CHAPTER XV.

_22d._--Morning fine, and things look more cheerful. March, according to order, at four. Troop turned out of its wet bivouac; did not look very brilliant; moreover, there had been no time for cleaning. The village street such a perfect slough that even the riding-horses struggled through with difficulty, and our carriages stuck fast several times ere they could be brought to the hard ground beyond. Immediately on emerging from the orchards, we entered on the same cheerless uninteresting country as before: interminable fields of corn, without enclosures, only broken here and there by small patches of coppice or young timber. Through this sort of country marched to Bavay; and here we formed up in the fields by the roadside and dismounted, whilst an officer was sent to summon the garrison of Maubeuge--the first word of an enemy since quitting Waterloo. As the infantry continued moving on, we were somewhat at a loss to conjecture what was to be done should the answer to our summons be unfavourable. The whole army--cavalry, infantry, and artillery, English and allies, all appeared to be marching along this one line of road. We heard nothing of any columns moving parallel on our flanks, and for about three hours that we halted here this incessant passing afforded us some amusement. The crowd was endless, though varied--regiments of infantry or cavalry following each other in constant succession, intermingled with, and striving to pass, the as endless file of waggons, baggage-carts, baggage-animals, led horses, batteries of artillery, and convoys of stores. All struggled to get ahead to choose a bivouac, or get the first-fruits of any village or farm on or near the road, which was sure to be left quite bare the moment the first corps passed--I mean bare of provisions; for I believe our people did not otherwise plunder. It might truly be said that a torrent of men and animals rolled along the road. Even when we resumed our march there was no cessation, no diminution of the crowd. The numbers of servants, sutlers, stragglers, and women were incredible, and added not a little to the general confusion. As far back, too, as I could see, the same swarm covered the road--the troops seemed to form the smallest part of the crowd. What the answer was to our summons we have not yet heard, but suppose all went on smoothly; for, after a wait of three or four hours, we again got under way, and made an attempt to penetrate the throng, but in vain--we got jammed and stuck fast. Lord Edward, seeing our case hopeless, abandoned us as soon as he could get his dragoons disengaged from the crowd, and took across the fields, leaving me directions to make the best of my way to Cateau Cambresis, and bivouac there if I did not find him and the brigade. In this state we were obliged to give up all thoughts of pushing on, and rest contented to swim with the stream. This swept us in due time into one end of Bavay (pleasingly situated on a rising ground) and out at the other, leaving just time to see that the place had a clean and cheerful appearance, and that the street we passed through was well built and had many genteel-looking houses in it. Quitting the town by a steepish hill, we entered the forest of Mormal; and the road was bordered on both sides by a thick coppice of hazel, young ash, &c., over which the larger timber-trees reared their heads. Many corps of infantry had drawn off the road, and were busy cutting down the coppice to prepare their bivouacs by constructing huts of leaves and branches. Fires were made, and cooking already going on. Officers, divested of swords and sashes, were strolling amongst the thickets, or listlessly lolling under their leafy bowers. All this would have been very pretty, but that a heavy shower, which fell as we struggled through Bavay, had left everything dripping, consequently deteriorated the scene much. Still the grouping of the figures round the fires, or interspersed among the thickets, was very good. Emerging from the woods, we again entered on the ocean of corn; but here the features of the ground were bolder, and the view more extensive, though not less cheerless.

At some distance ahead, in a deep valley, of which the heights all descended by fine bold slopes, stood the little town of Cateau amidst flat alluvial meadows, the lively verdure of which, and that of a few trees, contrasted strikingly with the golden hue of all the country around it. The road along the plateau on which we now travelled was hard and excellent, so that, by watching our opportunity and pushing in whenever an opening in the crowd permitted, we managed, with some considerable wrangling, to get ahead. This was rather a dangerous operation, for the Belgic, and particularly the Nassau troops, were so savage, and so constantly threatening us with their bayonets, that I feared every minute we should come to blows. In this manner we had struggled on to the crest of the hill descending toward Cateau, where, to lessen the descent, it had been cut down, consequently was confined between high banks. Now, as the devil would have it, we got into this gully at the same time with a battalion of Nassau, and as both parties pressed on to head the other, some jostling ensued. Our wheels were too formidable to be resisted when in motion; but at last we got completely entangled, and then they turned upon us, striking our horses, and even pricking them with their bayonets. Our men, of course, resented this, and a serious affray was likely to take place; but at last, assisted by their officers, we disengaged ourselves without any one being materially hurt, although many had bruises, scratches, and slight bayonet-stabs. In this affair one fellow was very deliberately going to give me a _coup de bayonette_ in the side, but old Quartermaster Hall knocked up the point with his sabre, and could scarcely be prevented from splitting his skull. The English, with whom we also occasionally crossed and jostled, contented themselves with abusing us. For some days after, we were constantly falling in with these very people, and our so doing resembling the approach of two angry dogs. I was constantly alarmed lest some serious affray should take place. But they have led me ahead of my march. Somewhat more than a mile before we came to the descent above mentioned, we passed through Forêt, a pretty large village, surrounded as usual by orchards, with a few small woods scattered about the vicinity, which diversified agreeably the otherwise monotonous scenery. On approaching this village, a dirty sheet or table-cloth, attached to a pole, and projected from a window of the church-tower, attracted our attention. It was the first time we had seen the immaculate _pavillon blanc_ since entering the French territory; and one could not but admire the wisdom and foresight which had established as a national standard what could be readily furnished at any moment by every, even the most humble, _ménage_. A tall, thin, venerable-looking old man in the clerical habit stood by the roadside amidst several peasants, male and female. His countenance was radiant with joy, and he appeared quite elated in contemplating the column as it passed along. Pinch after pinch he took from a little tortoise-shell snuff-box in his left hand, whilst with earnestness he pointed out to, or seemed describing, something in our column. As I came up, followed by my trumpeter, the old man, uncovering his white head, made me a profound obeisance. This opened the interview, and I was soon master of his history. He had been driven from his _curé_ by the Revolution; returned on the abdication of Napoleon last year; but the return from Elba had again nearly caused a second flight. He had, however, ventured to remain, upon the affectionate assurances of his parishioners, and after suffering during the Hundred Days most horrid anxiety and even indignities, had at last been restored to security and tranquillity by the battle of Waterloo. He was now come out not only to witness the passage of the brave English, to whom his country and himself stood so much indebted, but also to meet and do homage to his beloved monarch, who he understood would pass through Forêt on his way to his capital. Nothing could exceed the good man’s joy; his spirits quite ran away with him, and his tongue ran nineteen to the dozen. At parting we cordially shook hands, and he tendered me the little tortoise-shell box with the most amiable _bonhommie_. How the rustics gazed! They seem a very ignorant, simple people, the peasantry of this country. Hitherto, since passing the frontier, we have found them everywhere pursuing their rural labours with as much tranquillity as in the most profound state of peace: quite undisturbed by, and exhibiting very little curiosity about, the continued passage of foreign troops along their roads and through their villages. The village of Forêt presented a cheerful rustic aspect--such as a village should. Thatched barns and farmhouse in the usual style of such buildings in England, standing detached and retired from the broad street, if so it might be termed, embosomed in apple or cherry orchards;--quite unlike what one so often meets with in other parts of France, where the villages, of stone houses three or four storeys high, with large windows, &c., appear more like pieces of towns cut out and popped down here than what is consonant to our ideas of villages.

From the place where our scuffle with the Nassau men took place we descended into the valley by a long winding hill, at the bottom of which the little village of Montay lay like an oasis in the desert; verdant meadows overshadowed by numerous pine-trees, a pretty rivulet winding along amongst them, here passed by a narrow stone bridge; the place itself consisting of one large farm, several cottages, and a small church;--altogether offering a refreshing variety in this ocean of corn. The heights rising abruptly above it on either side make this a sort of pass, which, had the retiring French thought fit to defend, would have cost us some trouble and many lives, no doubt. As it was, although we understood their outposts were not far, not a man was in sight; and we were allowed to pass as quietly as our own internal dissensions would allow, for the narrowness of the bridge produced here a fearful struggle. The road along which the army was marching, passing through Montay, immediately ascended the opposite heights. A road branching from this led to Cateau along the foot of these heights and through the meadows about a mile or rather more higher up the stream. We took this road, and thus, for the first time since leaving Nivelles, enjoyed the indescribable pleasure of having the road to ourselves. From the heights on this side of Forêt, whence the view was very extensive, I could distinguish nothing of the brigade; and now, finding ourselves quite alone, and seeing no symptoms of troops about Cateau, I began to be rather uneasy. In this dilemma I was about to establish my bivouac on a piece of turf just without the town--for the evening was fast closing in--when our lieutenant-major-general of cavalry, Lord Greenock, rode hastily up, and demanded why we were here. “My orders were to march to Cateau, my lord, and bivouac, with which I am complying. I expect Lord Edward will join us here;” and I gave him an account of their taking to the fields, &c. “There is some mistake in this,” replied Lord Greenock. “Your brigade has halted at Forêt, and you must return thither, for you are now in a very dangerous position, and at all events ought not to have crossed the river. The enemy’s outposts are on the heights; and should they attempt anything during the night, which is probable, you could never recross the bridge. Return, therefore, without delay.” This was comfortable, to have to grope our way to Forêt, and when there pick out a bivouac; and the alternative that of remaining and being caught in this _coupe gorge_. The idea was not a pleasant one. Disobeying orders, too! We countermarched, however; but on reaching Montay the stream of people and carriages sweeping over the narrow bridge made it evidently useless attempting to move in a contrary direction. I gave up the idea, and established my bivouac in the little churchyard close to the bridge. I felt less compunction at doing this, because several regiments of Hanoverian infantry had extended themselves in bivouac along the meadows, both up and down the stream, on the same side; and, moreover, I had learned from Lord Greenock that two or three troops of horse-artillery and a large corps of hussars were occupying the plateau in front, between us and the enemy. Under the impression of security, therefore, I laid myself down after our evening meal was finished, expecting a good sleep; but my eyes were scarcely closed ere the never-to-be-mistaken sound of a distant cannonade caused me to start up again. Everything around was perfectly still; the Hanoverians seemed to be all asleep; and no stir or bustle of any kind in our immediate neighbourhood indicated an alarm. The cannonade, too, though sometimes more distinctly heard than at others, did not, on the whole, seem to approach. After listening for a time, sleep got the better of me, and I sank down in spite of the distant cannonade and the more immediate concert of thousands of frogs in the adjoining ditch.

_23d._--A fine day. Uneasy at hearing nothing of the brigade being in motion. The cannonade during the night proceeded from Sir Charles Colville and the 4th division attacking Cambray.

About noon Sir Augustus Frazer, with Sir Julius Hartman of the K. G. Legion horse-artillery, paid us a visit. From them I learned that headquarters are established in Cateau, and that the Duke intends halting in our present position for a day or two to give time for the rear of the army to close up, since, from the rapidity of our march, and from the whole marching in a single column, many corps are still a long way in the rear. At the same time, Cambray on our right and Landrecy on our left are to be secured before we advance further. Moreover, we are likely, it seems, to have another battle immediately, for the French army has rallied in considerable force, and is in position not far in front of us. Upon this intelligence I decided on remaining at Montay until the brigade should come up; therefore, leaving my second captain to inspect ammunition, and forward cleaning, repairing, shoeing, &c., I set off with our two visitors on their return to Cateau. This place, which is very small, is situated in a rich alluvial bottom amongst fine, well-irrigated meadows. The only trees, however, in this bottom are at Montay. The town is surrounded by a simple wall, perhaps only for excise purposes; and I was at a loss to conjecture the use of a single battery of two or three pieces near the gate leading to Montay. On entering this gate I was struck by the dismal aspect of the street within--narrow, dirty, and composed of mean-looking houses built of sombre-coloured stone, and scarcely a human being visible; for although headquarters were here, none of the members of it were to be seen in the streets. Priests in their black cassocks and band strode solemnly along from time to time. The house in which the Duke lodged was the only decent-looking one in the place. It stood at the extremity of the street, crossing at right angles the one we entered by--large, and pierced with numerous windows, apparently new, and having the advantage of a row of three or four fine trees in front. Some pretensions there were, too, to architectural decorations in the façade, which was of stucco, painted buff. Cateau was soon seen, and I returned to Montay, where I found the poor farmer (the farm adjoined the church) in great distress. The Hanoverians were plundering barns, farmyard, and all. “Ah, monsieur, tout sera abimé!” cried the poor fellow, wringing his hands, and presenting the very picture of despair. Yesterday evening he complained to me, and I did what I could to prevent it, but without much effect. The bivouac of these marauders in the adjoining meadows was only separated from his garden by a sort of willow hedge; and although I planted sentries for the protection of it, everything disappeared. This morning, becoming bolder, they have plundered his barns, &c., and even threatened the house itself. As we draw our own supplies of eggs, milk, &c., from the farm, I did what I could to save him from further plunder, and sent Breton to remonstrate with their commanding officer, and give him to understand that, unless he kept his men under better discipline, I would report him to the Duke. Got nothing by this, for he persisted in not understanding English. Thus we have been obliged to be constantly on the alert, and to keep them out by main force. The poor farmer is very grateful, and loud in praise of _les bons Anglais_, whilst he _sacrés_, &c., their allies down to the bottomless pit--“aux enfers.” He admits the truth of what I said about retaliation, and turned up his eyes in horror at the account I gave him of the ravages committed by French troops in other countries. “Mais, monsieur, je le crois bien, les soldats Français sont de vrais brigands; ils pillent partout même dans la patrie; oui, monsieur, ici même;” and he related how a detachment of cuirassiers had quartered on him for three days, having only departed the morning of that in which we arrived. They had treated him cruelly; and not content with living on him all that time, were on the point of destroying everything that was left and burning the premises, when the unexpected appearance of some of our advanced corps obliged them to make a precipitate retreat. In the evening, a general parade of the Germans. They have formed a sort of diminutive tents for the night by striking two ramrods into the ground, crossed, to form each end; I forget how they form the ridge. A blanket is laid over, and the other two serve to lie under and over the three men the tent just holds. The different bands, all good, continued playing until after dusk, which we enjoyed sitting in the willow hedge smoking our cigars. The scene was remarkably pretty. Groups of men scattered about amongst the little tents, some preparing supper, &c.; the bands, with officers in picturesque costumes hovering about them; the town of Cateau in the background; and on either hand the picture shut in by bold naked slopes of the neighbouring heights.

_24th._--Fine warm morning, but day promises to be rather too hot. Not a gun to be heard to-day by the sharpest ear; the business at Cambray must be settled somehow or other. Getting accustomed to our churchyard. To be sure, none of the graves are recent; it seems long since any one has been buried here. Hitchins and I have decided on breakfasting together; and as he is more at leisure than I am, he has undertaken the foraging department. This morning our repast consisted of bread (sour as vinegar), cheesy butter, and hard eggs, washed down with weak grog (Hollands)--table a grave. Ever since we passed Mons good bread is not to be had--all is of this horrid sour description. To the eye it is well enough. The peasantry make their bread in large flat loaves, 2 or 2½ feet in diameter--no mistake!--nearly circular. Sometimes the loaves are annular, and of the above diameter. Enter Lieutenant and Adjutant Bell, R.H.A., and I can write no more, for he no doubt brings news.

9 P.M.--Here we are, then, back again in Forêt. Bell brought us the order to return forthwith, as the brigade was to march without delay on Landrecy, the commandant of which place refuses to surrender. We lost no time in obeying the order, and the road being now quite clear--indeed solitary--marched here in a very short time; and instead of finding the brigade ready to move, were surprised on reaching the village at seeing the Life Guardsmen quietly grooming their horses in front of the barns and stables of their billets. The place being already full, we were directed to bivouac, and accordingly I pitched upon this orchard, which is high and dry; but the trees are too young and too far apart to afford us much shade, which we want just now. The arrival of strangers attracted a concourse of villagers to our bivouac, many old women and young girls bringing quantities of very fine cherries for sale. The former were remarkably coarse and ugly, the latter generally pretty, and all had sparkling, speaking eyes. These, of course, sold their cherries first; but the article was too grateful in such a roasting day as this has been not to insure the sale of all. The costume of these women--who, by the way, seemed quite at home with us--was rather picturesque. Lofty white caps, with long flaps hanging down to the shoulders, their naked stays sometimes not very closely laced, bosom covered with a coloured handkerchief put on with a degree of taste, coarse woollen petticoats of a blue stuff striped with white or pink and reaching only to the calf of the leg, coarse woollen stockings, and clumsy wooden shoes (_sabots_). Most of them wore large gold or silver rings in their ears, and many a little golden cross suspended from the neck by a black riband or a strip of black velvet. The Duke has published a manifesto from Cateau. Several copies are stuck up in the village, and the people here seem very much pleased with it; and well they may, for it assures them they shall be treated like gentlemen, and not get the punishment which France, as a nation, so richly deserves. It calls upon the people to remain quietly at home, as we make no war on them, but ought rather to be considered as their allies; further, it goes on to assure them that the strictest discipline will be maintained in the Allied army, and that everything required by the troops must be paid for at its full value. The Forêtiens, and particularly the Forêtiennes, actually express astonishment at our generosity.

Louis XVIII., &c., passed through the village this evening on his way to Cateau. Leathes and I rode a little way out to meet him, which we did about a quarter of a mile off. The cortège consisted of several Berlines, escorted by about two squadrons of the Royal Garde de Corps--fine young men (all gentlemen), dressed in a very becoming uniform, blue turned up with red, and silver lace tastefully disposed, with Grecian helmets, silver, with a golden sun on the front, the most elegant I ever saw. The king was in the last carriage, on each side of which rode the Duc de Berri and that General whose acquaintance I made on the drill-ground near Alost. We had drawn up on the roadside as the cortège passed. The moment the Duc de Berri and the General saw us, they came up, and, offering us their hands, poured forth such a torrent of compliments and congratulations as made even our horses blush. His Royal Highness could never sufficiently testify his gratitude to the English nation, &c. &c.; was impatient to see us in Paris, for then and there indeed, &c. &c. The General was equally profuse in compliments and promises, so that, forgetting the adage, “Put not your trust in princes,” Leathes and I have ever since been feeling the Croix de St Louis dangling at our breasts--_nous verrons_! The monarch was detained from his dinner more than half an hour by my worthy friend Mons. le Curé, who, in full pontificals, and followed by his congregation _en habits de Dimanches_, met him at the entrance of the village, and, standing on a little bank at the coach-door, delivered a long harangue, set off by Mandarine-like bobs of the head at the end of every period, and a most profound bow at the conclusion, all which were received and returned by his Majesty with exemplary patience and punctuality. At length the cortège moved on, and we returned to our orchard.

_25th._--Here we are, another day’s march in advance, not only without the expected battle, but also without having either seen or heard of an enemy. Nor have we seen any traces of one, having found the peasantry everywhere as peaceably occupied as if no war existed. Nothing more have we heard of Landrecy, which, I suppose, must have surrendered, since Lord Edward sent us orders this morning to march on Sequehart, where the brigade halts to-night. Accordingly I marched immediately towards Montay in a thick drizzling rain, which made this dismal country appear ten times more dismal. The cavalry regiments marched at the same time (about five A.M.?) and we kept company as far as Montay; but there they left us, for we found the road again so choked with baggage, &c., that although we succeeded in passing the bridge, yet the deep hollow road (_encaissé_ between very high steep banks), ascending to the opposite heights, was so inextricably crammed with carriages, and the unctuous soil so slippery, that I feared we should bivouac in the churchyard again. We attempted the ascent, and being better horsed than the others, succeeded in getting ahead wherever an opening offered. Our column was broken into as many fractional parts as we had carriages. At length, after a most arduous struggle, we mustered our whole force on the plateau, and pushed forward in the old way--sometimes getting along pretty smoothly by keeping one side of the road; then a choke would stop us for a time, until, an opportunity offering, the head of our column would make a dash and break the file of waggons; but occasionally in doing this, if the rear carriages did not keep close up, the waggoners would dash in their turn, and cut them off. Then again we got foul of our Nassau friends, and the old quarrel was revived; cursing, swearing, and bayoneting followed as matter of course. The road itself was execrable, and in places a complete slough. It appears that our march has been so conducted as to avoid the main avenues, and thus turn the fortresses; consequently, with the exception of some little bits of chaussée, we have been travelling on the cross-roads--in France always execrable. On gaining the plateau we saw everywhere around us again those interminable fields of wheat--not a hedge nor a dividing wall; the only relief a few small woods here and there. A hamlet we occasionally met with, and sometimes a solitary cabaret of the meanest appearance--“Ici on loge à pied et à cheval,” scrawled on a board in black letters, on a dirty-white ground, invited the traveller to enter. Sometimes a longer inscription set forth other inducements. I pity the luckless wight who trusts to their hospitality. A remarkable feature in the cheerless scenery of these oceans of corn is the row of apple-trees so frequently seen skirting the horizon. The by-roads here are frequently bordered by apple or pear trees, which accounts for this. As we advanced on the plateau, and still found no concentration of troops, or other indication of the neighbourhood of the enemy, our expectation of another battle vanished. Insensibly we had deviated from the general route, and found ourselves only accompanied by Major Bull’s troop of horse-artillery. Bull had got the same discretionary orders from his general as myself, and was also making his way to Sequehart, where his brigade was to halt. The country had become prettier and more interesting, and the rain had ceased. Woods were more frequent and larger, and at last we marched through what might strictly be termed a wooded country. The ground, too, became more undulating, and pastures of green meadows occurred to relieve most agreeably the tiresome sameness of the corn crops. Occasionally, also, openings between the woods would give us glimpses of distant and pretty country. But where dwell the husbandmen who cultivate those lands? In this district we saw not a single habitation, and only here and there met a solitary peasant--not working, but in the road--moving from one place to another. Of these we incessantly demanded “Où se trouve Sequehart?” and the response was invariably “_N’sais paw, Monsire_,” or a shake of the head. Bull and I began to be uneasy as the evening drew on, whilst we were surrounded by woods, and not the slightest appearance of a village to be seen. Our own people were now the only troops visible, and we began to suspect what proved to be true--we had lost ourselves!

We were so enclosed by woods that it was impossible to see to any distance; and cross-roads branching off right and left became very frequent, so that we were puzzled how to proceed. Every peasant we met persisted in knowing nothing of Sequehart, nor had met any other troops. We were evidently astray. At last an old man, to whom the usual questions were put, after puzzling over it for a few minutes, begged we would repeat the name. “Sequehart!--Sequehart!” said he, two or three times. “_Monsire, n’le connois paw_; mais, ma foi, ce sera sans doute Escars que vous cherchez.” We stared in our turn, but the old man was positive, and insisted that we were leaving it behind us. After some little irresolution, Bull and I made up our minds to follow his directions; and accordingly, after a few miles threading our way between woods, arrived here a little before sunset. The village is already full of Life Guards, and therefore we are obliged to bivouac again; but that is of little moment, for we have an excellent spot on a rising ground, covered with short velvety turf, close to the chaussée leading to St Quentin, on the other side of which, about two or three hundred yards distant, is the village of Sequehart, or Escars, so buried in the foliage of fine walnut-trees, and of the hedges enclosing the gardens and some fields, that scarcely a roof is to be seen; and it is only through the ascending columns of blue smoke from amongst the trees that the site of the village is to be detected. From the swelling hills up which the St Quentin road runs in front of us, the short clean turf, and the chalk (or gypsum) that appears in patches where this has been removed, we might fancy ourselves on the South Downs, in Sussex. It is a sweet rural spot, and, what is better, we see few signs of war about us; for except Walcott’s troop (rocket), which has just come up, no other soldiers whatever are to be seen. Bull left us at the other side of the village, and our cavalry are, like it, buried in the foliage and invisible to us. We understand headquarters are at Joncour, a village not far off, and that Lord Hill’s division is at Belleglise, somewhere in front, so that we may sleep securely to-night. Lovely evening.

_26th._--Fine morning. Marched early, and, crossing the downs, traversed beyond them a pretty well-wooded country, diversified very agreeably by several large sheets of water, formed by embankments, and regained the route of our army, which we had deviated from yesterday at Belleglise, just as the bustle commenced. Plunged once more into the torrent, with all its _désagrémens_ and vexations, and swam along with it as before. The wooded country gave place to the dismal sea of corn a little beyond Belleglise; but after travelling about four or five miles through this tiresome region, we once more came amongst trees, and crossed a deep ravine, or rather wooded valley, in which was situated a most respectable-looking country-house, brick, with stone angles, window-cases, &c., standing upon a terrace, with an old-fashioned garden divided into rectangular beds, with stone vases, &c., sheltered in the rear by the woods, and to the south looking upon a fine sheet of water--artificial, no doubt--most probably formed by damming up the stream which we crossed in the bottom. The country people told us this place belongs to Caulaincourt, Duc de Vicenza, which is no doubt the truth, since in my map I find it called Caulaincourt. The hanging woods and shady winding paths of this ravine appeared to us heavenly when contrasted with the dreary exposed plain above; and this, if possible, was more hideous than ever when we again debouched upon it--a dead flat, unrelieved by the slightest undulation--a sea of wheat extending to the horizon, with here and there a few clumps of beggarly pines, and the usual straggling lines of apple-trees fringing the horizon. I forget where, but it must have been just before crossing the valley at Caulaincourt that we left the direct route, together with Bull’s and Whinyate’s troops, as we were directed to halt for the night at Etreillers. After marching two or three miles more over this uninteresting plain, on passing one of these circular pine clumps we suddenly came in sight of fine trees bounding the horizon, intermixed with buildings, which, on approaching it, proved to be Etreillers. The village is a very large one, composed principally of large farms, with a few dwellings of an inferior description, all, however, standing back in gardens, or in their large straw-yards, which are separated from the broad avenues constituting the village street by high walls, with a great gateway of entrance, and generally surrounded on three sides by orchards. Such quarters are quite a luxury; for although we are three troops in the village, yet all get under cover, man and horse, in houses, barns, stables, &c. The appearance of the place is not gay, and may truly be said to harmonise in tone with the dreary but fruitful plain around. The buildings are generally of a dark stone, with enormous thatched roofs, which, if not lively, has at least an air of substantial comfort that makes ample amends for everything else.

I have established myself in a most comfortable farmhouse of the first class, and, to complete my good fortune, have an exceedingly pretty and most obliging hostess. Instead of the black looks an intruder like myself might have expected, I was received with smiles, and a welcome which sounded sincere. I was shown into their best room (the one which I now write in), my horses into the best stable, and everything done to make me most comfortable. My fair friend has let out one reason for all this, although I still believe genuine hospitality has a great share in it--she is delighted at having English instead of Prussians quartered on her; all the country are in dread of the latter. As may be supposed, we were soon quite at home--I say we, for my second captain (Newland) was with me. In the stable, men and boys have been at work helping our men to clean their horses, whilst in the house the women busied themselves in arranging our room, cooking dinner, and even asking for our dirty linen, which they are in the act of washing for us, so that to-day I can afford a clean shirt and still start to-morrow with a clean kit. The room we occupy is large and rather dark, for there are only two small windows looking out to the farmyard, and these rather obscured with the white draperies with which they are ornamented. The furniture is coarse and clumsy, made of walnut, and is as black as ebony. One side of the room is occupied by two sleeping-places, let into the wall, exactly like the berths on shipboard. The bedding in these, though coarse also, is very good, and, like everything else, scrupulously clean; the sheets have just been put in. Our servants have comfortable beds allotted to them, and have become as much at home in the kitchen as if they were old acquaintances. Whilst dinner was preparing, I sallied forth to see how my people were put up, and had scarcely left the yard when I encountered an old peasant wearing an enormous cocked-hat, and having a drum suspended from his neck by a broad band, on which he occasionally gave a sort of roll or flourish. His grotesque figure, as well as his employment, attracted my attention, and I was somewhat mystified on observing that every flourish on the drum was responded to by an opening of doors and the sallying out of old ladies, each bearing under her arm one of those enormous loaves already mentioned. What can all this mean, thought I? Is it possible that in this most military of all nations even women are subject to regulations, and obliged to conduct the _ménage_ by tap of drum or sound of bugle? One old lady, with a huge annular loaf, whom I questioned, soon solved the query. The commissary had ordered the inhabitants to feed the troops, and this drumming hero was the crier, who gave notice to that effect, and was likewise collecting all the ready-baked bread at the church for distribution. The thing seemed perfectly well understood, each roll of the drum producing precisely the same effect as the crier moved along the great rambling street. The old women, as they trotted towards the church, made a clatter with their _sabots_ like so many horses. Many of the people I found had, on our first arrival, concealed everything; but the dread of being plundered was soon removed, and all is now confidence. As far as I can judge, these people seem to live well enough in their own way; and in every house one is sure to find good beds, very high, being raised upon an enormous palliasse. There is no want of silver spoons, and even forks, in many of them; and their stock of household linen (good) is really astonishing, many small _cultivateurs_ possessing as much as would set up two or three of our middling farmers. I use the term “_cultivateur_” to designate a class quite common in France, but scarcely known in England. They are proprietors of small estates (perhaps only a few acres), fractions of large ones sold in lots during the Revolution. These, of course, they cultivate themselves, with the assistance of their families, and are thence styled “_cultivateurs_” by the Government, and are obliged to put this, coupled with their number (they are all numbered), upon their carts, &c.--for example, “Joachim Laroque, cultivateur, No. 3755;” or “Jean Baptiste Amand,” &c. &c. &c.

We find them a simple, obliging, but very ignorant race; and their _patois_ is to me almost unintelligible. Some with whom I conversed this evening either were, or pretended to be, quite ignorant of what has been taking place in the great world. They had heard that France was at war with England, Russia, and Prussia, but that was all. They had never heard of Wellington, nor of Nelson, nor even Louis XVIII. They had, however, heard enough to inspire them with some dread of the Cossacks and Prussians. I asked them if they knew Buonaparte? “Non, monsieur--non y pas!” “Napoleon?--aw mais oui, monsieur, c’est l’Empereur que ça--n’est ce paw vrai, monsieur?” They had heard of him because he made them pay taxes; but of his wars they were as ignorant as all the rest, and did not speculate the least in the world as to how and why we are here.

Returned _home_ (conceive being _at home_ in a French farmhouse!) just as the good woman was placing a most inviting fricasseed fowl and _omelette aux herbes_, smoking hot, upon our table, to which, with a good bottle of _vin du pays_, we lost no time in doing justice. We have passed a most comfortable evening; and if we may judge by the laughing and chattering in the kitchen, our servants and the rustics have not passed it badly. As their door is opposite to ours, we have occasionally peeped in upon them, and been much amused at seeing the ploughmen equipped in our men’s helmets, belts, &c.; but their chief source of amusement appeared to be reciprocally teaching each other English and French words--the attempt at pronouncing which causes infinite fun.