Part 10

“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?” 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.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.