The Garden of Swords by Max Pemberton

The French fled from Woerth, and the passes of the Vosges were open to the victorious armies of the invader. Villages, which knew not why war had come to the vineyards, beheld the advancing hosts that carried the sword into the gardens of France. People said that no man might number them, no general withstand them. For a nation armed had gone out against those who had betrayed a nation. Old men spoke of Austerlitz and of Jena, and told one another that never again would the shame of the new day be forgotten nor its humiliations avenged. Peasants fled from their homes to the shelter of the cities; the wounded crawled to the churches and lay side by side with the forgotten dead. Everywhere the devastating hand withered the fields and gave payment of their ashes. The curse was upon France, men said. The day of hope had passed. Out there upon the hill lands the spiked helmets glistened and the Uhlans rode triumphantly; the hope, the courage of Paris seemed a mockery beyond words. For the children cried for bread; the dirge for the dead was the daily prayer.

Westward and southward from Woerth MacMahon's hosts had fled to tell the tale in all the towns, and even to proclaim it at the gates of Strasburg and in the cafes by the great cathedral there. The wounds the soldiers showed, the enduring fear of those mighty forces crossing the mountains so swiftly, moved the city to belief and to activity. Men would not stop to ask why this had been, this betrayal surpassing belief, this wreck of the glory of a century. The Germans were coming to the gates of the city they loved. All that life could give in defence of that city should be their offering to France. Whatever else of shame and of defeat contributed to their country's harvest of the war, Strasburg at least would play her part with honour. Never, while one stone stood upon another, would she open her gates to the Prussian king. The few of German heart and birth, who remained indifferent to the issues, found themselves silenced by the greater voice of patriotism. Citizens congregated in all the cafes to tell the good story. "To the last brick, comrades -- our general has said so. " And that watchword became their own from the first.