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ever, knew who he was, and he would
have risked worlds to have sent back his
prisoner in safety, with even one line to
Limerick. Hut Lord Inchiquin s troops
were too vigilant to allow of any commu
nication with the city,. Even this intelli
gence, scanty though it was, afforded him
some consolation. He knew his wife was
safe, and unable any longer to endure the
Tantalus-like position in which he was
placed, he found means of returning again
to England.
His next and last visit to Ireland was
in the summer of sixteen hundred and
fifty. He was then pretty high in com
mand, and had hopes, as he sat down with
Waller’s army of investment before Lim
erick, in the July of that year, that should
he only be able to effect an entrance into
the town, his authority would be sufficient
to protect whomsoever he pleased. But
the year passed away and still the city
held out. And, had he but his wife and
child without its walls, he would have
counselled its burghers to hold out c\en
still more manfully, for he well knew the
iron heart and bloody hand ot the execra
ble Hardress Waller.
The spring of the next year found him
still before Limerick ; and could he but
communicate with any ot its gallant de
fenders, his hatred of treachery would
have urged him to expose to them the
perfidy of one of their own whom they had
raised to the rank of colonel. 1 bis wretch
was named Fennell; and, for bis treason
in selling the passes of the Shannon at
Killaloe, their commander-in-chief Crom
well, had promised him and his descend
ants many a fair acre in Tipperary. By
this pass Ireton and his myrmidons crossed
the river into Clare ; and with them passed
Walter Herbert. Still his heart was full
of hope of saving all he held dear in the
leagured city. Spring passed away, and
summer again came ; and still the assail
ing host made no progress toward the
capture of the town which Ireton and his
father-in-law regarded as the key of all
the Munster territories. In the burning
heat of July, while pestilence daily thinned
the* ranks of the besieged, an assault was
ordered on the almost defenceless keep
that guarded the northern extremity of
the salmon-weir, and Herbert was reluc
tantly obliged to form one of the storming
party. His immediate senior in command
was a person named Tuthill—one ot those
heartless hypocrites who could preach and
pray while his brutal soldiery were mas
sacring the wives and children ot the brave
men whom the chances ©t war made his
victims. The fort was carried by over
whelming numbers ; and Herbert was
doomed to witness, with horror, the butch
ery of the surviving defenders, mercilessly
ordered by Tuthill —an order which he
unhappily had no power of countermand
ing, hut in the execution of which he took
no part. Still the city held out, though
the “ leaguer sickness was rapidly deci
mating its brave garrison. The north
fortress of Thomond bridge was next car
ried by assault—but to no purpose. The
townsmen succeeded in breaking down
two of its arches, and thus cutting oil ah
approach to the city in that quarter, and
in resisting the sortie three hundred of
their assailants perished. Winter was
now fast approaching, aDd the plague ex
tending from the city, in which fifty of its
victims were now daily interred, com
menced to thin the ranks of the besiegers
themselves. Ireton had serious thoughts
of raising the siege, and he would., be
yond all question have done so, were it not
for treachery. Fennell, the traitor of
Killaloe, was again at work—this time,
unfortunately, within the very walls of
the city itself.
A truce of some days was agreed, on ;
and Herbert was one of those appointed
to treat with the townsmen. The depu
ties met on neutral ground, midway be
tween the city and camp, and within range
of the rival batteries. Ilis heart was now
full of greater hopes than ever. Could he
but meet with any member of Eily’s
family, ho hoped that his love for her
would induce them to listen to her coun
sels. But late, it would seem, had leagued
all chances against him. Had lie met
them, he meant to put them on their guard
against Fennell’s treachery, and, without
absolutely breaking trust, give them such
a key to Ireton’s fears and readiness to
make concessions as would, he hoped,
lead to an honorable capitulation, and pre
vent the bloodshed which, from the shat
tered state of the town walls, and the ad
ditional element of treachery within those
walls, he now judged to be inevitable, un
less they came to terms with Ireton. But
not one of them appeared : for the traitor
had laid his plans deeply, and succeeded
in diverting them and the clerical party,
to which they faithfully adhered, from
anything like a compromise. He wished
that the sole merit and reward of surren
dering the city should be his own. And
he succeeded. The conference ended
fruitlessly ; and Herbert returned to the
camp well-nigh broken-hearted.
The plague continued its ravages mean.
while ; and, day after day, within the city,
the dying were brought by their relatives
to the tomb of Cornelius O'Dea, where
many, it was believed, were restored to
health through the intercession of that saint
ly prelate, who lay buried in the cathedral.
Its effects were visibly traced in the ranks
of the besieging army. Still Ireton, re
lying on treason within, pressed on the
siege. By a bridge of pontoons he suc
ceeded in connecting the Thomond side
of the river with the King’s Island, where
he now planted a formidable battery, to
play on the eastern side of the city. Her
bert had fortunately escaped witnessing
the horrors of Drogheda and Wexford ;
but a sight almost as appalling now met
his eyes. In the smoke of the cannonade
crowds of plague-stricken victims —princi-
pally women and children—ventured out
side the city walls to caich one pure breath
of air from the Shannon, on “ the Island”
hank—and there lie down and die. But
when this was discovered, the heartless
Waller forbade even this short respite
from suffering. By his orders, those un
happy beings, who could have no share in
protracting the siege, were mercilessly
Hogged back by the soldiery into the
plague-reeking city—and such as refused
to return were, by the same pitiless man
date, hanged * within sight ot their fellow
townsmen !
The daily sight of this revolting butch
ery was sickening to the noble heart and
refined feelings of Herbert. But suffer
ing for him had not yet reached its climax, j
As he was seated in his tent, one evening
toward the close of October, fatigued
after a long foraging excursion to the
Meelick mountains, and musing sadly on
the fate of her who was almost within
sight of him, and yet whom, by what
seemed to him an almost supernatural
combination of adverse circumstances, he
had not seen for years, his attention was
arrested by the cries of a female who
seemed struggling with her captors. Ilis
manhood was aroused by such an outrage
—committed almost in his very presence
—and he rose at once to rescue the victim
from her assailants. But, horror of hor
rors ! at the very door of his tent, and in
the grasp of an armed ruffian, lay the
fainting and all but inanimate form of his
wife 1 To fell the wretch, and clasp the
beloved object to his bosom, was but the
work of a second. But, oh ! how sorrow
and sickness had changed that once beau
tiful face, and wasted that once symme
trical form. Death had already clutched
her in his bony gripe, and selected her for
his own. His kiss was upon her lips, for
they were livid and plague-stained. And
her beautiful blue eyes! how they now
wandered with the wild look of a maniac.
All that remained of the beautiful Eily
he once know were the long fair ringlets
that now fell down in dishevelled masses
on her heaving bosom. The sight almost
drove him mad. In vain he clasped her
to his heart, and called her by the dear
fond name of wife. She knew him not,
yet, when she spoke, her ravings were all
about him ; and he often wondered after
ward how his brain stood the shock, when,
without knowing him, she still called on
him, “her own clear, dear Walter, to save
her, to take her away from those terrible
men—at least to come to her—for, to
come to him, she had left her poor old
father and little Gerald behind.”
♦Historical.
[to BE CONTINUED.]
The Condemned Sentinel.
A cold, stormy night in the month of
March, 1807, Marshall Lefebrc, with
twenty-seven thousand French troops had
invested Dantiez. The city was garrison
ed dv seventeen thousand Russian and
Prussian soldiers ; and these, together
with twenty or thirty well armed citizens,
presented nearly double the force which
could be brought to the assault. So there
was need of the utmost vigilance on the
part of the sentinels, for a desperate sortie
from the garrison made unawares, might
prove calami toil -
At midnight Jerome DnOois was placed
upon one of the most important posts in
the advance line of picket s, it being upon
a narrow strip ot land rising above the
marshy flat, called the Peninsula oi -Neh
rung. For more than an hour lie paced
his lonely heat without hearing anything
but the moaning of the wind and the
driving of the rain. At length, however,
another sound broke upon his ear. He
stopped and listened, and presently he
called—“ Who’s there V’
The only answer was a moaning
sound.
lie called again, and this time he heard
something like the cry ot a child , and
presently the object came toward him
from out of the darkness. With a quick,
emphatic movement, he brought his mus
ket to the charge, and ordered the in
truder to halt.
“Mercy!” exclaimed a childish voice.
“Don’t shoot me! I am Natalia. Dont
you know me ?”
@1 ffli SOTOB.
“Heavens 1” cried Jerome, elevating
the muzzle of his piece. “Is it you, dear
child ?”
“Yes ; and you are good Jerome. Oh,
you will come and help mamma ! Coine,
she is dying ”
It was certainly Natalia, a little girl
only eight years old, daughter of Lisette
Yaffiant. Lisette was the daughter of
Pierre Vaillant, a sergeant in Jerome’s
own regiment, and was in the army in the
capacity of nurse.
“Why how is this, my child ?” said Je
rome, taking the little one by the arm.
“What is it about your mother V’
“Oh, good Jerome, you can hear her
now! Hark 1”
The sentinel bent his ear, but could
hear only the wind and the rain. *
“Mamma is in the dreadful mud,” said
the child, “and is dying. She is not far
away. Oh, 1 can hear her crying.”
By degrees, Jerome gathered from
Natalia that her father had taken her out
with him in the morning, and that in the
evening when the storm came on, her
mother came after her. The sergeant
had offered to send a man back to the
camp with his wife, but she preferred to
return alone, feeling sure that she should
meet with no trouble. The way, however,
had become dark and uncertain, and she
had lost the path, and wandered off to the
edge of the morass, where she had sunk
in the mud.
“Oh, good Jerome/’ cried the little one,
seizing the man’s hand, “can’t you hear
her ? She will die if you do not come
and help her!”
At that moment the sentinel fancied he
heard the wail of the unfortunate woman.
Lisette, the good, the beautiful, the ten
der-hearted Lisette, was in danger, and it
was in his power to save her. It was not
in his heart to withstand the pleadings of
the child. He could go and rescue the
nurse and return to his post without de
tection. At all events, he could not re
fuse the childish pleader.
“Give me 3 r our hand, Natalia, I’ll go
along with you.”
With a cry of joy the child sprang to
the soldier’s side, and when she had se
cured his hand she hurried him along to
ward the place where she had leit her
mother. It seemed a long distance to
Jerome, and once he stopped as though
he would turn back. He did not fear
death, blit he feared dishonor.
“Hark!” uttered the child.
The soldier listened, and plainly heard
the voice of the suffering woman calling
for h*lp, He hesitated no longer. On
he hastened through the storm, and found
Lisette sunk to the arm pits in the soft
morass. Fortunately a tuft of long grass
had been within her reach, by which
means she had held her head above the
fatal mud. It was no easy matter to ex
tricate her from the miry pit, as the work
man had to be very careful that he did
not himself lose his footing. At length,
however, she was drawn forth, and he
led her forward to his post.
“Who comes there ?” cried a voice
from the gloom.
“Heavens !” gasped Jerome, stopping
and trembling from head to foot.
“Who comes there ?” repeated the
voice.
Jerome heard the click of a musket
lock, and he knew that another sentinel
had been placed at the post he had left.
The relief had come while he was ab
sent !
“Friend with the countersign !” he an
swered to the last caff of the new sen
tinel.
lie was ordered to advance, and when
he had given the countersign be found
himself in the presence of the officer of
the guard. In a few hurried words he
told his story ; and had the officer been
alone he might have allowed the matter to
rest where it was. But there were others
present, and when ordered to give up his
musket, he obeyed without a murmur,
and silently accompanied the officer to
the camp, where he was put in irons.
On the following morning, Jerome
Dubois was brought before a court mar
tial under charge of having deserted his
post. He confessed he was guilty, and
then permission was granted him to tell
his story.
This lie did in a few words, but the
court could do nothing hut pass sentence
of death; but the members thereof all
signed a petition praying that lie might
be pardoned, and this petition was sent to
the General of the division, by whom it
was endorsed and sent up to the Marshal.
Lefebvre was kind and generous to his
soldiers, almost to a fault, but he could
not overlook so grave an error as that
committed by Dubois. The orders given
to the sentinel had been very simple, and
foremost of every necessity was the order
forbidding him to leave his post uutil
properly relieved. To a certain extent
the safety of the whole army rested on the
shoulders of each individual sentinel
and especially upon those who at night
were posted nearest the lines ol the enemy.
“I am sorry,” said the gray-haired
old warrior, as he folded up the petition,
and handed it back to the officer who pre
sented it. “I am sure that the man
meant no wrong, and yet a great wrong
was done. He knew what he was doing,
and ran the risk—he was detected—he
has been tried and condemned. He must
suffer !”
They asked Lefebvre if he would see
the condemned.
“No, no !” the marshal replied quickly.
“Should I see him and listen to his story
I might pardon him, and that must not
be done. -Let him die that thousands
may bo saved.”
The time fixed for the execution of
Dubois was the morning succeeding his
trial. The result of the interview with
Marshal Lefebvre was made known to
him, and he was not at all disappointed.
He blamed no one, and was only sorry
that he had not died on the battle-field.
“I have tried to be a good soldier,” he
said to the captain. “‘l,feel that I have
done no crime that should*leiyve a stain
** * % *
upon my name. 7
The captain took his hand and assured
him that his name should be held in re
spect.
Towards evening Pierre Vaillant with
his wife and child were admitted to see
the prisoner. This was a visit which
Jerome would gladly have dispensed with,
as his feelings were already wrought up
to a pitch that almost unmanned him ;
but he braced himself for the interview,
and would have stood it like a hero, had
not little Natalia, in the eagerness of her
love and gratitude, thrown herself on his
bosom and offered to die in his stead.
This tipped the brimming cup, and his
cup flowed freely.
Pierre and Lisette knew not what to
say. They wept and prayed, and they
would have willingly died for the noble
fellow who had been thus condemned.
Later in the evening came a com
panion, who, if he lived, would at some
time return to Jerome’s boyhood home.
First the condemned thought of his
widowed mother and he sent her a mes
sage of love and devotion. Then he
thought of a brother and sister. And
finally he thought of one—a bright-eyed
maid—whose vine-clad cottage stood up
on the Seine—one whom he had loved
with a love such as great hearts alone can
feel,
“Oh, my dear friend !” ho cried, bow
ing his head upon his hands; “you need
not tell them a falsehood; but if the thing
is possible, let them believe that I fell in
battle.”
His companion promised that he would
do all that he could, and if the truth could
not be kept back, it should be so faith
fully told that the name of Jerome Dubois
should not hear dishonor in the minds of
those who had loved him in other days.
Morning came duff and gloomy, with
driving sleet and snow, and at an early
hour Jerome Dubois was led forth to
meet his fate. The place of execution
had been fixed upon a low, barren spot
toward the sea; and thither his division
was being marched to witness the fearful
punishment. They had gained not more
than half the distance when the sound of
some strange commotion broke upon the
wintry air. and very shortly an aid-de
camp came dashing to the side of the
general of the brigade with the cry :
“A sortie ! a sortie ! The enemy are
out in force. Let this thing he stayed.
The marshal directs that you face about
and advance upon the Peninsula!”
In an instant all was changed in that
division, and the brigadier general who
had temporary command thundered forth
his orders for bis countermarch. The
gloom was dissipated, and with glad
hearts the soldier turned from the thought
of the execution of a brave comrade to
the thoughtof meeting the enemy.
“What shall we do with the prisoner ?”
asked the sergeant, who had charge of the
guard.
“Lead him back to the camp !” exclaim
ed the captain.
The direction was very simple, but the
execution thereof wa3 not to be so easy,
for hardly had the words escaped the
captain’s lips when a squadron of Prus
sian cavalry came dashing directly to
wards him. The division was quickly
formed into four hollow squares, while
the guard that had the charge of the
prisoner found themselves obliged to flee.
“In heaven’s name !” cried Jerome, cut
my bonds and let me die like a soldier/’
The sergeant quickly cut the cord that
bound his elbows behind him, and then
dashed forward to the point where his own
company were stationed. The rattle of
musketry had commenced, and the Prus
sians were vainly endeavoring to break
the squares of French troops. Jerome
Dubois looked about for some weapon
with which to arm himself, and presently
he saw a Prussian officer, not far off, reel
ing in his saddle as though he had been
wounded.
With a quick bound he reached the
spot, pulled the dying officer from his
seat and leaped into the saddle.
Dubois was fully resolved that he would
sell his own life on that day—sell it in
behalf of France—and sell it as dearly as
possible. But he was not needed where
he was. He knew the Prussians could
not break those hollow squares; so he
rode away thinking to join the French
cavalry, with whom he could rush into
the deepest danger. Supposing that the
heaviest fighting must be upon the
Nehrung, he rode his horse in that direc
tion ; when he reached it he found he had
been mistaken. Upon a slight eminence
toward Hagelberg the enemy had planted
a battery of heavy guns, supported by two
regiments of infantry, and already with
shot and shell immense danger had been
done.
Marshall Lefebvre rode up shortly after
the battery had been opened, and very
quickly made up his mind that it must be
taken at all hazards.
“Take that; battery,” he said to a colo
nel of. cavalry, “then the battle is ours.”
' Dubois heard the order and saw the ne
cessity. Here was danger enough, sure
ly ; and determined to be the first at the
fatal battery, he kept as near to the leader
as ho dared. Half the distance had been
gained, when from the hill came a storm
of iron that ploughed into the ranks of
the French.
The colonel fell, his body literally torn
in pieces by a shell that exploded against
his bosom.
The point upon the Peninsula now
reached by the head of the assailing
column was not more than a hundred
yards wide, and it was literally a path of
death, as the fire of twelve heavy guns
was turned upon it. The colonel had
fallen, and very soon three other officers
went down, leaving the advance without a
commissioned leader. The way was be
coming blockaded with the dead men and
the dead horses, and the head of the column
stopped and wavered.
Marshall Lefebvre from his elevated
place saw this and his heart throbbed
painfully. If that column was routed,
and the Prussian infantry charged over
the Peninsula, the result might be calami
tous.
“But, see ! A man in the uniform of
a French private, mounted upon a power
ful horse caparisoned in the trappings of a
Prussian staff officer, with his head bare,
and a bright sabre swinging in his hand,
rushes to the front and urges the column
forward. His words are fiery and his
looks are dauntless.
“For France and for Lefebvre !” the
strange horseman cries, waving his sword
aloft and pointing towards the battery.
“The marshal will weep if we lose this
day.”
The brave troopers thus led on by one
who feared not to dash forward where the
shot fell thickest, gave an answering
shout and rushed on, caring little for the
rain of death so long as they had a living
leader to follow. Hoping that he might
take the battery, and yet courting death,
Jerome Dubois spurred; finally the troops
came upon the battery with irresistible
force.
It was notin the power of the cannoniers
to withstand the shock, and the Russian
infantry that came to their support were
swept away like chaff. The battery was
quickly captured, and when the guns
were turned upon those who had shortly
before been their masters, the fortune of
the day was decided. The Russians
and the Prussians—horse, foot, and dra
goons, such as were not taken prisoners—
had lost much more than they had
gained.
Jerome Dubois returned to the guard
house, and gave himself up to the officer
in charge. First a surgeon was called to
see what should be done with him. The
colonel applied to the general of the
brigade, and the general of brigade ap
plied to the general of division, and the
general of division applied to Marshal
Lefebvre.
“What shall we do with Jerome Du
bois ?”
“God bless him!” cried the veteran
general, who had heard the whole story ;
“I’ll pardon him to-day and to-morrow I’ll
promote him.”
And Jerome Dubois, in time, went
himself to see the loved ones in France ;
and when he went he wore the uniform of
a captain.
“The Decisive Conflicts of the Late
oivi 1 War,” are treated in a series of
brochures by Gen. J. Watts de Pevster,
containing the comments of a military
philosopher on the tactics of some of the
principal commanders in the war, and il
lustrated by a variety of historical paral
lels and examples. AS alt Whitman has
prepared a “final edition” of his poems
for a London publisher- Rev. Henry
Giles’s brilliant and popular lectures on
Shakspeare, entitled “The Human Life in
Shakspeare,” are just published in Pos
ton.