ay pipes, which, as everybody knows, very readily break.
Therefore, from among his 'young fellows' he had chosen for himself a
Pipe-master, who had charge of a chest well packed with clay pipes;
and this chest was the most precious jewel in Bluecher's field baggage.
If one of the pipes broke, it was, for our hero, an event of the
greatest importance. On its occurrence, the 'wounded' pipe was
narrowly examined, and if the stem was not broken off too near the
head, it was sent to join the corps of Invalids, and was called
'Stummel' (Stump, or Stumpy). One of these Stumpies the
Field-Marshal usually smoked when he was on horseback, and when the
troops were marching along or engaged in a reconnoissance, and
eye-witnesses record that many a Stumpy was shot from his mouth by the
balls of the enemy--nothing but a piece of the stem then remaining
between his lips. Bluecher's Pipe-master, at the time of the Liberation
War, was Christian Hennemann, a Mecklenburg and Rostock man, like
Bluecher himself, and most devotedly attached to the Field-Marshal. He
knew all the characteristic peculiarities of the old hero, even the
smallest, and no one could so skillfully adapt himself to them as he.
His duties as Pipe-master, Hennemann discharged with great fidelity;
yea, even with genuine fanatical zeal. The contents of the pipe-chest
he thoroughly knew, for often he counted the pipes. Before every
fierce fight, Prince Bluecher usually ordered a long pipe to be filled.
After smoking for a short time, he gave back the lighted pipe to
Hennemann, placed himself right in the saddle, drew his sabre, and
with the vigorous cry, 'Forward, my lads!' he threw himself into the
fierce onset on the foe.

On the ever-memorable morning of the battle of Belle-Alliance
(Waterloo), Hennemann had just handed a pipe to his master, when a
cannon-ball struck the ground near, so that earth and sand covered
Bluecher and his gray horse. The horse made a spring to one side, and
the beautiful new pipe was broken before the old hero had taken a
single puff. 'Fill another pipe for me,' said Bluecher; 'keep it
lighted, and wait for me here a moment, till I drive away the French
rascals. Forwards, lads!' Thereupon there was a rush forwards; but the
chase lasted not only 'a moment,' but a whole hot day. At the
Belle-Alliance Inn, which was demolished by shot,--the battle having
at last been gained,--the victorious friends, Bluecher and Wellington,
met and congratulated