SOME SITES OF BATTLE. 
583 
before or since. The swarms of refugees from the Attic plain were 
safe. The Bast on one of its periodic swoops upon the West was 
checked and brought to nought. It is an old story now. But as you 
go about and head away past Lipso for the open sea, you feel the 
afternoon has not been lost in searching out this quiet land-locked sheet 
of water. To-day the little fleet of modern Greece rides peacefully at 
anchor on the outskirts of the battle-field, now developed into a naval 
harbour of some note. Will it, when its time comes, play a great part, 
as did Themistokles' triremes in the brave days of old ? 
Your tactician loves St. Privat with its glacis slope. Its story illus¬ 
trates one of the grand rules of conduct in the modern game of war. But, 
well as the tale is told in the “ Official Account,” it is told far more vividly 
by the grassy hummocks and lichened monuments which rear their heads 
above the sumptuous corn. Drop tactics for a moment, go read the 
names awhile, then conjure up x the picture of what happened on that 
torrid August afternoon a quarter of a century ago. It seems so pitiful 
to think of these huge columns out helpless on the bullet-swept plateau, 
gaining nothing by holding on, incapable of advancing, resolved not to 
give way. Yet to some of us the interest of this great fight of Grave- 
lotte seems centred at another point, away to the south, in front of the 
village whence the battle gained its name. Here, under the eyes of 
the old King himself, the German legions were from noon to nightfall 
held in check, were at one time, indeed, swept back in dire confusion. 
Here the French held their ground when darkness closed upon the 
scene. And here it was that Hans got his chance, and took it. 
Hans was a driver in the 3rd Hors© Artillery Battery of the VII th 
Corps, a simple fellow who had no proud looks. He had but a bare 
year's service when the war broke out; and after much bustle as 
reservists hurried in and horses came to hand, found himself lead-driver 
of the flank gun, with old Gretchen, bay with a bit of white blaze, for 
off-leader. Many a time in his early loutish days he had battered round 
the dusty manege clinging to her slippery back, and she had mostly 
done him well. 
When morning broke, on the 18th August, the battery had not 
been fairly blooded yet, and as, after some hours of hot marching, to¬ 
wards mid-day they passed through a big village, which Hans heard 
the Captain name as Gravelotte, all of them, officers and men, felt 
something of a thrill. For just beyond they came of a sudden out 
upon the battle-field. Guns to left of them, guns to right of them, 
seemingly for miles, thundering away ; while from the front, where the 
enemy shewed up plain enough, answer came but fitfully. The battery 
} soon found its place, a little south of the high road, and set to work; 
I then Hans, whose gun was on the left, found time to get his bearings 
and take in the scene. 
It was, indeed, all plain enough. Whether you view it on a map, or 
on the ground from the plateau east of Gravelotte, the French position 
on the left is strangely well defined. Hans noticed how the road which 
they just had left dipped down a sort of cutting, disappeared, and then 
, shewed up again across the valley by a red-roofed house, surrounded by 
farm-buildings now a blaze of musketry. Months afterwards he heard 
its name—St. Hubert. From where they were, neither the great 
