be repeated up the Kaunser-Thal; Fünstermünze will have it; and then Nauders. Maltz will shew it next, and then all Tyrol will be up. The war jodeln will resound in every valley and glen, and then let the Wolves beware!”

Oh, how Hans strained each nerve and sinew to push forward! The path led across several torrents, many of them by places which, in day, demanded the greatest circumspection, but Hans cleared them now at a spring. The deep marshy ground, plashy with rivulets and melted snow, he waded through ankle deep, climbing the briery rocks and steep banks without a moment’s halt.

He thought that the lame soldier continued to exhort him, and encourage his zeal, while gradually his own pace slackened, and at last he cried out, – “I can do no more, Hans. Thou must go forward alone, my boy, – to thee all the glory, – I am old and worn out! Hasten, then, my child, and save the Vaterland. Thou wilt see the tinder-box and the rags in the hollow pine-tree beside the faggot. It is wrapped in tow, and will light at once. Farewell, and Gott guide thee!”

I cannot tell a thousandth part of the dangers and difficulties of that night’s walk: in one place the path, for several yards, is on the brink of a ravine, eleven hundred feet deep, and so abrupt is the turn at the end, that an iron hook is inserted in the rock, by which the traveller must grip; a steep glacier is to be crossed farther on; and lastly, the torrent of the Kletscher must be traversed on a tree, whose bark, wet and slippery from the falling spray, would be impossible to all but the feet of a mountaineer. Each of these did Hans now surmount with all the precision and care of waking senses; with greater courage, by far, than in his waking moments he could have confronted them.

Gorges he never gazed on before without a shudder, he passed now in utter disregard; paths he trembled to tread, he stepped along now in nimble speed, and at last caught sight of a large dark object that stood out against the sky – the great heap of fire-wood for the beacon.

As he came nearer, his eagerness grew greater; each minute now seemed an hour – every false step he made appeared to him as though it might prove fatal to his mission; and when, by any turn of the way, the beacon pile disappeared for a moment from his eyes, his heart throbbed so powerfully as almost to impede his breath. At last he gained the top – the wild mountain-peak of the Kaiser-fells. The Snow lay deep, and a cold, cutting wind swept the drift along, and made the sensation far more intense. Hans cared not for this: his whole soul was on one object; suffering, torture, death itself, he would have braved and welcomed, could he only accomplish it. The mist lay heavily on the side by which he had ascended, but towards Landeck the air was clear, and Hans gazed down in that direction as well as the darkness would permit; but all seemed tranquil – nothing stirred, nor shewed the threatened approach. “What if he should be mistaken?” thought Hans. “What if the lame soldier should have only fancied this? or could he be a traitor, that would endeavour by a false alarm to excite the revolt before its time?”

These were torturing doubts, and while he yet revolved them he stood unconsciously peering into the depth below, when suddenly, close beneath him – so close that he thought it almost beside him, though still about eighty yards off – he saw two figures emerge from the shadow of a pine copse, and commence the steep ascent of the peak. They were followed by two others, and now a long compact line issued forth, and began to clamber up pass. Their weapons clinked as they came: there the could be no doubt of it – they were the enemy!

With one spring he seized the tinder-box and struck the light: the wood, smeared with tar, ignited when touched, and before a minute elapsed a bright pillar of flame sprung up into the dark sky. Hans, not content with leaving any thing to chance, seized a brand and touched the fagots here and there, till the whole reeking mass blazed out – a perfect column of fire.

No sooner had the leading files turned the cliff, than with a cry of horror and vengeance they sprang forward. It was too late: the signal was already answered from the Kaiser-fells, and a glittering star on the Gebatsch told where another fire was about to blaze forth. Hans had but time to turn and fly down the mountain as the soldiers drew up. A particle of burning wood had touched his jacket, however, and, guided by the sparks, four bullets followed him. It was at the moment when he had turned for a last look at the blazing pile. He fell, but, speedily regaining his feet, continued his flight. His mission was but half accomplished if the village were not apprised of their danger. All the dangers of his upward course were now to be encountered in his waking state; and with the agony of a terrible wound – for the bullet had pierced him beneath the left breast – half frantic with pain and excitement, he bounded from cliff to cliff, clearing the torrents by leaps despair alone could have made, and at length staggered rather than ran along the village street, and fell at the door of the Vorsteher’s house.

Already the whole village was a-foot: the signal blazing on the mountain had called them to arm, but none could tell by whom it was lighted, or by which path the enemy might be expected. They now gathered around the poor boy, who, in accents broken and faltering, could scarce reply.

“What! thou hast done it?” cried the Vorsteher, angrily. “So, then, thou silly fool, it is to thy mad ravings we owe all this terror – a terror that may cost our country bitter tears! Who prompted thee to this?”

“The lame soldier told me they were coming,” said Hans, with eyes swimming in tears.

“The lame soldier! – he is mad!” cried an old peasant: “there is none such in all the Dorf.”

“Yes, yes,” reiterated Hans; “they flung him away last night, because he was lame – lame, and a cripple like me: but he told me they were coming; and I had only time to reach the Kaiser-fells when they gained the top too.”

“Wretched fool!” said the Vorsteher, sternly; “thy mad reading and wild fancies have ruined the Vaterland. See, there is the signal from Pfunds, and the whole Tyrol will be up! If thy life were worth anything, thou shouldst die for this!”

“So shall I!” said Hans, sobbing; “the bullet is yet here.” And he opened his jacket, and displayed to their horrified gaze the whole chest bathed in blood, and the round, blue mark of a gun-shot wound.

This terrible evidence dispelled every doubt of Hans’ story: all its strange incoherency vanished before that pool of blood, which, welling forth at every respiration, ran in currents over him. Dreadful, too, as the tidings were, the better nature of the poor villagers prevailed over their fears, and in the sorrow the child’s fate excited all other thoughts were lost.

In a sad procession they bore him home to his mother’s cottage, the Vorsteher walking at his side; while Hans, with rapid utterance, detailed the events which have been told. Broken and unconnected as parts of his recital were – incomprehensible as the whole history of the lame soldier appeared – the wounded figure – the blazing fires that already twinkled on every peak, – were facts too palpable for denial; and the hearers stared at each other in amazement, not knowing how to interpret the strange story.

The agonising grief of the bereaved mother, as she beheld the shattered and bleeding form of her child, broke in upon these doubtings; and while they endeavoured to offer her their consolation, none thought of the impending danger.

For a while after he was laid in bed, Hans seemed sunk in a swoon; but, suddenly awakening, he made an effort to rise. Too weak for this, he called the chief people of the village around, and said,

“They are coming from the Kaiser-fells; they will be down soon, and burn the village, if you do not cut away the bridges over the Kletscher, and close the pass on the Weissen Spitze. Throw out skirmishers along the mountain side, and guard the footpath from the Pontlatzer Brücke.”

Had the words been the dying orders of a general commanding an army, they could not have been heard with more implicit reverence, nor more strictly obeyed. From the spot the Vorsteher issued commands for these instructions to be followed. Hans’ revelations were, to the superstitious imaginations of the peasants, of divine inspiration: and many already stoutly affirmed that the lame soldier was St. Martin himself, their patron saint, at whose shrine a crowd of devout worshippers were soon after seen kneeling.

The village doctor soon pronounced the case above his skill, but did not abandon hope. Hans only smiled faintly, and whispered, —

“Be it so! The proverb is always right, —

‘Gott hat sein plan Für Jedenmann.’

“What do you see there, Herr Vorsteher?” cried he, as the old man stared with astonished eyes from the little window that commanded the valley. “What is it you see?”

“The Dorf in the Kaunser-Thal seems all in commotion,” answered the Vorsteher. “The people are packing every thing in their waggons, and preparing to fly.”

“I know that,” said Hans, quietly; “I saw it already.”

“Thou hast seen it already?” muttered the old man, in trembling awe.

“Yes, I saw it all. Look sharply along the river side, and tell me if a child is not holding two mules, who are striving to get down into the stream to drink.”

“God be around and about us!” murmured the Vorsteher; “his power is great!” He crossed himself three times, and the whole company followed the pious motion; and a low, murmuring prayer, was heard to fill the chamber.

“There is a waggon with eight bullocks, too, but they cannot stir the load,” continued Hans, as, with closed eyes, he spoke with the faint accents of one half-sleeping.

“Who are these coming along the valley, Hans?” asked the Vorsteher; “they seem like our own Jagers, as well as my eyes can make out.”

“He is asleep!” whispered his mother, with a cautious gesture to enforce silence.

It was true. Wearied, and faint, and dying, he had fallen into slumber.

While poor Hans slept, the tidings of which he was the singular messenger had received certain confirmation. The village scouts had already exchanged shots with the Bavarian troops upon the mountains, and driven them back. The guard at the Pontlatzer Brücke was seen to withdraw up the valley towards Landeck, escorting three field-pieces which had only arrived the preceding day. Every moment accounts came of garrisons withdrawn from distant outpost stations, and troops falling back to concentrate in the open country. It was seen, from various circumstances, that a forward movement had been intended, and was only thwarted by the inexplicable intervention of Hans Jörgle.

The Tyrolers could not fail to perceive that their own hour was now come, and the blow must be struck at once or never! So felt the leaders; and scarcely had the Bavarians withdrawn their advanced posts, than emissaries flew from village to village, with little scraps of paper, bearing the simple words, “Es ist zeit!– It is time!” while, as the day broke, a little plank was seen floating down the current, with a small flag-staff, from which a pennon fluttered – a signal that was welcomed by the wildest shouts of enthusiasm as it floated along: – the Tyrol was up! “Fur Gott, der Kaiser, und das Vaterland!” rung from every glen and every mountain.

I dare not suffer myself to be withdrawn, even for a moment, to that glorious struggle – one of the noblest that ever a nation carried on to victory. My task is rather within that darkened room in the little hut, where, with fast-ebbing life, Hans Jörgle lay.

The wild cheers and echoing songs of the marching peasants awoke him from his sleep, which, if troubled by pangs of pain, had still lasted for some hours. He smiled, and made a gesture as if for silence, that he might hear the glorious sounds more plainly, and then lay in a calm, peaceful reverie, for a considerable time.

The Vorsteher had, with considerable difficulty, persuaded the poor widow to leave the bedside for a moment, while he asked Hans a question.

The wretched mother was borne, almost fainting, away; and the old man sat in her place, but, subdued by the anguish of the scene, unable to speak. At last, while the tears ran down his aged cheeks, he kissed the child’s hand, and said, —

“Thou wilt leave us soon, Hans!”

Hans gave a smile of sad, but beautiful meaning, while his upturned eyes seemed to intimate his hope and his faith.

“True, Hans – thy reward is ready for thee!”

He paused a second, and then went on: —

“But even here, my child, in our own poor village, let thy devotion be a treasure, to be handed down in memory to our children, that they may know how one like themselves – more helpless, too – could serve his Vaterland. Say, Hans Jörgle, will it make thy last moments happier to think that our gratitude will raise a monument to thee in the Dorf, with thy father’s name, who fell at Elchingen, above thine own? The villagers have bid me ask thee this.”

“My mother – my poor mother!” murmured Hans.