Camps, Quarters, and Casual Places by Archibald Forbes

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The reading over, the return presents were picked up by an official and
bundled over to me without any ceremony, the King meanwhile looking on in
silence, chewing betel and smoking a cheroot. Several of the courtiers
were following his example in the latter respect. Presently the King spoke
in a distinct, deliberate voice--

"Who is he?"

Dr. Williams acting as my introducer, replied in Burmese--

"A writer of the _Daily News_ of London, your Majesty."

"Why does he come?"

"To see your Majesty's country, and in the hope of being permitted to
reverence the Golden Feet."

"Whence does he come?"

"From the British army in Afghanistan, engaged in war against the Prince
of Cabul."

"And does the war prosper for my friends the English?"

"He reports that it has done so greatly and that the Prince of Cabul is a
fugitive."

"Where does Cabul lie in relation to Kashmir?"

"Between Kashmir and Persia, in a very mountainous and cold region."

There had been pauses more or less long between each of these questions;
the King obviously reflecting what he should ask next; then there was a
longer, and, indeed, a wearisome pause. Then the King spoke again.

"Where is the Kingwoon Menghyi?"

"In Court, your Majesty," replied Pio Nono. "It is a Court day."

"It is well. I wish the Ministers to make every day a Court day, and to
labour hard to give prompt justice to suitors, so that there be no
complaint of arrears."

With this laudable injunction, his Majesty rose and walked away, and the
audience was over.

The King of Burmah, when I saw him, was little over twenty, and he had
been barely four months on the throne. He was a tall, well-built,
personable young man, very fair in complexion, with a good forehead,
clear, steady eyes, and a firm but pleasant mouth. His chin was full and
somewhat sensual-looking, but withal he was a manly, frank-faced young
fellow, and was said to have gained self-possession and lost the early
nervous awkwardness of his new position with great rapidity. Circumstances
had even then occurred to prove that he was very far from destitute of a
will of his own, and that he had no favour for any diminution of the Royal
Prerogative. As we passed out of the Palace after the interview a house in
the Palace grounds was pointed out to me, within which had been imprisoned
in squalid misery ever since the mortal illness of the previous King, a
number of the members of the Burmese blood royal.

_P.S._--A few days after my visit, all these unfortunately were massacred
with fiendish refinements of cruelty.

GERMAN WAR PRAYERS 1870-71

In the multifarious ramifications of their military organisation the
Germans by no means neglect religion. Each army corps is partitioned into
two divisions and each division has its field chaplain. In those corps in
which there is a large admixture of the Catholic element, there is a
cleric of that denomination to each division as well as a Protestant
chaplain. The former is known as a _Feldgeistliger_, a word which in
itself means nothing more distinctive than a "field ecclesiastic," while
the Protestant chaplain has usually the title of _Feldpastor_. Of the
priest I can say but little. The pastors, for the most part, are young and
energetic men. They may be divided into two classes: those who have at
home no stated charges, and those who have temporarily left their charge
for the duration of the war. The former generally are regularly posted to
a division; the latter, equally recognised but not perhaps quite so
official, are chiefly to be found in the lazarettoes, in the battlefield
villages whither the wounded are borne to have their fresh wounds roughly
seen to, and on the battlefield itself. Not that the regular divisional
chaplains do not face the dangers of the battlefield with devoted courage;
but their duties, in the nature of their special avocation, lie more among
the hale and sound who yet stand up before an enemy, than with the poor
fellows who have been stricken down. Earnestness and devotion are the
chief characteristics of those pastors. It struck me that their education
was not of a very high order--certainly not on a par with that of the
average regimental officer.

The _Feldpastor_ wears an armlet of white and light purple to denote his
calling; but indeed it is not easy to mistake him for anything else than
he is. He has his quarters with the Divisional General, and preaches
whenever and wherever it is convenient to get a congregation. A church is
passed on the wayside, a regiment halts and defiles into it, and the
pastor mounts the steps of the altar and holds forth therefrom for half an
hour. There is a quiet meadow near a village, in which a brigade is lying.
Looking over the hedge, you may see in the meadow a hollow square of
helmeted men with the general and the pastor in the centre, the latter
speaking simple, fervent words to the fighting men. When, as during the
siege of Paris, a division occupies a certain district for a long time,
you may chance--let me say on a New Year's night--on the village church
all ablaze with light. The garrison have decorated the gaunt old Norman
arches with laurels and evergreens; they have cleared out the
market-vendor's stock of tallow-dips to illuminate the church wherewithal.
The band has been practising the glorious _Nun Danket alle Gott_ for a
week; the vocalists of the regiments have been combining to perfect
themselves in part-singing. The gorgeous trumpery of Roman Catholic church
paraphernalia, unheeded as it is, looks strangely out of place and
contrasts curiously with the simple Protestant forms.

The church is crowded with a denser congregation than ever its walls
contained before. The _Oberst_ sits down with the under-officer; the
general gropes for half a chair between two stalwart _Kerle_ of the line.
Hymn-cards are distributed as at the Brighton volunteer service in the
Pavilion on Easter Sunday. As the pastor enters and takes his way up the
altar steps--he goes not to the pulpit--there bursts out a volume of vocal
devotional harmony, which is so pent in the aisles and under the arches
that the sound seems almost to become a substance. Then the pastor
delivers a prayer and there is another hymn. He enunciates no text when he
next begins to speak; he chops not a subject up into heads, as the
grizzled major who listens to him would partition out his battalion into
companies. There is no "thirteenthly and lastly" in his simple address.
But he gets nearer the hearts of his hearers than if he assailed them with
a battery of logic with multitudinous texts for ammunition. For he speaks
of the people at home, in the quiet corners of the Fatherland; he tells
the soldier in language that is of his profession, how the fear of the
Lord is a better arm than the truest-shooting _Zündnadelgewehr_; how
preparedness for death and for what follows after death, is a part of his
accoutrement that the good soldier must ever bear about with him.

Herr Pastor has other functions than to preach to the living. The day
after a battle, his horse must be very tired before the stable-door is
reached. The burial parties are excavating great pits all over the field,
while others pick up the dead in the vicinity and bear them unto the brink
of the common grave. Herr Pastor cannot be ubiquitous. If he is not near
when the hole is full, the _Feldwebel_ who commands the party bares his
head, and mutters, "In the name of God, Amen," as he strews the first
handful of mould on the dead--it may be on friends as well as on foes. If
the pastor can reach the brink of the pit, it is his to say the few words
that mark the recognition of the fact that those lying stark and grim
below him are not as the beasts that perish. The Germans have no set
funeral service, and if they had, there would be no time for it here.
"Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of
the resurrection to eternal life, _durch unsern Herr Jesu Christe_. Amen;"
words so familiar, yet never heard without a new thrill.

They are slightly uncouth in several matters, these _Feldpastoren_, and
would not quite suit sundry metropolitan charges one wots of. They do not
wear gloves, nor are they addicted to scent on their pocket-handkerchiefs.
Their boots are too often like boats, and when they are mounted there is
frequently visible an interval of more or less dusky stocking between the
boot-top and the trouser-leg. They slobber stertorously in the consumption
of soup, and cut their meat with a square-elbowed energy of determination
that might make one think that they had vanquished the Evil One and had
him down there under their knife and fork. But they are simple-hearted and
valiant servants of their Master. Who was it, in the bullet-storm that
swept the slope of Wörth, from facing which the stout hearts of the
fighting men blenched and quailed, that there walked quietly into it, to
speak words of peace and consolation to the dying men whom that terrible
storm had beaten down? A smooth-faced stripling with the _Feldpastor's_
badge on his arm, the gallant Christian son of an eminent Prussian divine,
Dr. Krummacher of Berlin. At one of the battles (I forget which) a pastor
came to fill a grave, not to consecrate it. Shall I ever forget the
unswerving hurry to the front of Kummer's divisional chaplain when the
_Landwehrleute_, his flock, were going down in their ranks as they held
with stubbornness unto death the villages in front of Maizières les Metz?
Let the _Feldpastoren_ slobber and welcome, say I, while they gild their
slobbering with such devotion as this! But there must be times and seasons
when Herr Pastor is not at hand; nor can the ministration of any pastor
stand in the stead of private prayer. The German soldier's simple needs in
this matter are not disregarded. Each man is served out when he gets his
kit with a tiny gray volume less than quarter the size of this page, the
title of which is _Gebetbuch für Soldaten_--the Soldier's Prayer-Book. It
is supplied from the Berlin depôt of the Head Society for the Promotion of
Christian Knowledge in Germany, and it is a compendium of simple war
prayers for almost every conceivable situation, with one significant
exception--there is no prayer in defeat. The word is blotted out of the
German war vocabulary. It has been said that the belief in the divinity of
our Saviour is rapidly on the wane in Germany. If this war prayer-book
avails aught, the taint of the heresy may not enter into the army.

Germany is at war. While Paris is frantically shouting _A Berlin!_, while
all Germany is singing and meaning _Die Wacht am Rhein_, Moltke's order
goes forth into the towns and villages of the Fatherland for the
mobilisation of the Reserves. Hans was singing _Die Wacht am Rhein_ last
night over his beer; but there is little heart for song left in him as he
looks from that paper on the deal table into Gretchen's face. She is
weeping bitterly as her children cling around her, too young to realise
the cause of their parents' sorrow. Hans rises moodily, and pulling down
what military belongings he has not given into the arsenal after the last
drill, falls a turning over of them abstractedly. By chance his hand rests
upon the little gray volume, the _Gebetbuch für Soldaten_. It opens in his
hand, and he comes and sits down by Gretchen and reads in a voice that
chokes sometimes, the

PRAYER IN STRAIT AND SORROW

O Lord Jesus Christ! let the crying and sighing of the poor come before
Thee. Withhold not Thy countenance from the tears and beseechings of the
woebegone. Help by Thine outstretched arm, and avert our sorrow from us.
Awake us who are lying dead in sin and in great danger, and whose thoughts
often wander from Thee. Let us trust with all our hearts that nothing can
be so broad, so deep, so high, nor so arduous that Thy grace and favour
cannot overcome it; that we so can and must be holpen out of every
difficulty and discomfiture when Thou takest compassion upon us. Help us,
then, through grace, and so I will praise Thee from now to all eternity.

Hans has bidden good-bye to Gretchen, and has kissed the children he may
never see more. He has marched with his fellows to the depôt, and got his
uniform and arms. The _Militärzug_ has carried him to Kreuznach, and
thence he has marched sturdily up the Nahe Valley and over the ridge into
the Kollerthaler Wald. His last halt was at Puttingen, but Kameke has sent
an aide back at the gallop to summon up all supports. The regiment stacks
arms for ten minutes' breathing-time while the cannon-thunder is borne
backward on the wind to the ears of the soldiers. In two hours more they
will be across the French frontier, storming furiously up the Spicheren
Berg. As Hans gropes in his tunic pocket for his tinder-box, the little
war prayer-book somehow gets between his fingers. He takes it out with the
pipe-light, and finds in its pages a prayer surely suited to the
situation--the prayer

FOR THE OUTMARCHING

O gracious God! I defile from out my Fatherland and from the society of my
friends,[1] and out of the house of my father into a strange land, to
campaign against the enemies of our king. Therefore I would cast myself
with life and soul upon Thy divine bosom and guardianship; and I pray
Thee, with prostrate humility, that Thou willst guide me with Thine eye,
and overshadow me with Thy wings. Let Thine angels camp round about me,
and Thy grace protect me in all the difficulties of the marches, in all
camps and dangers. Give me wisdom and understanding for my ways and works.
Give success and blessing to our ingoings and outcomings, so that we may
do everything well, and conquer on the field of battle; and after victory
won, turn our steps homeward as the heralds who announce peace. So shall
we praise Thee with gladsomeness, O most gracious Father, for Thy dear
Son's sake, Jesus Christ!

[Footnote 1: Every now and then one comes across a German word
untranslatable in its compact volume of expressiveness. How weakly am I
forced to render _Freundschaft_ here! "Outmarching," though a literal, is
a poor equivalent for _Ausmarsch_. In the old Scottish language we find an
exact correspondent for _aus_; the "Furthmarch" gives the idea to a
hair's-breadth.]

It is the morning of Gravelotte. King Wilhelm has issued his laconic order
for the day, and all know how bloody and arduous is the task before his
host. The French tents are visible away in the distance yonder by the
auberge of St. Hubert, and already the explosion of an occasional shell
gives earnest of the wrath to come. The regiment in which Hans is a
private has marched to Caulre Farm, and is halted for breakfast there
before beginning the real battle by attacking the French outpost
stronghold in Verneville. The tough ration beef sticks in poor Hans'
throat. He is no coward, but he thinks of Gretchen and the children, and
the Reserve-man draws aside into the thicket to commune with his own
thoughts. He has already found comfort in the little gray volume, and so
he pulls it out again to search for consolation in this hour of gloom. He
finds what he wants in the prayer

FOR THE BATTLE

Lord of Sabaoth, with Thee is no distinction in helping in great things or
in small. We are going now, at the orders of our commanders, to do battle
in the field with our enemies. Let us give proof of Thy might and honour.
Help us, Lord our God, for we trust in Thee, and in Thy name we go forth
against the enemy. Lord Christ, Thou hast said, "I am with thee in the
hour of need; I will pull thee out, and place thee in an honourable
place." Bethink Thee, Lord, of Thy word, and remember Thy promise. Come to
our aid when we are sore pressed, when the close grapple is imminent, when
the enemy overmatches us, and we have been surrounded by them. Stand by us
in need, for the aid of man is of no avail. Through Thee we will vanquish
our enemies, and in Thy name we will tread under the foot those who have
set themselves in array against us. They trust in their own might, and are
puffed up with pride; but we put our trust in the Almighty God, who,
without one stroke of the sword, canst smite into the dust not only those
who are now formed up against us, but also the whole world. God, we await
on Thy goodness. Blessed are those who put their trust in Thee. Help us,
that our enemies may not get the better of us, and wax triumphant in their
might; but strike disorder into their ranks, and smite them before our
eyes, so that we may overwhelm them. Show us Thy goodness, Thou Saviour,
of those who trust in Thee. Art Thou not God the Lord unto us who are
called after Thy name? So be gracious unto us, and take us--life and soul--
under the protection of Thy grace. And since Thou only knowest what is
good for us, so we commend ourselves unto Thee without reserve, be it for
life or for death. Let us live comforted; let us fight and endure
comforted; let us die comforted, for Jesus Christ, Thy dear Son's sake.
Amen.

Alvensleben is sitting on his horse on the little hillock behind the
hamlet of Flavigny, pulling his gray moustache, and praying that he might
see the _Spitze_ of Barneckow's division show itself on the edge of the
plain up from out the glen of Gorze. Rheinbaben's cavalry are half of them
down, the other half of them are rallying for another charge to save the
German centre. Hans is in the wood to the north of Tronville, helping to
keep back Leboeuf from swamping the left flank. The shells from the French
artillery on the Roman Road are crashing into the wood. The bark is jagged
by the slashes of venomous chassepot bullets. Twice has Ladmirault come
raging down from the heights of Bruville, twice has he been sent
staggering back. Now, with strong reinforcements, he is preparing for a
third assault. Meanwhile there is a lull in the battle. Hans, grimed and
powder-blackened, may let the breech of his _Zündnadelgewehr_ cool and may
wipe his blood-stained bayonet on the forest moss. He has a moment for a
glance into the little gray volume, and it opens in his blackened fingers
at the prayer

IN THE AGONY OF THE BATTLE

O Thou Lord and Ruler of Thine own people, awake and look now in grace
upon Thy folk. Lord Jesus Christ, be now our Jesus, our Helper and
Deliverer, our rock and fortress, our fiery wall, for Thy great name's
sake. Be now our Emmanuel, God with us, God in us, God for us, God by the
side of us. Thou mighty arm of Thy Father, let us now see Thy great power,
so that men shall hail Thee their God, and the people may bend their knees
unto Thee. Strengthen and guide the fighting arm of Thy believing
soldiers, and help them, Thou invincible King of Battles. Gird Thyself up,
Thou mighty fighting Hero; gird Thy sword on Thy loins, and smite our
enemy hip and thigh. Art Thou not the Lord who directest the wars of the
whole world, who breakest the bow, who splinterest the spear, and burnest
the chariots with fire? Arouse Thyself, help us for Thy good will, and
cast us not from Thee, God of our Saviour; cease Thy wrath against us, and
think not for ever of our sins. Consider that we are all Thine handiwork;
give us Thy countenance again, and be gracious unto us. Return unto us, O
Lord, and go forth with our army. Restore happiness to us with Thy help
and counsel, Thou staunch and only King of Peace, who with Thy suffering
and death hast procured for us eternal peace. Give us the victory and an
honourable peace, and remain with us in life and in death. Amen.

Hans has marched from before Metz towards the valley of the Meuse, and the
regimental camp for the night is on the slopes of the Ardennes, over
against Chemery. The setting sun is glinting on the windows of the Château
of Vendresse, where the German King is quartered for the night. The birds
are chirruping in the bosky dales of the Bar. The morrow is fraught with
the hot struggle of Sedan, but honest Hans, a simple private man, knows
nought of strategic moves and takes his ease on the sward while he may. He
has oiled the needle-gun and done his cooking; a stone is under his head
and his mantle is about him. As he ponders in the dying rays of the
setting sun there comes over him the impulse to have a look into the pages
of the _Gebetbuch_, and he finds there this prayer

IN THE BIVOUAC

Heavenly Father, here I am, according to Thy divine will, in the service
of my king and war-master, as is my duty as a soldier; and I thank Thee
for Thy grace and mercy that Thou hast called me to the performance of
this duty, because I am certain that it is not a sin, but is an obedience
to Thy wish and will. But as I know and have learnt through Thy gracious
Word that none of our good works can avail us, and that nobody can be
saved merely as a soldier, but only as a Christian, I will not rely on my
obedience and upon my labours, but will perform my duties for Thy sake,
and to Thy service. I believe with all my heart that the innocent blood of
Thy dear Son Jesus Christ, which He has shed for me, delivers and saves
me, for He was obedient to Thee even unto death. On this I rely, on this I
live and die, on this I fight, and on this I do all things. Retain and
increase, O God, my Father, this belief by Thy Holy Ghost. I commend body
and soul to Thy hands. Amen.

It is the evening of Sedan, the most momentous victory of the century. The
bivouac fires light up the sluggish waters of the Meuse, not yet run clear
from blood. The burning villages still blaze on the lower slopes of the
Ardennes, and the tired victors, as they point to the beleaguered town,
exclaim in a kind of maze of sober triumph, "_Der Kaiser ist da!_" Hans is
joyous with his fellows, chaunts with them Luther's glorious hymn, _Nun
Danket alle Gott_; and as the watch-fire burns up he rummages in the
_Gebetbuch_ for something that will chime with the current of his
thoughts. He finds it in the prayer

AFTER THE VICTORY

God of armies! Thou hast given us success and victory against our enemies,
and hast put them to flight before us. Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us,
but to Thy holy name alone be all the honour! Thou hast done great things
for us, therefore our hearts are glad. Without Thy aid we should have been
worsted; only with God could we have done mighty deeds and subdued the
power of the enemy. The eye of our general Thou hast quickened and guided;
Thou hast strengthened the courage of our army, and lent it stubborn
valour. Yet not the strategy of our leader, nor our courage, but Thy great
mercy has given us the victory. Lord, who are we, that we dare to stand
before Thee as soldiers, and that our enemies yield and fly before us? We
are sinners, even as they are, and have deserved Thy fierce wrath and
punishment; but for the sake of Thy name Thou hast been merciful to us,
and hast so marked the sore peril of our threatened Fatherland, and hast
heard the prayer of our king, our people, and our army, because we called
upon Thy name, and held out our buckler in the name of the Lord of
Sabaoth. Blessed be Thy holy name for ever and ever. Amen.

The surrender of the French army of Sedan has been consummated, and
Napoleon has departed into captivity; while Hans, marching down by Rethel,
and through grand old Rheims, and along the smiling vinebergs of the Marne
Valley, is now _vor Paris_. He is on the _Feldwache_ in the forest of
Bondy before Raincy, and his turn comes to go on the uttermost sentry
post. As the snow-drift blows to one side he can see the French
watch-fires close by him in Bondy; nearer still he sees the three stones
and the few spadefuls of earth behind which, as he knows, is the French
outpost sentry confronting him. The straggling rays of the watery moon now
obscured by snow-scud, now falling on him faintly, could not aid him in
reading even if he dared avert his eyes from his front. But Hans had come
to know the value of the little gray volume; and while he lay in the
_Feldwache_ waiting for his spell of sentry go, he had learnt by heart the
following prayer

FOR OUTPOST SENTRY DUTY

Lord Jesus Christ, I stand here on the foremost fringe of the camp, and am
holding watch against the enemy; but wert Thou, Lord, not to guard us,
then the watcher watcheth in vain. Therefore, I pray Thee, cover us with
Thy grace as with a shield, and let Thy holy angels be round about us to
guard and preserve us that we be not fallen upon at unawares by the enemy.
Let the darkness of the night not terrify me; open mine eyes and ears that
I may observe the oncoming of the enemy from afar, and that I may study
well the care of myself and of the whole army. Keep me in my duty from
sleeping on my post and from false security. Let me continually call to
Thee with my heart, and bend Thyself unto me with Thine almighty presence.
Be Thou with me and strengthen me, life and soul, that in frost, in heat,
in rain, in snow, in all storms, I may retain my strength and return in
health to the _Feldwache_. So I will praise Thy name and laud Thy
protection. Amen.

It is the evening of the 2nd of December. Duerot has tried his hardest to
sup in Lagny, and has been balked by German valour. But not without
terrible loss. On the plateau and by the party wall before Villiers, dead
and wounded Germans lie very thick. In one of the little corries in the
vineberg poor Hans has gone down. The shells from Fort Nogent are bursting
all around, endangering the _Krankenträger_ while prosecuting their duties
of mercy and devotion. Hans has somehow bound up his shattered limb; and
as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket the little _Gebetbuch_ has
dropped out with it. There is none on earth to comfort poor Hans; let him
open the book and find consolation there in the prayer

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