CHAP. VII.
Here the busy preparations for the recruiting of the army, the Court of the Emperor, and the multitude of strangers resident there at that time, could not fail of attracting attention, and inspiring ardor in the bosoms of two brave men who wished to distinguish themselves in a cause against their common enemy. Count M. was introduced to the Emperor, Charles the Sixth, who, having just received an account of the death of that brave and successful General, Prince Eugene, without knowing any one deserving, or capable of undertaking the command of his army, was at that time greatly perplexed, and gratefully acknowledged the volunteer services offered by the Count.—Ferdinand had heretofore been honoured with his approbation, and both gentlemen had abundant cause to be satisfied with their reception.
They passed some weeks at Vienna, in the usual amusements of the city, before the army was ready to take the field; during which time, they had received letters from their friends that had helped to tranquillize their minds. Ferdinand heard from Mr. Dunloff, that his son, and the good old Ernest, were in health; and he had also a letter from his brother, informing him, 'that he was married to the Lady Amelia Bonhorff; but at the same time assuring him, that his present engagements did not weaken his regard for Ferdinand, who, whenever he was disposed to prefer services from a brother, to pecuniary obligations from a stranger, would always find his arms and purse open to his wishes."
This letter, the tenor of which seemed so affectionate, was nevertheless worded with a stiffness and a sort of haughty upbraiding, an air of superiority that alarmed the pride of Ferdinand, and again recalled to his mind the scene which passed immediately following the death of his father, when he was told, "that he was to be an equal sharer" in that fortune, solely bequeathed to Count Rhodophil, and the servants were ordered to remember they had two masters."———Ah! thought Ferdinand, in that moment, sorrow had softened his heart to the ties of nature, and a resolution to make me some reparation for the disappointment he supposed I must feel; but power and prosperity soon changed his sentiments, and chased the tender affections from his heart. He soon exulted in his superiority, and found gratification in ostentatiously bestowing as favors, those attentions, and that assistance, which at first he had taught me to expect as my right. Alas! how difficult is it for us to know our own hearts. Poor Rhodophil! that brother disposed to love and honour you. You have, by an ill-judged pride, by a duplicity unworthy of yourself and me—you have alienated from those ties that bound us, and compelled him to prefer that "stranger," whose generosity and spirit disdains the idea of an obligation, where his own nobleness of heart is abundantly gratified in making another happy. A stranger! No—Count M. is my brother; we have congenial souls, superior to the ties of blood.
This idea instantly cheered the mind of Ferdinand, and Count Rhodophil, with all his wealth and boasted happiness, neither excited his envy nor regret. His son and old Ernest were the only objects entitled to share his heart in Baden; not a word was mentioned relative to Claudina; and although a tender and sorrowful remembrance of a woman he once adored, frequently obtruded, yet he had ceased to think of her with those pangs, and that agonized affection, that had wholly occupied his mind previous to his connexion with the Count; and the silence observed by all parties concerning her, was sufficient evidence, that she wished to be forgotten: A sigh followed the conviction, but he endeavoured to divert his attention, by throwing his thoughts on other subjects.
Count M. had also received a letter from Eugenia: The contents breathed a spirit of piety and cheerfulness; her situation grew daily more pleasant and desirable; peace had once more returned to her bosom, and the performance of religious duties had composed her mind, and she trusted, would atone for her errors. One only regret had power to give her a moment's pain, the union between the Count and herself, which precluded his happiness in that state with a more deserving object: But even this only interruption to her perfect content, she did not despair of removing at some future period. Her health, she added, was perfectly restored, and she had acquired a friend whose nobleness of mind was a pattern for her constant imitation.
The Count, who had, from the moment of their separation, exerted all his fortitude and resolution, to bear the decided plan Eugenia had fixed upon, who well knew her perseverance and courage, and saw all future expectations of enjoying her society would be equally vain and fruitless; whose passions, by sufferings, had been weakened and brought under control; though he was wounded to the soul by her determination to forsake him, no sooner found the event had taken place, and that no power or persuasion would avail to make any change in her plan, than he sought to call reason and resolution to his aid, to seek in an active life, and in a diversity of occupation, that variety of ideas which might preclude them from dwelling on one object; and this, with the friendship of Ferdinand, whose similarity of misfortunes, gentleness of manners, and goodness of heart, had gained his warm esteem, assisted him in subduing his sorrows, and restoring his mind to a comparative degree of ease.
The two friends having made a mutual communication of their letters, found, in a reciprocity of sentiment, mutual consolation; they had little doubt but that the lady mentioned in such high terms by Eugenia, was the Countess of Wolfran; nor could they forbear execrating the wretch who had poisoned the happiness of such a woman, by degrading her to a connexion with himself.
In a short time, the Emperor was ready to take the field; the friends were in one Regiment, and determined to share one fate:—They proceeded on their march, and soon came within view of the enemy's lines.—Here the Emperor halted; a council was convened, and the plan of attack settled, which was to take place the following day at sun-rise. The intermediate time the Count and Ferdinand employed in sealing their papers, writing to their friends; and the former generously erased all anxiety from the mind of the latter respecting his little Charles, by a bequest of a handsome provision for him, and constituting Mr. D'Alenberg the protector of his fortune and person; to which trust Ferdinand gladly added his acquiescence and signature; embracing his noble friend in a silent transport, much more expressive than a flow of words.
This necessary arrangement being completed, the Count wrote a tender adieu to his beloved Eugenia.—He had, from her first entrance into the convent, secured her future establishment.—Nothing, therefore, remained upon his mind to be performed.—She was already as dead to him; and he left no relatives to mourn his loss, should the chance of war deprive him of life. Their letters and papers were all deposited with the Emperor's private secretary, who was not unknown to the Count, and then they retired each to themselves for a few hours preparatory to the dreadful business of the following day.
At the first dawn of day, the drums and shrill sounding trumpets gave the alarm, and called them to the field.—The friends embraced, and hastened to their posts. The Turkish army was a numerous host; ashamed and enraged at their former defeats, they seemed now resolved to conquer or die on the spot; to retrieve their former blasted laurels, or return no more to meet the fury of their monarch, or bend the neck to the fatal and ignominious bow-string. Their opponents, equally emulous of glory, and desirous to rid themselves of a troublesome enemy, advanced to meet them with eagerness and resolution. A hard fought battle ensued; dreadful was the carnage on both sides; but the multitude prevailed. The Turks poured in on all the ranks of the Imperialists with such velocity, that they were unable to sustain their posts; were compelled to retreat; were pursued, and a horrid slaughter marked their sanguinary fury.
The Count and Ferdinand did all that men could do; they fought like lions; they were beat back several times: Again they rallied and returned to the charge; but though well supported, all availed not; the numbers were too powerful, and the friends fell desperately wounded among the dying and the dead.—The Imperialists were obliged to fly, and the honour of the day rested with the Turks.—By a piece of singular good fortune, the two wounded friends were discovered by a Turkish commander, who perceived they still breathed, though life seemed hovering on their lips, and their wounds pouring forth torrents of blood. The officer who observed their situation, was not deficient in the feelings of humanity; he exerted himself, and called in assistance to stop the bleeding, and bind up their wounds. They were carried to his tent, and properly attended. Insensible alike to his cares or their own danger, they remained for several days with very little signs of life, and with still less hopes of recovery.
During this period, a truce had been agreed upon between the two armies, and the Emperor appeared to be very much inclined to make peace on the terms he had before rejected. The face of things was now changed; Prince Eugene, whose name alone carried with it terror to his enemies, no longer existed.—The Turks had recovered from their panic; their courage returned with their numbers: Charles had many interior enemies, whom it behoved him to guard against. The first wish of his heart was the establishment of the pragmatic sanction, in favour of his daughter Maria Theresa, afterwards Queen of Hungary. To carry this favourite point into execution, he was willing to give up some secondary ones, and finding the Turks were at that time too powerful for him to subdue, he readily was persuaded to make overtures for a truce preparatory to proposals for a peace.
The Turks, though now victorious, had been so harassed, and exhausted in their treasures by former wars, that they made but a show of objections to the Emperor's advances; a truce was therefore speedily agreed upon for six months, and both armies withdrew from the field to their own homes. An exchange of prisoners was also settled, but unfortunately an officer, who had fought by the side of Ferdinand and the Count; seeing them both fall, to all appearance lifeless, reported their death in the army, and the bodies not being found, did not seem extraordinary, as few persons could be distinguished among the slain. The Turkish cavalry, in their pursuit of the vanquished, had rode over, and defaced most of the unhappy victims who lay in heaps upon the plain.
So great was the slaughter on that day, and so many brave men and officers had the Emperor lost, that the news of Count M——— and Ferdinand being fallen with the rest, was only included in the general regret. The gentlemen entrusted with their letters to Mr. d'Allenberg, the Count's steward, and Mr. Dunloff, the good Ernest's nephew, sent them off with the melancholy account that those brave men no longer existed.
Whilst those letters were on their way to cause a mortal affliction to their friends, the Count and Ferdinand were carried in a litter to the house of their preserver in Adrianople. This Turkish commander, as we have observed, had some traits of humanity in his composition, and following the impulse of the moment, had administered relief to the dying friends from compassion alone; but after they had been conveyed to his tent, the blood washed from their persons; the contents of their pockets examined, in which were memorandums that denoted their being men of some condition, the predominant passion of self-interest was a greater stimulative than tenderness towards affording them that unremitted attention which most certainly conduced to the preservation of their lives.
Ferdinand was the first restored to his senses, and a recollection of past events. He saw only Turks around him, and an elderly woman who officiated as a nurse. His reason returned for two or three days before he had strength to speak. He therefore made his silent observations, and was very soon sensible that he was a prisoner. His regret was greatly lessened, when he saw that his friend the Count was also alive, and in a similar situation, from which he derived a hope that they might be companions, and useful to each other. Within a very few days, both gentlemen were enabled faintly to express their gratitude to their preserver, and rejoice in the safety of each other.
To their being together in one room, and capable of conversing now and then with each other, may doubtless be attributed their speedy recovery from a state so very dangerous, and even after the return of their senses, so very often fluctuating from the extreme weakness and debility occasioned by the great loss of blood.
One morning, when Ismael, the Turkish commander, paid them a visit, after they had enjoyed a good night's rest, and found their spirits greatly revived, they entered into a conversation with him relative to the truce which he had informed them was agreed upon between the two powers. He spoke both the German and French languages tolerable well, and they found no difficulty in making him comprehend they were men of family and fortune, and were desirous of returning into Germany as soon as possible.—They besought him, therefore, to let letters be conveyed to their friends, and to let information of their existence be expedited to the Emperor, that they might hope soon to be included in an exchange of prisoners.
This Ismael promised with much seeming sincerity, to undertake for; and assured them, he would exhibit his power and influence to procure for them a speedy release from captivity; giving them to understand, that their rank was known, and that he was answerable for their persons. Far different was the truth; their death had been generally credited in the Imperial army; the little inquiry that had been made relative to their bodies, had been unsatisfactory, and 'twas supposed they had been trampled upon undistinguished in the day of battle, and had been thrown with the multitude of dead bodies beyond all power of discrimination.
When carried to his tent, he perceived, from their military uniform, that they were of some rank in the army; he had therefore craftily destroyed their clothes, and from their wounds, their persons had but few traits left that could answer any description given of them. He had taken care to place no one near them that understood their language;—and by these artful manoeuvres, had them securely in his power.
As they advanced in a state of convalescence, he began to reflect, that in Adrianople, it would be impossible to retain them from the hazard of being known, or of finding an opportunity to give information of their existence, if they were permitted to be at liberty, which he could not well refuse when they had recovered strength sufficient to walk.
To perfect his schemes, it was necessary to take them further into the country, where their dependence must rest solely on him, nor any knowledge of affairs reach them but through his hands. This determined on, he came to their apartment one morning with an air of haste and distraction. He told them, a commotion had begun in the city; that the troops, dissatisfied with the commanders for agreeing to a truce, instead of pursuing their victories, had risen in large bodies, both in Constantinople and in that city also; and, as it was impossible to judge of the event, or how far the rage of the soldiery might proceed, their only safety depended on flight. Fortunately he had a country house in the neighbourhood of Philippo, where they would be secure against violence or disaffection. To this house they should be immediately conveyed in a litter, to preserve them from the fury of the mob, which might possibly know no bounds, if they were discovered to be Germans.
This plausible tale, fabricated to impose on the unsuspicious friends, were by them credited without reserve, and they felt the warmest gratitude towards Ismael for his kind solicitude to save and serve them.—Within a few hours, every thing was arranged and they were on the road to Philippo, Ismael assuring them of his attention to their interests, and that he would either quickly join them, or if the insurrection was subdued, send orders for their speedy return.
Their state of health would not admit of travelling fast; therefore the slow proceeding of the litter was to them a convenience; and in the open roads they were permitted to be uncovered, and have the benefit of the air. The small villages they stopped at afforded but indifferent accommodations; nor did they meet with a single being who understood their language.
On the second day, they halted at a tolerable large hamlet, at one end of which were the remains of a miserable fort, inhabited by a few soldiers. The person who commanded them held some conversation with their conductors; presently after which, they made signs for them to alight. Two of them took hold of the Count to assist him. Ferdinand was preparing to follow, when instantly two men with drawn scimitars jumped into the litter, seized his arms. The curtains were closed, and they moved forwards, regardless of the struggles and exclamations of Ferdinand, and the cries of the Count, which died away upon his ear as they proceeded.
Too late convinced that some treachery was intended, distracted at being separated from his friend, and equally incapable of making any resistance, or obtaining any compassion from his guards, without money to bribe, or language to persuade, he resigned himself to despair; and the most heartfelt sighs, and pathetic gestures, portrayed the anguish of his mind. Totally insensible to his distress, and mindful only of their charge, they conversed with the utmost insensibility, eying him continually with glances of disdain and suspicion.
It was the third day before they arrived at the end of their journey. For some miles they had travelled through a barren and mountainous country: At length they descended into a plain, which was extensive, and terminated with a view of another mountain, on which stood a castle, with several small fortresses on the declivities, all of which were surrounded with high walls, that reached a considerable way on the plain. At some distances from each other, thinly scattered on the skirts of the plain, and a rising hill on one side, stood a few houses; but the general appearance of the country seemed desolate and uncultivated.
Ferdinand was permitted to take a view of this cheerless prospect, as they crossed the plain towards a large pair of gates fixed in the wall at the foot of a scraggy part of the mountain, and at one end of the wide extended plain. Here a paper was delivered to the sentinel at the gates, which, having read, they were opened, and proceeding round the mountain, they came to a similar pair of gates, where the same ceremony was observed, and on their entrance, an easy winding path-way led them to the Castle, passing several small forts, guarded by savage and half-starved looking men, who scowled under their bushy eye-brows, and, by their haggard ferocious countenance, inspired terror and despair.
At the Castle, Ferdinand was assisted to alight. He was so far exhausted by weakness, fatigue, and distress of mind, that they were obliged to carry him into an apartment, and give him some sherbet to prevent him from fainting. He laid himself down on a sofa, indifferent to life, and overwhelmed with misery. He was now a prisoner in a dreary and uncomfortable place, deprived of society, lost to his child, his friends, and his dear Count. This last stroke of being separated from him, was the completion of his misfortunes; and in the bitterness of his grief, he cursed the barbarians, whose callous hearts had divided them.
At night, he was shown into a small room about eight feet square, with a couch to sleep on, the only furniture it contained. Some cakes made of rice, a few grapes and sherbet had been put ready for him, of which he partook very sparingly, and retired to rest upon a mattress, covering himself with a quilt, as is the custom of the Turks in all places.
For several hours, Ferdinand lay a prey to the utmost inquietude, and the most distressing recollections. Why Ismael had deceived them, what purpose it was to answer, or wherefore he had cruelly separated him from the Count, were the questions that agitated his mind, and precluded sleep.
Wearied out at length with uncertain conjectures, and his spirits fatigued for want of rest, towards morning, he dropped into an unrefreshing slumber, from which he was awakened by a Turk, who stood beside him with a basin of coffee. He started up, and receiving the basin with an inclination of his head, and a few words in thanks, which, though not understood by the man, yet the tone and courteous look that accompanied them seemed to please him, and a little relaxed the unbending severity of his countenance. He stayed until the coffee was drank, then making a sign for the other to follow, he led him into a larger apartment, that overlooked the opposite side of the Castle from that which he had entered at, and appeared to terminate in a wood or grove at some distance beyond the walls. At the right, he observed the ruins of several noble edifices, and farther off a building in a circular form, resembling an amphitheatre.—To the left, were some extensive fields, but uncultivated, there he saw some goats bounding about from thence to the sides of the hills, at the foot of which run a small rivulet of water, clear as crystal.
Such was the prospect that presented itself on all sides, dreary and uncomfortable, without a hope of any thing more animating to gratify the eye, or indulge the search of curiosity; for he judged most rightly, that the walls which enclosed the Castle would be the boundary of his liberty.
For the rest, he had not much to complain of; he was served with fruits generally dried, milk, sherbet, and rice, and with some little show of civility; but he had no one to converse with; no books to amuse him; no friend to partake either of his distresses or comforts; and his own recollections of the past, any more than his expectations of the future, were not calculated to afford him any amusement, or even to indulge a visionary hope of relief.
Yet strange to say, under all this anxiety, with little rest, and less appetite, his weakness decreased: he found himself in three or four days considerably better in health, and with amended strength, which he attributed solely to the salubrity of the air. His solicitude for the safety and health of the Count contributed not a little to augment his uneasiness; and the incertitude whether his letters from Adrianople had been sent to his friends, which, from subsequent transactions, he entertained some doubts of, gave him the most poignant concern.
Entirely precluded from conversation, by his ignorance of the Turkish language, he resolved, if possible, to attain some knowledge of it. The person who commanded at the Castle, now and then visited him.—Policy, as well as good breeding, induced him to behave with politeness. To the man who attended him, he showed a complacency and thankfulness, which appeared to be gratifying. He began, therefore, to make both understand, by his signs, that he wished to comprehend them. He repeated their words, and retained the names of things brought to him, and of such as he pointed out from the windows.
The Turks appeared pleased with his attentions, and desire of knowledge; and in about a week after his residence there, the commander was constant in his visits; delighted in making him understand the names of every thing he wanted; taught him several common and useful expressions; and, as their language is much more comprehensive than our's; as Ferdinand had nothing to divert his thoughts, and was determined to profit by his master's instructions, it is not at all extraordinary, that, in the space of two months, he had acquired as much knowledge, if not more, than in the ordinary course of things he might have learnt in six or eight.
During his progression in the language, he had obtained information, that Ismael was nearly related to this gentleman who commanded the Castle; that he had received instructions to be extremely careful of Ferdinand, as a prisoner of his, for whom he expected a considerable ransom. By no means to permit him to emigrate beyond the Castle walls; but at the same time to treat him with civility, that his captivity might not injure his health, and deprive him of the sums he expected for him, and also another prisoner, whom he had ordered to be confined elsewhere.
This intelligence unravelled the whole plot to Ferdinand. He saw that liberty was not to be hoped for in the usual way of an exchange, and doubted not but that their letters had been suppressed to prevent the application of their friends. Though he detested the duplicity and avarice of Ismael, yet he was rejoiced to find a clue to account for his conduct, which held out a remote hope, that the Count and himself might be liberated, since he was well assured that any demand he should think proper to make, their friends would readily comply with, however undeserving he might be of their generosity.
This information, in a great degree, contributed to restore both his health and spirits; he made many attempts to find out the name of the place where the Count and he were separated; but Heli, which was the name of the commander, protested his entire ignorance. Whether he was sincere or not, could not be known, and Ferdinand was obliged to be contented with the limited confidence he had obtained, and amuse the tediousness of his captivity, by studying the language with unremitted diligence, and conciliating the esteem of Heli.
He made no attempts to subvert the fidelity which the commander had pledged to Ismael; for in the first place, he held a trust committed and engaged for in a sacred light: And could he have satisfied his scruples in that point, he risked every thing; the loss of every indulgence, if he attempted, and was repulsed. By this prudent conduct, he engaged the regard of Heli, who begun to unbend from that frigid reserve and taciturnity which characterize the Turks, and to be pleased with the diligence and progress of his pupil. One morning, when the weather was uncommonly fine, he entered Ferdinand's apartment, who was standing at the window, just then in a very pensive mood.
"Are you not well?" demanded he.
"I cannot say I am ill," answered Ferdinand; "but I am weak enough to be affected by a dream, which I have had, and have risen quite unrefreshed from my couch, with a great depression of spirits."
The Turks are extremely superstitious.—Heli viewed him for a few minutes in silence; at length—"I am sorry you are afflicted," said he; "and it shall not be my fault if you do not shake off this dejection. I am come to a resolution to enlarge your liberty. This morning I have heard from my kinsman Ismael; he is gone to Constantinople. He charges me to be careful of you; but hopes soon to ease me of the trouble, as he expects daily to hear from your friends. Believe me, Christian, I shall rejoice at your enlargement from your captivity, though I shall lose a companion, which, in this solitary place, must be a cause of regret. I come, however, to prove my regard and confidence, to invite you to a walk. Have you no curiosity to stroll beyond these walls?"
"Doubt it not," replied Ferdinand, agreeably surprised.—"I have frequently wished to view those buildings, and that amphitheatre which appears to be mouldering into ruins; but I had too much respect for you to ask any thing you did not seem inclined to offer, or to express a desire to pass beyond the bounds limited for my residence."
"I am not insensible of your moderation," returned he; "and 'tis in that consideration, I am tempted to extend your liberty. Come then, if you can walk. The morning is truly inviting." Ferdinand wanted no further invitation, but with much pleasure, followed his gentle jailer to the gates, which, having passed, they walked on down the declivities into the plain.
They crossed a considerable extent of ground before they came to the ruins of several noble buildings.
"Here," said Heli, "once stood the superb edifices of many Roman senators. In those adjoining fields was fought the memorable battle between Marc Anthony, Augustus Caesar, Brutus, and Cassius. By tradition, every step you take here is sacred, either from the battles of heroes, or the residence of noble Romans, with whose names or actions I am but little acquainted; but you Christians, who possess an insatiable curiosity, to you every object here must be of consequence."
"Of consequence, indeed," cried Ferdinand, whose heart glowed with the idea that he had the power of contemplating the ground so renowned in story, and reviving the remembrance of those heroes, once law-givers to the world; but how quick the transition from admiration to wonder and regret. "Where now was that mighty universal empire, which delegated her authority over all the known nations of the world? Whose heroes were as invincible in war as they were superior in peace: Whose principles were incorruptible; whose integrity was unquestionable. Are these mouldering ruins; these decayed mansions, all that remain here to mark the conquerors of the world? Melancholy idea.
"Whilst brave, great, and virtuous, Rome was invincible; but when luxury and corruption crept into the state; when senators became venal, and heroes selfish and ambitious, Rome fell from her ancient glory:—Degenerated from her great forefathers—plunged into licentiousness; sunk into a supine weakness.—She turned her arms against herself; destroyed her own powers, and no longer revered as the virtuous republic, giving laws to mankind. Her glory gradually diminished, 'till she fell, to rise no more.
"What a warning to nations! what a lesson to the princes of the present day!—Rome fell by corruption and licentiousness; by civil wars, and internal commotions;—by ambitious and self interested statesmen;—by the tribunes; by the men of the people, who, loudly crying for liberty, and, by factious intrigues, distracting the state, and interrupting the course of justice; by pretending patriotism, and by sowing sedition among the lower classes of men, ever ripe to trample upon all order, and assemble in tumultuous meetings. By such wicked and imprudent measures was Rome destroyed.
"Whilst virtuous and united, she was invulnerable; but "a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand," and in the general decay, all share the common ruin: There can be no discrimination; for who shall say to a misguided tumultuous people, Thus far shalt thou go, and no farther." Alas! a turbulent spirit, once raised, it is difficult to subdue; and measures never once intended, are often times pursued to the confusion and ruin of its first projectors.