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The Young Franc Tireurs

And Their Adventures in the Franco-Prussian War

By G. A. Henty.

Contents

Preface.

Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.

Chapter 2: Terrible News.

Chapter 3: Death To The Spy!

Chapter 4: Starting For The Vosges.

Chapter 5: The First Engagement.

Chapter 6: The Tunnel Of Saverne.

Chapter 7: A Baffled Project.

Chapter 8: The Traitor.

Chapter 9: A Desperate Fight.

Chapter 10: The Bridge Of The Vesouze.

Chapter 11: A Fight In The Vosges.

Chapter 12: The Surprise.

Chapter 13: The Escape.

Chapter 14: A Perilous Expedition.

Chapter 15: The Expedition.

Chapter 16: A Desperate Attempt.

Chapter 17: A Balloon Voyage.

Chapter 18: A Day Of Victory.

Chapter 19: Down At Last.

Chapter 20: Crossing The Lines.

Chapter 21: Home.

Illustrations

Rescue of a Supposed Spy.

Among the German Soldiers.

The Children on the Battlefield.

The Sea! The Sea!

Preface.

My Dear Lads,

The present story was written and published a few months, only,

after the termination of the Franco-German war. At that time the

plan--which I have since carried out in The Young Buglers, Cornet

of Horse, and In Times of Peril, and which I hope to continue, in

further volumes--of giving, under the guise of historical tales,

full and accurate accounts of all the leading events of great wars,

had not occurred to me. My object was only to represent one phase

of the struggle--the action of the bodies of volunteer troops known

as franc tireurs.

The story is laid in France and is, therefore, written from the

French point of view. The names, places, and dates have been

changed; but circumstances and incidents are true. There were a

good many English among the franc tireurs, and boys of from fifteen

to sixteen were by no means uncommon in their ranks. Having been

abroad during the whole of the war, I saw a good deal of these

irregulars, and had several intimate friends amongst them. Upon the

whole, these corps did much less service to the cause of France

than might have been reasonably expected. They were too often badly

led, and were sometimes absolutely worse than useless.

But there were brilliant exceptions, and very many of those daring

actions were performed which--while requiring heroism and courage

of the highest kind--are unknown to the world in general, and find

no place in history. Many of the occurrences in this tale are

related, almost in the words in which they were described to me, by

those who took part in them; and nearly every fact and circumstance

actually occurred, according to my own knowledge. Without aspiring

to the rank of a history, however slight, the story will give you a

fair idea of what the life of the franc tireurs was, and of what

some of them actually went through, suffered, and performed.

Yours sincerely,

The Author.

Chapter 1: The Outbreak Of War.

The usually quiet old town of Dijon was in a state of excitement.

There were groups of people in the streets; especially round the

corners, where the official placards were posted up. Both at the

Prefecture and the Maine there were streams of callers, all day.

Every functionary wore an air of importance, and mystery; and

mounted orderlies galloped here and there, at headlong speed. The

gendarmes had twisted their mustaches to even finer points than

usual, and walked about with the air of men who knew all about the

matter, and had gone through more serious affairs than this was

likely to be.

In the marketplace, the excitement and buzz of conversation were at

their highest. It was the market day, and the whole area of the

square was full. Never, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant, had

such a market been seen in Dijon. For the ten days preceding,

France had been on the tiptoe of expectation; and every peasant's

wife and daughter, for miles round the town, had come with their

baskets of eggs, fowls, or fruits, to attend the market and to hear

the news. So crowded was it, that it was really difficult to move

about. People were not, however, unmindful of bargains--for the

French peasant woman is a thrifty body, and has a shrewd eye to

sous--so the chaffering and haggling, which almost invariably

precede each purchase, went on as briskly as usual but, between

times, all thoughts and all tongues ran upon the great event of the

day.

It was certain--quite certain, now--that there was to be war with

Prussia. The newspapers had said so, for some days; but then, bah!

who believes a newspaper? Monsieur le Prefect had published the

news, today; and everyone knows that Monsieur le Prefect is not a

man to say a thing, unless it were true. Most likely the Emperor,

himself, had written to him. Oh! There could be no doubt about it,

now.

It was singular to hear, amidst all the talk, that the speculation

and argument turned but little upon the chances of the war, itself;

it being tacitly assumed to be a matter of course that the Germans

would be defeated, with ease, by the French. The great subject of

speculation was upon the points which directly affected the

speakers. Would the Mobiles be called out, and forced to march;

would soldiers who had served their time be recalled to the

service, even if they were married; and would next year's

conscripts be called out, at once? These were the questions which

everyone asked, but no one could answer. In another day or two, it

was probable that the orders respecting these matters would arrive

and, in the meantime, the merry Burgundian girls endeavored to hide

their own uneasiness by laughingly predicting an early summons to

arms to the young men of their acquaintance.

At the Lycee--or great school--the boys are just coming out. They

are too excited to attend to lessons, and have been released hours

before their usual time. They troop out from the great doors,

talking and gesticulating. Their excitement, however, takes a

different form to that which that of English boys would do, under

the same circumstances. There was no shouting, no pushing, no

practical jokes. The French boy does not play; at least, he does

not play roughly. When young he does, indeed, sometimes play at

buchon--a game something similar to the game of buttons, as played

by English street boys. He may occasionally play at marbles but,

after twelve years of age, he puts aside games as beneath him.

Prisoners' base, football, and cricket are alike unknown to him;

and he considers any exertion which would disarrange his hair, or

his shirt collar, as barbarous and absurd. His amusements are

walking in the public promenade, talking politics with the gravity

of a man of sixty, and discussing the local news and gossip.

This is the general type of French school boy. Of course, there are

many exceptions and, in the Lycee of Dijon, these were more

numerous than usual. This was due, to a great extent, to the

influence of the two boys who are coming out of the school, at the

present moment. Ralph and Percy Barclay are--as one can see at

first sight--English; that is to say, their father is English, and

they have taken after him, and not after their French mother. They

are French born, for they first saw the light at the pretty cottage

where they still live, about two miles out of the town; but their

father, Captain Barclay, has brought them up as English boys, and

they have been for two years at a school in England.

Their example has had some effect. Their cousins, Louis and

Philippe Duburg, are almost as fond of cricket, and other games,

and of taking long rambles for miles round, as they are themselves.

Other boys have also taken to these amusements and, consequently,

you would see more square figures, more healthy faces at the Lycee

at Dijon than at most other French schools. The boys who joined in

these games formed a set in themselves, apart from the rest. They

were called either the English set or, contemptuously, the

"savages;" but this latter name was not often applied to them

before their faces, for the young Barclays had learned to box, in

England; and their cousins, as well as a few of the others, had

practised with the gloves with them. Consequently, although the

"savages" might be wondered at, and sneered at behind their backs,

the offensive name was never applied in their hearing.

At the present moment, Ralph Barclay was the center of a knot of

lads of his own age.

"And so, you don't think that we shall get to Berlin, Ralph

Barclay? You think that these Prussian louts are going to beat the

French army? Look now, it is a little strong to say that, in a

French town."

"But I don't say that, at all," Ralph Barclay said. "You are

talking as if it was a certainty that we were going to march over

the Prussians. I simply say, don't be too positive. There can be no

doubt about the courage of the French army; but pluck, alone, won't

do. The question is, are our generals and our organization as good

as those of the Prussians? And can we put as many, or anything like

as many, men into the field? I am at least half French, and hope

with all my heart that we shall thrash these Germans; but we know

that they are good soldiers, and it is safer not to begin to brag,

till the work is over."

There was silence, for a minute or two, after Ralph ceased

speaking. The fact was, the thought that perhaps France might be

defeated had never once, before, presented itself to them as

possible. They were half disposed to be angry with the English boy

for stating it; but it was in the first place, evident now that

they thought of it, that it was just possible and, in the second

place, a quarrel with Ralph Barclay was a thing which all his

schoolfellows avoided.

Ralph Barclay was nearly sixteen, his brother a year younger. Their

father, Captain Barclay, had lost a leg in one of the innumerable

wars in India, two or three years before the outbreak of the

Crimean war. He returned to England, and was recommended by his

doctors to spend the winter in the south of France. This he did

and, shortly after his arrival at Pau, he had fallen in love with

Melanie Duburg; daughter of a landed proprietor near Dijon, and who

was stopping there with a relative. A month later he called upon

her father at Dijon and, in the spring, they were married. Captain

Barclay's half pay, a small private income, and the little fortune

which his wife brought him were ample to enable him to live

comfortably, in France; and there, accordingly, he had settled

down.

His family consisted of Ralph, Percy, and a daughter--called, after

her mother, Melanie, and who was two years younger than Percy. It

had always been Captain Barclay's intention to return to England,

when the time came for the boys to enter into some business or

profession; and he had kept up his English connection by several

visits there, of some months' duration, with his whole family. The

boys, too, had been for two years at school in England--as well as

for two years in Germany--and they spoke the three languages with

equal fluency.

A prettier abode than that of Captain Barclay would be difficult to

find. It was in no particular style of architecture, and would have

horrified a lover of the classic. It was half Swiss, half Gothic,

and altogether French. It had numerous little gables, containing

the funniest-shaped little rooms. It had a high roof, with

projecting eaves; and round three sides ran a wide veranda, with a

trellis work--over which vines were closely trained--subduing the

glare of the summer sun, casting a cool green shade over the

sitting rooms, and affording a pretty and delightfully cool

retreat; where Mrs. Barclay generally sat with her work and taught

Melanie, moving round the house with the sun, so as to be always in

the shade.

The drawing and dining rooms both opened into this veranda The road

came up to the back of the house; and upon the other three sides

was a garden, which was a compromise between the English and French

styles. It had a smooth, well-mown lawn, with a few patches of

bright flowers which were quite English; and mixed up among them,

and beyond them, were clumps of the graceful foliaged plants and

shrubs in which the French delight. Beyond was a vineyard, with its

low rows of vines while, over these, the view stretched away to the

towers of Dijon.

In the veranda the boys, upon their return, found Captain Barclay

reading the papers, and smoking. He looked up as they entered.

"You are back early, boys."

"Yes, papa, there was so much talking going on, that the professor

gave it up as hopeless. You have heard the news, of course?"

"Yes, boys, and am very sorry to hear it."

Captain Barclay spoke so gravely that Ralph asked, anxiously:

"Don't you think we shall thrash them, papa?"

"I consider it very doubtful, Ralph," his father said. "Prussia has

already gained an immense moral victory. She has chosen her own

time for war; and has, at the same time, obliged France to take the

initiative, and so to appear to be the aggressor--and therefore to

lose the moral support of Europe. She has forced this quarrel upon

France, and yet nine-tenths of Europe look upon France as the

inciter of the war. History will show the truth, but it will then

be too late. As it is, France enters upon the war with the weight

of public opinion dead against her and, what is worse, she enters

upon it altogether unprepared; whereas Prussia has been getting

ready, for years."

"But the French always have shown themselves to be better soldiers

than the Prussians, papa."

"So they have, Percy, and--equally well led, disciplined, and

organized--I believe that, in anything like equal forces, they

would do so again. The question is, have we generals to equal those