Deeds of Daring Done by Girls by N. Hudson Moore - HTML preview

THE MAID OF ZARAGOZA
 1808

The notes of a hymn swept up the street,—a hymn so sung that it seemed a call to battle rather than a sacred song. It rose, it fell, it stirred the blood, the plaintive tones of the women’s voices rising high above the fuller notes of the men, while soaring above all the others were the shrill, sweet voices of the altar boys.

On they came, with banners waving and with clouds of smoke rising from the swinging censers. But the music, strong as it rose on the morning air, did not blot out the clang of the alarm bells which were constantly rung in every quarter of the city. Nor could it drown the boom, boom, boom of the bombardment which had been slowly wrecking the city for so long.

Augustina kneeled on the balcony with her bent head on her hands, her heart swelling as she listened.

“Ah,” said she to herself, “if I were but a man! If I could but help to save the city. Yet here must I sit and do nothing better than weave lace, while our brave men are dropping before those cruel guns.”

As the music grew fainter, she rose and stood watching the procession. At the head of the long narrow street in which she lived, towered the spires of the lovely old cathedral of the Virgin of the Pillar, and the procession which had just passed was of men and women who sought to petition the Holy Mother for her aid in the desperate war which was being waged against their city.

Although the sun had been up some hours, the tall convents which were set among the houses made the street still dim, and as Augustina looked up towards the cathedral, the people in the procession seemed hardly larger than children moving slowly and singing as they went.

Every day in some part of the city was to be seen such a procession as had just passed, for although Napoleon and his soldiers had been besieging the town for forty days, never once did the people lose courage in their power to come out victorious from the struggle.

Yes, to triumph at last, though hunger, sickness, and ill-trained soldiers were evils with which they had to struggle, as well as the enemy without their walls.

As the last singer entered the cathedral, Augustina seemed to wake from a dream, and a look of anxiety came over her face as she looked up the street. Leaning as far forward over the balcony as she dared, she could see nothing but some figures of men wrapped in dull brown cloaks, the only spots of colour being the gay kerchiefs bound about their heads.

“Augustina!” From within the house came the call, prolonged and whining, as if the patience of the caller were nearly exhausted.

“Yes, dear mother, just one moment longer.”

Again she leaned out and peered up the street, but whoever or whatever she looked for did not come in sight. With a sigh she drew back and entered the house.

The street in which Augustina lived was no whit worse than most of the thoroughfares in the old city of Zaragoza. The houses covered with balconies looked at each other across streets so narrow that in some of them a horse and cart filled the space from side to side, and the cobblestones were so rough and irregular that walking was difficult. Yet Augustina had found the city fair enough to look upon before so many doors and windows were walled up on account of the bombardment, and before such numbers of the houses had been crumbled by the cannon balls.

Though her face was not as cheerful as was its wont when she turned to go in, she shook her shoulders as if to get rid of some disagreeable thought, pushed back from her forehead the heavy black hair, and was able to show quite a presentable face to her mother when she reached her side.

“Why did you stay so long when you knew that I waited for you?” asked the invalid in a peevish tone.

“Did it seem long? Why, mother, ’twas only five minutes after all; just look at the clock. After the procession passed I only looked to see if Felipe came this way and if he had any news to tell.”

“Felipe, Felipe, everything is Felipe, while I sit here day after day, and only get what is thrown to me, as one throws a bone to a dog.”

“Ah, I see that the fever is bad again this morning, else you would never say a thing like that, mother dear. Now just look at me and say that again!”

Her mother turned to speak, but as she looked at the bright face, saw the love which filled the large dark eyes, passed her hand over the rosy cheeks, and felt the pressure of the strong young arms, she could not help but soften into a look of pleasure, and her words dwindled into—

“Well, well, it did seem long, but you are a good child, Augustina, and I love you well, as you know. But what with the fever and this dreadful war and the sound of the cannon, I spoke sharper than I meant.”

“Dearest, let me give you the cup of chocolate and the bit of bread, for I ate my breakfast long ago, before you woke.” She did not tell her mother how scant that meal had been.

“I hardly know if I wish for it,” her mother was beginning; but Augustina was already in the next room, which served them as a kitchen, and soon hurried back bearing a small tray on which was the cup of chocolate and the bit of crusty bread which is the breakfast of every true Spaniard. Food was scant enough in more households than this. Augustina’s mother, a widow with barely enough to scrape along on, was aided in peaceful days by the sale of the lace which Augustina’s skilful fingers made. Everybody in Spain loves lace, and every woman wore it, having her whole mantilla of it if she could afford it, and trimmed with it if she could do no better. Her holiday skirt was flounced with it, her pretty little aprons edged with it, her snowy chemisette trimmed with it, so that there was always a demand for what Augustina’s skilful fingers could make.

But now—what was the use of working at the pillow?

The siege which had lasted so long showed no signs of being broken, and no one had any coins to spare on such slight things as lace, when famine was staring the city in the face, and all day long, if one but looked from the window, the wounded could be seen being carried into the convents, or any other place where they could be tended and safe from the cannon balls.

“Is the chocolate sweet enough, mother?” asked Augustina anxiously. She had stirred into it the last spoonful of sugar which they had, and as the purse was running so low she hardly dared to buy any more.

“Sweet enough; and, Augustina, when you go out to-day, go first of all to the cathedral and say an Ave for me. I had hoped before this to be able to go myself. Say, too, a prayer for our brave men who are holding the city against those wicked French.”

“I am going now to Our Lady of the Pillar, mother, and I will stop on the Prado and ask if, by any chance, there has been a call for lace. I have a fine piece ready; the lilies in it seem fairly to grow, do they not, mother?”

Augustina held up with pride a long strip of snowy lace into which were wrought lilies and roses so lifelike that it was almost as if they blossomed.

“I wish that we could afford to keep that piece, Augustina. I have watched it grow under your fingers for so long that I shall miss it when it is no longer here.”

“I shall hate to sell it, mother; yet the money for it would not come amiss, eh, dearest?”

The widow sighed and glanced at the pillow as it lay on the table covered from dust, only the gay beads which tipped the bobbins being visible.

Augustina bustled about, making the house ready for the day, drawing the shade across the window so that her mother’s siesta should not be disturbed in case she did not return immediately, and then she went into the kitchen. Here she packed into a small basket some little cakes and such simple food as their home afforded, and covered it with a napkin. Then, with her mantilla drawn over her head, she went into her mother’s room and said,—

“Adios, mother, till I return. I may be late, so do not worry. Be sure that I will not forget your Ave at the cathedral.”

Kissing her fondly, she went down the stone stairs which led to their rooms, treading softly so as not to rouse any of the neighbours who might come out and ask whither she was going.

She walked quickly up the quiet street, and, with a corner of her mantilla drawn over her face, looked neither to the right nor left. Few people were about, and every moment came the boom of the cannon, now a little louder and now less so,—as they were fired from the walls, or from the distant cannon of the enemy.

She kept bravely on, for she had a purpose before her. She wished to make a prayer for herself as well as for her mother, and turned to the cathedral, whither were also others hurrying, bound on the same errand as herself.

As the leather curtain of the door fell behind her, the dusky light of the great cathedral was pointed here and there by hundreds of twinkling lights, and side by side on the pavement kneeled noble lady or ragged beggar, all intent on their devotions, whispering prayers for the deliverance of their beloved city and for the safety of her defenders. The solemn tones of the organ and the voices of the chanting priests were the only sounds to be heard, save from time to time a sob from some mourner who prayed for the dead.

As Augustina stood once more in the sunshine on the great steps of the church, she looked up and down the street, hardly able to realise that while the sky was so bright, such misery was in many homes, and such cruel fighting on the walls.

“On the walls!” Yes; that was the place whither she was bound! Felipe had not been to their home since the day before yesterday. Something must have happened to detain him, for as he left he had called back,—

“Look for me to-morrow, Augustina”; and when Felipe said a thing he always kept his word; no one knew that better than she. It had been so from the days when they were little children together. When Felipe said, “I will do this,” or “I will not do that,” it always fell out just as he said. So now she was going to see for herself what had happened to keep him away. A horrid idea rose before her mind of Felipe wounded, but she drove it away, and thought only of how young he was and strong, so proud of being chosen by his townsmen to serve on the walls, so delighted with his uniform.

The mere thought of how she had seen him thus made her hurry all the faster; and she hoped he would like the things which she had brought him to eat, for, poor boy, he had complained of being hungry the last time he came to them; and food was getting more scarce each day.

She reached the walls at last, and at the gate near the great convent of Santa Engracia, where Felipe had a gun, she was stopped by a sentinel who asked her business there.

“I come to see Felipe,” she answered briefly.

“A brother of thine, little one?” asked the soldier, as he noticed her basket, and tried to get a glimpse of her face through the mantilla.

“No, a friend,” was all she answered; for how could she tell this man that some day, when this war was over, she and Felipe were to be betrothed?

“Just a friend,” the man mimicked, and then, seeing her bent head, he said more gently: “Well, ’tis not allowed for friends to mount to the walls, but as it seems that you have something to eat, go you up. You will find Felipe at the gun at the second turn to the right.”

Up the rude steps to the top of the walls, Augustina hurried, past one, two, three guns. At the fourth stood Felipe!

“Oh, Felipe!” she cried, “where have you been these last two days? In truth I could wait no longer to know what had befallen you. See, here is a bit of meat, and all the bread that I could spare, for mother must not suffer, you know, else had I brought more.”

Felipe had just cleaned the gun for another charge, and as he stood beside it, he turned his weary and blackened face towards Augustina.

“I could not come,” he whispered hoarsely. “I have served this gun day and night since I saw you last, save for a few hours at night when those dastardly French had to rest too.”

“Poor Felipe!” murmured Augustina. “Here is some wine; take it, for you look worn and tired”; and as she spoke, she gave him a glass of the sour wine which is so esteemed by the Spaniard, and in which Felipe moistened some bits of bread, standing beside his gun all the while so as to be ready to load and fire as soon as he had finished.

The tumult was appalling. Orders were being shouted out from either side, clouds of smoke obscured the walls as well as the broad and grassy vega where the French camp was established. The noise was deafening, and every few moments a ball, screaming as it went, flew over their heads, and burst somewhere in the city behind them, killing and destroying, and often leaving in its wake fiery embers which burst into flame.

Augustina steadied herself by putting her hand on the gun, and as Felipe turned to it once more he shouted to her,—

“Hear the Signorina speak, Augustina; she is the bravest lady on the walls!” and he thrust into the gaping mouth of the gun a huge iron case which he took from a pile near at hand, and which held within it many small iron balls.

“Now hear my lady’s voice!” turning towards Augustina with a look of triumph on his face.

There was a deafening roar, a cloud of smoke, and even as it floated about them out of its midst seemed to come a great thing that flew towards them,—a whirling, screaming thing that never wavered in its track! Before she could realise what it was, there was a deafening roar, Augustina was thrown on her face, and heard all about her a sound as of falling stones. She knew in a moment, as soon as the noise had died away, that she was not hurt. She slowly scrambled to her feet, and looked about for Felipe.

Ah, he had been thrown down like herself!

“Felipe!” she called.

Amid the tumult her voice seemed but a whisper.

“Felipe!” Still there was no answer, and as she looked again she saw that on his breast lay a large bit of something that looked like a stone. She hurried to him and pushed it off, trying to raise him as she did so; but he fell back, and she threw herself on her knees, lifting his head in her arms, and saying softly,—

“Felipe, dear one, where are you hurt? Answer me, I pray; ’tis I, Augustina, who calls you.”

But there was no answer. The iron fragment from the cannon ball had hit Felipe above the heart, and struck out in a moment the life of a brave soldier. Again and again Augustina called to him, stroking the curling black hair, and smoothing the hands all stained from his work. How long she sat there with Felipe’s head in her lap, she never knew. Slowly in her mind the idea grew that some one must take his place. No one must think that Felipe’s gun was silent because he had deserted; the faith of his townsfolk in his courage must not be destroyed.

Besides, what was that she had heard? It was Felipe himself who had told her of the dreadful thing which happened every night on the walls. She could hardly bear to think of it,—but at dusk gibbets were set up, and on them were hung all deserters and cowards.

Oh, if they should think that Felipe was a coward!

Somebody must take his place, but who—who was to do it?

There were far too few men now, able to fill the places of danger on the walls.

“Then must even I,” said Augustina to herself; and she laid poor Felipe down tenderly, and threw her mantilla over the quiet face. There was no time for tears. She had watched him as he loaded the gun, and now tried to do it herself.

“Now may Our Lady of the Pillar help me!” and as she breathed the prayer, Augustina dragged the heavy case which held so many death-dealing balls to the mouth of the gun, lifted and pushed it into place. After firing the charge, she dropped on her knees, and with her hands covering her face waited through an awful moment!

Suddenly there was a tearing, crashing sound, an explosion so loud that it took away her breath, and then Augustina knew that the gun of Felipe spoke as if he still stood at its side. A sob broke from her lips, but she crushed it down, and with one look at the still form beneath the mantilla, she rose to her feet and turned to the gun. Her slender hands had difficulty in managing the heavy cases, but she kept at it bravely, murmuring to herself,—

“For Felipe and for Spain!”

It was for her country, too, that Augustina worked and toiled; for to the tips of her toes she was of Aragon. Her father and his father before him had watched the Ebro as it flows through the city; they had loved the olive groves by which it was surrounded, and they had stood in the arcades and market-places, their sad eyes watching the slow decay of a city which had once been the home of kings.

Cold and proud to the stranger, the Aragonese when aroused are fairly heroic in the way they fight for their country; and in 1808, when Augustina manned the gun for the sake of her playmate and lover who was slain, the same spirit burned in her heart as had in those of her ancestors centuries before, when the Berbers came and conquered.

The time crept along, but Augustina never faltered. Her clothes were torn with the unusual labour, and her hands, more used to the threads of flax and the smooth wooden bobbins, were cut and bleeding from the rough metal of the cannon. Her long black hair became loosened and hung like a veil down her back. She worked like one possessed of man-like strength. Hardly did she allow the great cannon to cool before she thrust the charge into it, and dragged another iron case to its mouth, so as to have it ready at the first moment.

It seemed to her as if she had been the whole day at her post, when there hurried along an officer making his rounds to observe the condition of things on the walls.

At sight of Augustina he stopped and looked at her with amazement.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE, MY GIRL?”—

“What are you doing here, my girl?” he asked in no gentle tones, hardly able to credit what his eyes told him, and thinking that Augustina might perhaps be keeping watch over a sleeping soldier, and anxious to know the truth.

“I have but taken Felipe’s place, Signor Captain,” pointing with her hand to the figure lying on the stones beside the gun.

“Does—” The Captain paused in his question. Something in the still figure seemed to tell him that it was not the sleep of fatigue that held Felipe while this slender girl worked his gun.

He stooped and lifted the end of the mantilla which covered the face. There was no need for further question. He rose and touched Augustina’s small stained hand.

“Poor girl!” he said; “was he your brother?”

“No, signor; he was Felipe. Since we were children we had played together. His father and mine were old comrades, and when Felipe was left alone on his father’s death, my mother told him to think that our home was his when he wanted it. But Felipe was brave, signor. He knew that we had little, and he worked hard for himself and me, too, since when we came of age we were to be married. Then came this war; he was chosen to serve, and, as the signor sees, he served as long as life lasted. Now I serve for him.”

“Brave girl that you are! I would that we had more men like you, and like poor Felipe here! Stay but a little longer and I will send some one to relieve you.”

“No, signor; I will stay in place of Felipe, if but you will send word to my mother that I am safe and will see her to-night.”

“I can promise that, surely; and if your example does not shame those who lurk in safety behind the walls, I shall lose all faith in Aragon.” Saying which, the Captain passed on his way, saluting as he went, with bowed head and lifted hat, both the girl and the still figure under the mantilla.

All through the long afternoon Augustina worked. No cannon on the walls spoke more often than hers. Faint and weary, she ate what remained of the food she had brought to Felipe, and would not allow herself to think of anything but the duty before her. Not a tear fell from her eyes, and she kept whispering to herself,—

“I must make the Signorina speak!” and every time the cannon roared she looked down at Felipe and cried out, “Ah, Felipe, that was for you; she spoke for you!”

It was night before the promised relief arrived,—a soldier who looked hardly able to do the work, so pale was he.

“Have you been ill?” asked Augustina, as she made ready to go.

“But two days from the hospital,” said he; “yet every one who can stand has need to fight if we wish to save Zaragoza and Our Lady of the Pillar.”

“If you can bear through the night, I will come again in the morning. If it were not for my mother, I would not leave here now.”

“Surely you have done your best. No one could ask more; and as for the poor lad whose place you took, there are few who have been more faithful than he.”

“It is for that very reason that I come again,” said Augustina. “Never shall it be said that Felipe’s gun was silent while I am able to stand beside it—and while Felipe guards it himself,” she added in a lower tone. She kneeled and looked long into the face of her dead comrade, and leaving the mantilla still covering his face, walked steadily off, wiping away with her tired hand the few tears that fell over her cheeks.

Bareheaded and alone, she walked to her home, climbed to the door of their rooms, and then, overcome with sorrow and fatigue, rushed in and threw herself on her knees beside her mother.

“Oh, my child, my dearest child!” and fondling and kissing her, her mother tried to give comfort and cheer to the weeping girl.

“To think that my little girl should be so brave! and, child, how came you to know how to load and fire one of those fearful guns?”

“I saw Felipe do it, mother, and he said that his gun spoke oftenest of any on the walls. So I saw to it that it did not become silent, that was all!”

“Sit here, loved one”; and Augustina’s mother put the tired girl into her own chair, and hurried away to get something for her to eat, and to light the brazier to warm her chilled frame, all her own weakness forgotten in the sight of her child’s sorrow. Nearly all the night they talked, the mother trying in vain to keep Augustina from her resolve to return and serve the cannon the next day. But Augustina simply said,—

“I promised Felipe before I left him, mother dear, and I must go. Besides, I must do my share, and there are few enough to help on the walls.”

Seeing that the girl could not be won away from her idea of her duty, both to the dead and to her country, her mother at last gave up trying to dissuade her, and made her go to bed and try to sleep, so as to have strength for the coming day.

But although Augustina lay quite still with closed eyes, she did not sleep. All through the hours she went over her childhood, and always, in everything, was Felipe. Each little pleasure which they had enjoyed together came vividly to her mind,—how they had studied and worked and played; and now—Even the very bobbins on her lace pillow were the work of his skilful fingers, and many of the comforts of their little home had been made or bought by him for her mother or herself.

She could not bear to think of him lying on the rough stones of the wall, but the Captain had promised that the boy soldier should be laid to rest within the convent yard.

“Would that we could do as much for each brave man who gives his life for his country!” the message ran.

The grey dawn had hardly broken before Augustina had crept from her bed and down the stairs, and was hurrying towards her cannon and place on the walls. She was trying to forget her unhappy thoughts in the work which lay before her. The soldier who had taken her place was in worse condition than he had been the evening before, since the chill of the night and the strain of the work were far more than he, with wounds hardly healed, could stand.

“I am shamed to give the place to you,” he said; “yet if I stay longer, I fear that I shall be of no use at all. I will report to the Captain and see that some one is sent here.”

“It will be no use. I shall serve this gun to-day and every day, as long as God wills, or till we conquer. I promised Felipe, and the Captain said it should be so.”

Augustina turned away as if further argument was useless, and so it proved. Each day she took her place beside the gun where Felipe had met his death, and not only worked it with the skill and courage of a man, but inspired others, less stout of heart than she, to hold their places too. Indeed on more than one occasion she held the men in position by her words and her bravery, though, alas! poor Zaragoza had to yield at last to a power stronger than her own.

After sixty days of incredible bravery, after countless repulses and endless suffering, they were overcome. Right beside the great convent of Santa Engracia, near which was the cannon which was Augustina’s charge, the enemy made a breach in the walls. The French soldiers who worked at it were partially protected by the convent, and had wrought the mischief before the Spaniards were fully aware of what had happened. Augustina heard the noise of crumbling masonry at a distance, and ran along the wall in the direction of the sound.

“Ah!” She caught her breath, for there, even as she looked, a score of the hated French were through. On they came, silent at first, leaping through the hole which the workers every moment made larger. They rushed in like a stream swollen by the spring rains, till ten thousand men at least had flowed into the city.

But do not think that these sons and daughters of Aragon gave in even then! Driven from the walls, they used the housetops and the balconies as vantage grounds. Inch by inch only did they yield, and held off the enemy for twenty-one days longer, only giving in at last because they had actually no more soldiers left to fight. Such bravery and determination impressed even the victorious French, and the terms of capitulation granted were most honourable and generous.

Augustina lived through all these perils and many more, and was among the last to yield. Nor were her courage and her services to her country forgotten; all through Spain her name was known and loved. Nor was her fame confined to her own country, for her daring has been celebrated in many tongues.

She lived full fifty years after her brave exploits on the walls of Zaragoza (she died in 1867), and by command of the government walked each fine day upon the Prado, her breast covered with medals and decorations, showing the esteem and honour in which she was held.

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale,

Oh! had you known her in her softer hour,

Mark’d her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil,

Heard her light, lively tones in Lady’s bower,

Seen her long locks that foil the painter’s power,

Her fairy form, with more than female grace,

Scarce would you deem that Zaragoza’s tower

Beheld her smile in danger’s Gorgon face,

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory’s fearful chase.

                                                     CHILDE HAROLD.