The dispositions for the battle of Austerlitz occupied the entire day. From sunrise Napoleon was on horse-back, visiting every position; he examined each battery with the skill of an old officer of artillery; and frequently dismounting from his horse, carefully noted the slightest peculiarities of the ground,—remarking to his staff, with an accuracy which the event showed to be prophetic, the nature of the struggle, as the various circumstances of the field indicated them to his practised mind.
It was already late when he turned his horse's head towards the bivouac hut,—a rude shelter of straw,—and rode slowly through the midst of that great army. Theordre du jour, written at his own dictation, had just been distributed among the soldiers; and now around every watchfire the groups were kneeling to read the spirit-stirring lines by which he so well knew how to excite the enthusiasm of his followers. They were told that “the enemy were the same Russian battalions they had already beaten at Hollabrunn, and on whose flying traces they had been marching ever since.” “They will endeavor,” said the proclamation, “to turn our right, but in doing so they must open their flank to us: need I say what will be the result? Soldiers, so long as with your accustomed valor you deal death and destruction in their ranks, so long shall I remain beyond the reach of fire; but let the victory prove, even for a moment, doubtful, your Emperor shall be in the midst of you. This day must decide forever the honor of the infantry of France. Let no man leave his ranks to succor the wounded,—they shall be cared for by one who never forgets his soldiers,—and with this victory the campaign is ended!”
Never were lines better calculated to stimulate the energy and flatter the pride of those to whom they were addressed. It was a novel thing in a general to communicate to his army the plan of his intended battle, and perhaps to any other than a French army the disclosure would not have been rated as such a favor; but their warlike spirit and military intelligence have ever been most remarkably united, and the men were delighted with such a proof of confidence and esteem.
A dull roar, like the sound of the distant sea, swelled along the lines from the far right, where the Convent of Reygern stood, and growing louder by degrees, proclaimed that the Emperor was coming. It was already dark, but he was quickly recognized by the troops, and with one burst of enthusiasm they seized upon the straw of their bivouacs, and setting fire to it, held the blazing masses above their heads, waving them wildly to and fro, amid the cries of “Vive l'Empereur!” For above a league along the plain the red light flashed and glowed, marking out beneath it the dense squares and squadrons of armed warriors. It was the anniversary of Napoleon's coronation; and such was the fête by which they celebrated the day.
The Emperor rode through the ranks uncovered. Never did a prouder smile light up his features, while thronging around him the veterans of the Guard struggled to catch even a passing glance at him. “Do but look at us tomorrow, and keep beyond the reach of shot,” said agrognard, stepping forward; “we'll bring their cannon and their colors, and lay them at thy feet.” The marshals themselves, the hardened veterans of so many fights, could not restrain their enthusiasm; and proffers of devotion unto death accompanied him as he went.
At last all was silent in the encampment; the soldiers slept beside their watchfires, and save the tramp of a patrol or thequi vive? of the sentinels, all was still. The night was cold and sharp; a cutting wind blew across the plain, which gave way to a thick mist,—so thick, the sentries could scarcely see a dozen paces off.
I sat in my little hovel of straw,—my mind far too much excited for sleep,—watching the stars as they peeped out one by one, piercing the gray mist, until at last the air became thin and clear, and a frosty atmosphere succeeded to the weighty fog; and now I could trace out the vast columns, as they lay thickly strewn along the plain. The old general, wrapped in his cloak, slept soundly on his straw couch; his deep-drawn breathing showed that his rest was unbroken. How slowly did the time seem to creep along! I thought it must be nigh morning, and it was only a little more than midnight.
Our position was a small rising ground about a mile in front of the left centre, and communicating with the enemy's line by a narrow road between the marshes. This had been defended by a battery of four guns, with a stockade in front; and along it now, for a considerable distance, a chain of sentinels were placed, who should communicate any movement that they observed in the Russian lines, of which I was charged to convey the earliest intelligence to the quartier-général. This duty alone would have kept me in a state of anxiety, had not the frame of my mind already so disposed me; and I could not avoid creeping out from time to time, to peer through the gloom in the direction of the enemy's camp, and listen with an eager ear for any sounds from that quarter. At last I heard the sound of a voice at some distance off; then, a few minutes after, the hurried step of feet, and a voltigeur came up, breathless with haste: “The Russians were in motion towards the right. Our advanced posts could hear the roll of guns and tumbrels moving along the plain, and it was evident their columns were in march.” I knelt down and placed my ear to the ground, and almost started at the distinctness with which I could hear the dull sound of the large guns as they were dragged along; the earth seemed to tremble beneath them.
I awoke the general at once, who, resting on his arm, coolly heard my report; and having directed me to hasten to headquarters with the news, lay back again, and was asleep before I was in my saddle. At the top speed of my horse I galloped to the rear, winding my way between the battalions, till I came to a gentle rising ground, where, by the light of several large fires that blazed in a circle I could see the dismounted troopers of thechasseurs à cheval, who always formed the Imperial Bodyguard. Having given the word, I was desired by the officer of the watch to dismount, and following him, I passed forward to a space in the middle of the circle, where, under shelter of some sheaves of straw piled over each other, sat three officers, smoking beside a fire.
“Ha! here comes news of some sort,” said a voice I knew at once to be Murat's. “Well, sir, what is't?”
“The Russian columns are in motion, Monsieur le Maréchal; the artillery moving rapidly towards our right.”
“Diantre!it's not much more than midnight! Davoust, shall we awake the Emperor?”
“No, no,” said a harsh voice, as a shrivelled, hard-featured man turned round from the blaze, and showing a head covered by a coarse woollen cap, looked far more like a pirate than a marshal of France; “they 'll not attack before day breaks. Go back,” said he, addressing me; “observe the position well, and if there be any general movement towards the southward, you may report it.”
By the time I regained my post, all was in silence once more; either the Russians had arrested their march, or already their columns were out of hearing,—not a gleam of light could I perceive along their entire position. And now, worn out with watching, I threw myself down among the straw, and slept soundly.
“There! there! that's the third!” said General d'Auvergne, shaking me by the shoulder; “there again! Don't you hear the guns?”
I listened, and could just distinguish the faint booming sound of far-off artillery coming up from the extreme right of our position. It was still but three o'clock, and although the sky was thick with stars, perfectly dark in the valley. Meanwhile we could bear the galloping of cavalry quite distinctly in the same direction.
“Mount, Burke, and back to the quartier-général! But you need not; here comes some of the staff.”
“So, D'Auvergne,” cried a voice whose tones were strange to me, “they meditate a night attack, it would seem; or is it only trying the range of their guns?”
“I think the latter, Monsieur le Maréchal, for I heard no small arms; and, even now, all is quiet again.”
“I believe you are right,” said he, moving slowly forward, while a number of officers followed at a little distance. “You see, D'Auvergne, how correctly the Emperor judged their intentions. The brunt of the battle will be about Reygern. But there! don't you hear bugles in the valley?”
As he spoke, the music of our tirailleurs' bugles arose from the glen in front of our centre, where, in a thick beech-wood, the light infantry regiments were posted.
“What is it, D'Esterre?” said he to an officer who galloped up at the moment.
“They say the Russian Guard, sir, is moving to the front; our skirmishers have orders to fall back without firing.”
As he heard this, the Marshal Bernadotte—for it was he—turned his horse suddenly round, and rode back, followed by his staff. And now the drums beat to quarters along the line, and the hoarse trumpets of the cavalry might be heard summoning the squadrons throughout the field; while between the squares, and in the intervals of the battalions, single horsemen galloped past with orders. Soult's division, which extended for nearly a league to our right, was the first to move, and it seemed like one vast shadow creeping along the earth, as column beside column marched steadily onward. Our brigade had not as yet received orders, but the men were in readiness beside the horses, and only waiting for the word to mount.
The suspense of the moment was fearful. All that I had ever dreamed or pictured to myself of a soldier's enthusiasm was faint and weak, compared to the rush of sensations I now experienced. There must be a magic power of ecstasy in the approach of danger,—some secret sense of bounding delight, mingled with the chances of a battle,—that renders one intoxicated with excitement. Each booming gun I heard sent a wild throb through me, and I panted for the word “Forward!”
Column after column moved past us, and disappeared in the dip of ground beneath; and as we saw the close battalions filling the wide plain in front, we sighed to think that it was destined to be the day of glory peculiarly to the infantry. Wherever the nature of the field permitted shelter or the woods afforded cover, our troops were sent immediately to occupy. The great manoeuvre of the day was to be the piercing of the enemy's centre whenever he should weaken that point by the endeavor to turn our right flank.
A faint streak of gray light was marking the horizon when the single guns which we had heard at intervals ceased; and then, after a short pause, a long, loud roll of artillery issued from the distant right, followed by the crackling din of small-arms, which increased at every moment, and now swelled into an uninterrupted noise, through which the large guns pealed from time to time. A red glare, obscured now and then by means of black smoke, lit up the sky in that quarter, where already the battle was raging fiercely.
The narrow causeway between the two small lakes in our front conducted to an open space of ground, about a cannon-shot from the Russian line; and this we were now ordered to occupy, to be prepared to act as support to the infantry of Soult's left, whenever the attack began. As we debouched into the plain, I beheld a group of horsemen, who, wrapped up in their cloaks, sat motionless in their saddles, calmly regarding the squadrons as they issued from the wood: these were Murat and his staff, to whom was committed the attack on the Russian Guard. His division consisted of the hussars and chasseurs under Kellermann, the cuirassiers of D'Auvergne, and the heavy dragoons of Nansouty,—making a force of eight thousand sabres, supported by twenty pieces of field artillery. Again were we ordered to dismount, for although the battle continued to rage on the right, the whole of the centre and left were unengaged.
Thus stood we as the sun arose,—that “Sun of Austerlitz!” so often appealed to and apostrophized by Napoleon as gilding the greatest of his glories. The mist from the lakes shut out the prospect of the enemy's lines at first; but gradually this moved away, and we could perceive the dark columns of the Russians, as they moved rapidly along the side of the Pratzen, and continued to pour their thousands towards Reygern.
At last the roar of musketry swelled louder and nearer, and an officer galloping past told us that Soult's right had been called up to support Davoust's division. This did not look well; it proved the Russians had pressed our lines closely, and we waited impatiently to hear further intelligence. It was evident, too, that our right was suffering severely, otherwise the attack on the centre would not have been delayed. Just then a wild cheer to the front drew our attention thither, and we saw the heads of three immense columns—Soult's division—advancing at a run towards the enemy.
“Par Saint Louis,” cried General d'Auvergne, as he directed his telescope on the Russian line, “those fellows have lost their senses! See if they have not moved their artillery away from the Pratzen, and weakened their centre more and more! Soult sees it: mark how he presses his columns on! There they go, faster and faster! But look! there's a movement yonder,—the Russians perceive their mistake.”
“Mount!” was now heard from squadron to squadron; while dashing along the line like a thunderbolt, Murat rode far in advance of his staff, the men cheering him as he went.
“There!” cried D'Auvergne, as he pointed with his finger, “that column with the yellow shoulder-knots,—that's Vandamme's brigade of light infantry; see how they rush on, eager to be first up with the enemy. But St. Hilaire's grenadiers have got the start of them, and are already at the foot of the hill. It is a race between them!”
And so had it become. The two columns advanced, cheering wildly; while the officers, waving their caps, led them on, and others rode along the flanks urging the men forward.
The order now came for our squadrons to form in charging sections, leaving spaces for the light artillery between. This done, we moved slowly forward at a walk, the guns keeping step by step beside us. A few minutes after, we lost sight of the attacking columns; but the crashing fire told us they were engaged, and that already the great struggle had begun.
For above an hour we remained thus; every stir, every word loud spoken, seeming to our impatience like the order to move. At last, the squadrons to our right were seen to advance; and then a tremulous motion of the whole line showed that the horses themselves participated in the eagerness of the moment; and, at last, the word came for the cuirassiers to move up. In less than a hundred yards we were halted again; and I heard an aide-de-camp telling General d'Auvergne that Davoust had suffered immensely on the right; that his division, although reinforced, had fallen back behind Reygern, and all now depended on the attack of Soult's columns.
I heard no more, for now the whole line advanced in trot, and as our formation showed an unbroken front, the word came,—“Faster!” and “Faster!” As we emerged from the low ground we saw Soult's column already half way up the ascent; they seemed like a great wedge driven into the enemy's centre, which, opening as they advanced, presented two surfaces of fire to their attack.
“The battery yonder has opened its fire on our line,” said D'Auvergne; “we cannot remain where we are.”
“Forward!—charge!” came the word from front to rear, and squadron after squadron dashed madly up the ascent. The one word only, “Charge!” kept ringing through my head; all else was drowned in the terrible din of the advance. An Austrian brigade of light cavalry issued forth as we came up, but soon fell back under the overwhelming pressure of our force. And now we came down upon the squares of the red-brown Russian infantry. Volley after volley sent back our leading squadrons, wounded and repulsed, when, unlimbering with the speed of lightning, the horse artillery poured in a discharge of grapeshot. The ranks wavered, and through their cleft spaces of dead and dying our cuirassiers dashed in, sabring all before them. In vain the infantry tried to form again: successive discharges of grape, followed by cavalry attacks, broke through their firmest ranks; and at last retreating, they fell back under cover of a tremendous battery of field-guns, which, opening their fire, compelled us to retire into the wood.
Nor were we long inactive. Bernadotte's division was now engaged on our left, and a pressing demand came for cavalry to support them. Again we mounted the hill, and came in sight of the Russian Guard, led on by the Grand-Duke Constantino himself,—a splendid body of men, conspicuous for their size and the splendor of their equipment. Such, however, was the impetuous torrent of our attack that they were broken in an instant; and notwithstanding their courage and devotion, fresh masses of our dragoons kept pouring down upon them, and they were sabred, almost to a man.
While we were thus engaged, the battle became general from left to right, and the earth shook beneath the thundering sounds of two hundred great guns. Our position, for a moment victorious, soon changed; for having followed the retreating squadrons too far, the waves closed behind us, and we now saw that a dense cloud of Austrian and Russian cavalry were forming in our rear. An instant of hesitation would have been fatal. It was then that a tall and splendidly-dressed horseman broke from the line, and with a cry to “Follow!” rode straight at the enemy. It was Murat himself, sabre in hand, who, clearing his way through the Russians, opened a path for us. A few minutes after we had gained the wood; but one third of our force had fallen.
“Cavalry! cavalry!” cried a field-officer, riding down at headlong speed, his face covered with blood from a sabre-cut, “to the front!”
The order was given to advance at a gallop; and we found ourselves next instant hand to hand with the Russian dragoons, who having swept along the flank of Bernadotte's division, were sabring them on all sides. On we went, reinforced by Nansouty and his carabineers, a body of nigh seven thousand men. It was a torrent no force could stem. The tide of victory was with us; and we swept along, wave after wave, the infantry advancing in line for miles at either side, while whole brigades of artillery kept up a murderous fire without ceasing. Entire columns of the enemy surrendered as prisoners; guns were captured at each instant; and only by a miracle did the Grand-Duke escape our hussars, who followed him till he was lost to view in the flying ranks of the allies.
As we gained the crest of the hill, we were in time to see Soult's victorious columns driving the enemy before them; while the Imperial Guard, up to that moment unengaged, reinforced the grenadiers on the right, and broke through the Russians on every side.
The attempt to outflank us on the right we had perfectly retorted on the left; where Lannes's division, overlapping the line, pressed them on two sides, and drove them back, still fighting, into the plain, which, with a lake, separated the allied armies from the village of Austerlitz. And here took place the most dreadful occurrence of the day.
The two roads which led through the lake were soon so encumbered and blocked up by ammunition wagons and carts that they became impassable; and as the masses of the fugitives thickened, they spread over the lake, which happened to be frozen. It was at this time that the Emperor came up, and seeing the cavalry halted, and no longer in pursuit of the flying columns, ordered up twelve pieces of the artillery of the Imperial Guard, which, from the crest of the hill, opened a murderous fire on them. The slaughter was fearful as the discharges of grape and round shot cut channels through the jammed-up mass, and tore the dense columns, as it were, into fragments.
Dreadful as the scene was, what followed far exceeded it in horror; for soon the shells began to explode beneath the ice, which now, with a succession of reports louder than thunder, gave way. In an instant whole regiments were ingulfed, and amid the wildest cries of despair, thousands sank never to appear again, while the deafening artillery mercilessly played upon them, till over that broad surface no living thing was seen to move, while beneath was the sepulchre of five thousand men. About seven thousand reached Austerlitz by another road to the northward; but even these had not escaped, save for a mistake of Bernadotte, who most unaccountably, as it was said, halted his division on the heights. Had it not been for this, not a soldier of the Russian right wing had been saved.
The reserve cavalry and the dragoons of the Guard were now called up from the pursuit, and I saw my own regiment pass close by me, as I stood amid the staff round Murat. The men were fresh and eager for the fray; yet how many fell in that pursuit, even after the victory! The Russian batteries continued their fire to the last. The cannoneers were cut down beside their guns, and the cavalry made repeated charges on our advancing squadrons; nor was it till late in the day they fell back, leaving two thirds of their force dead or wounded on the field of battle.
On every side now were to be seen the flying columns of the allies, hotly followed by the victorious French. The guns still thundered at intervals; but the loud roar of battle was subdued to the crashing din of charging squadrons, and the distant cries of the vanquishers and the vanquished. Around and about lay the wounded in all the fearful attitudes of suffering; and as we were fully a league in advance of our original position, no succor had yet arrived for the poor fellows whose courage had carried them into the very squares of the enemy.
Most of the staff—myself among the number—were despatched to the rear for assistance. I remember, as I rode along at my fastest speed, between the columns of infantry and the fragments of artillery which covered the grounds, that apelotonof dragoons came thundering past, while a voice shouted out “Place! place!” Supposing it was the Emperor himself, I drew up to one side, and uncovering my head, sat in patience till he had passed, when, with the speed of four horses urged to their utmost, a calèche flew by, two men dressed like couriers seated on the box. They made for the highroad towards Vienna, and soon disappeared in the distance.
“What can it mean?” said I, to an officer beside me; “not his Majesty, surely?”
“No, no,” replied he, smiling: “it is General Lebrun on his way to Paris with the news of the victory. The Emperor is down at Reygern yonder, where he has just written the bulletin. I warrant you he follows that calèche with his eye; he'd rather see a battery of guns carried off by the enemy than an axle break there this moment.”
Thus closed the great day of Austerlitz—a hundred cannons, forty-three thousand prisoners, and thirty-two colors being the spoils of this the greatest of even Napoleon's victories.
We passed the night on the field of battle,—a night dark and starless. The heavens were, indeed, clothed with black, and a heavy atmosphere, lowering and gloomy, spread like a pall over the dead and the dying. Not a breath of air moved; and the groans of the wounded sighed through the stillness with a melancholy cadence no words can convey. Far away in the distance the moving lights marked where fatigue parties went in search of their comrades. The Emperor himself did not leave the saddle till nigh morning; he went, followed by an ambulance, hither and thither over the plain, recalling the names of the several regiments, enumerating their deeds of prowess, and even asking for many of the soldiers by name. He ordered large fires to be lighted throughout the field, and where medical assistance could not be procured, the officers of the staff might be seen covering the wounded with greatcoats and cloaks, and rendering them such aid as lay in their power.
Dreadful as the picture was,—fearful reverse to the gorgeous splendor of the vast army the morning sun had shone upon, and in the pride of strength and spirit,—yet even here was there much to make one feel that war is not bereft of its humanizing influences. How many a soldier did I see that night, blackened with powder, his clothes torn and ragged with shot, sitting beside a wounded comrade—now wetting his lips with a cool draught, now cheering his heart with words of comfort! Many, though wounded, were tending others less able to assist themselves. Acts of kindness and self-devotion—not less in number than those of heroism and courage—were met with at every step; while among the sufferers there lived a spirit of enthusiasm that seemed to lighten the worst pang of their agony. Many would cry out, as I passed, to know the fate of the day, and what became of this regiment or of that battalion. Others could but articulate a faint “Vive l'Empereur!” which in the intervals of pain they kept repeating, as though it were a charm against suffering; while one question met me every instant,—“What says the Petit Caporal? Is he content with us?” None were insensible to the glorious issue of that day; nor amid all the agony of death, dealt out in every shape of horror and misery, did I hear one word of anger or rebuke to him for whose ambition they had shed their heart's blood.
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Having secured a fresh horse, I rode forward in the direction of Austerlitz, where our cavalry, met by the chevaliers of the Russian Imperial Guard, sustained the greatest check and the most considerable loss of the day. The old dragoon who accompanied me warned me I should find few, if any, of our comrades living there.
“Ventrebleu!lieutenant, you can't expect it. The first four squadrons went down like one man; for when our fellows fell wounded from their horses, they always sabred or shot them as they lay.”
I found this information but too correct. Lines of dead men lay beside their horses, ranged as they stood in battle, while before them lay the bodies of the Russian Guard, their gorgeous uniform all slashed with gold, marking them out amid the dull russet costumes of their comrades. In many places were they intermingled, and showed where a hand-to-hand combat had been fought; and I saw two clasped rigidly in each other's grasp, who had evidently been shot by others while struggling for the mastery.
“I told you, mon lieutenant, it was useless to come here; this wasà la mortwhile it lasted; and if it had continued much longer in the same fashion, it's hard to say which of us had been going over the field now with lanterns.”
Too true, indeed! Not one wounded man did we meet with, nor did one human voice break the silence around us. “Perhaps,” said I, “they may have already carried up the wounded to the village yonder; I see a great blaze of light there. Bide forward, and learn if it be so.”
When I had dismissed the orderly, I dismounted from my horse, and walked carefully along the ridge of ground, anxious to ascertain if any poor fellow still remained alive amid that dreadful heap of dead. A low brushwood covered the ground in certain places; and here I perceived but few of the cavalry had penetrated, while the infantry were all tirailleurs of the Russian Guard, bayoneted by our advancing columns. As I approached the lake the ground became more rugged and uneven; and I was about to turn back, when my eye caught the faint glimmering of a light reflected in the water. Picketing my horse where he stood, I advanced alone towards the light, which I saw now was at the foot of a little rocky crag beside the lake. As I drew near, I stopped to listen, and could distinctly hear the deep tones of a man's voice, as if broken at intervals by pain, while in his accents I thought I could trace a tone of indignant passion rather than of bodily suffering.
“Leave me, leave me where I am,” cried he, peevishly. “I thought I might have had my last few moments tranquil, when I staggered thus far.”
“Come, come, Comrade!” said another, in a voice of comforting; “come, thou wert never faint-hearted before. Thou hast had thy share of bruises, and cared little about them too. Art dry?”
“Yes; give me another drink. Ah!” cried he, in an excited tone, “they can't stand before the cuirassiers of the Guard.Sacrebleu!how proud the Petit Caporal will be of this day!” Then, dropping his voice, he muttered, “What care I who's proud? I have my billet, and must be going.”
“Not so,mon enfant; thou'lt have the cross for thy day's work. He knows thee well; I saw him smile to-day when thou madest the salute in passing.”
“Didst thou that?” said the wounded man, with eagerness; “did he smile? Ah, villain! how you can allure men to shed their heart's blood by a smile! He knows me! That he ought, and, if he but knew how I lay here now, he 'd send the best surgeon of his staff to look after me.”
“That he would, and that he will; courage, and cheer up.”
“No, no; I don't care for it now. I'll never go back to the regiment again; I could n't do it!”
As he spoke the last words his voice became fainter and fainter, and at last was lost in a hiccup; partly, as it seemed, from emotion, and partly from bodily suffering.
“Qui vive?” cried his companion, as the clash of my sabre announced my approach.
“An officer of the Eighth Hussars,” said I, in a low voice, fearing to disturb the wounded man, as he lay with his head sunk on his knees.
“Too late, Comrade! too late,” said he, in a stifled tone; “the order of route has come. I must away.”
“A brave cuirassier of the Guard should never say so while he has a chance left to serve his Emperor in another field of battle.”
“Vive l'Empereur! vive l'Empereur!” shouted he, madly, as he lifted his helmet and tried to wave it above his head. But the exertion brought on a violent fit of coughing, which choked his utterance, while a torrent of red blood gushed from his mouth, and deluged his neck and chest.
“Ah,mon Dieu!that cry has been his death,” said the other, wringing his hands in utter misery.
“Where is he wounded?” said I, kneeling down beside the sick man, who now lay, half on his face, upon the grass.
“In the chest, through the lung,” whispered the other. “He doesn't know the doctor saw him; it was he told me there was no hope. 'You may leave him,' said he; 'an hour or two more are all that 's left him;' as if I could leave a comrade we all loved. My poor fellow, it is a sad day for the old Fourth when thou art taken from them!”
“Ha! was he of the Fourth, then?” said I, remembering the regiment.
“Yes,parbleu!and though but a corporal, he was well known throughout the army. Pioche—”
“Pioche!” cried I, in agony; “is this Pioche?”
“Here,” said the wounded man, hearing the name, and answering as if on parade,—“here, mon commandant! but too faint, I 'm afraid, for duty. I feel weak to-day,” said he, as he pressed his hand upon his side, and then slowly sank back against the rock, and dropped his arms at either side.
“Come,” said I, “we must lose no time. Let us carry him to the rear. If nothing else can be done, he 'll meet with care—”
“Hush! mon lieutenant! don't let him hear you speak of that. He stormed and swore so much when the ambulance passed, and they wanted to bring him along, that it brought on a coughing fit, just like what you saw, and he lay in a faint for half an hour after. He vows he 'll never stir from where he is. Truth is, Commandant,” said he, in the lowest whisper, “he is determined to die. When his squadron fell back from the Russian square, he rode on their bayonets, and cut at the men while the artillery was playing all about him. He told me this morning he 'd never leave the field.”
“Poor fellow! what was the meaning of this sad resolution?”
“Ma foi!a mere trifle, after all,” said the other, shrugging his shoulders, and making a true French grimace of contempt. “You 'll smile when I tell you; but he takes it to heart, poor fellow. His mistress has been false to him,—no great matter that, you 'd say,—but so it is, and nothing more. See how still he lies now! is he sleeping?”
“I fear not; he looks exhausted from loss of blood. Come, we must have him out of this; here comes my orderly to assist us. If we carry him to the road I 'll find a carriage of some sort.”
I said this in a tone of command, to silence any scruples he might still have about obeying his comrade in preference to the orders of an officer. He obeyed with the instinct of discipline, and proceeded to fold his cloak in such a manner that we could carry the wounded man between us.
The poor corporal, too weak to resist us, faint from bleeding and semi-stupid, suffered himself to be lifted upon the cloak, and never uttered a word or a cry as we bore him along between us.
We had not proceeded far when we came up with a convoy, conducting several carts with the wounded to the convent of Reygern, which had now been fitted up as an hospital. On one of these we secured a place for our poor friend, and walked along beside him towards the convent. As we went along I questioned his comrade closely on the point; and he told me that Pioche had resolved never to survive the battle, and had taken leave of his friends the evening before.
“Ah,parbleu!” added he, with energy, “mademoiselle is pretty enough,—there 's no denying that; but her head is turned by flattery and soft speeches. All the gay young fellows of the hussar regiment, the aides-de-camp,—ay, and some of the generals, too,—have paid her so much attention that it could not be expected she'd care for a poor corporal. Not but that Pioche is a brave fellow and a fine soldier.Sapristi!he 'd be no discredit to any girl's choice. But Minette—”
“Minette, the vivandière?”
“Ay, to be sure, mon lieutenant; I'd warrant you must have known her.”
“What of her? where is she?” said I, burning with impatience.
“She's with the wounded, up at Reygern yonder. They sent for her to Heilbrunn yesterday, where she was with the reserve battalions.Ma foi!you don't think our fellows would do without Minette at the ambulance, where there was a battle to be fought. They say they'd hard work enough to make her come up. After all, she's a strange girl; that she is.”
“How was that? Has she taken offence with the Fourth?”
“No, that is not it; she likes the old regiment in her heart. I'd never believe she didn't; but” (here he dropped his voice to a low whisper, as if dreading to be overheard by the wounded man), “but they say—who knows if it's true?—that when she was left behind at Ulm or Elchingen, or somewhere up there on the Danube, that there was a young fellow—I heard his name, too, but I forget it—who was brought in badly wounded, and that mademoiselle was left to watch and nurse him. He got well in time, for the thing was not so serious as they thought. And what do you think was the return he made the poor girl? He seduced her!”
“It's false! false as hell!” cried I, bursting with passion. “Who has dared to spread such a calumny?”
“Don't be angry, mon lieutenant; there are plenty to answer for the report. And if it was yourself—”
“Yes; it was bymybedside she watched; it was tomeshe gave that care and kindness by which I recovered from a dangerous wound. But so far from this base requital—”
“Why did she leave you, then, and march night and day with the chasseur brigade into the Tyrol? Why did she tell her friends that she'd never see the old Fourth again? Why did she fret herself into an illness—”
“Did she do this, poor girl?”
“Ay, that she did. But, mayhap, you never heard of all this. I can only say, mon lieutenant, that you'd be safer in a broken square, charged by a heavy squadron, than among the Fourth, after what you 've done.”
I turned indignantly from him without a reply; for while my pride revolted at answering an accusation from such a quarter, my mind was harassed by the sad fate of poor Minette, and perplexed how to account for her sudden departure. My silence at once arrested my companion's speech, and we walked along the remainder of the way without a word on either side.
The day was just breaking when the first wagon of the convoy entered the gates of the convent. It was an enormous mass of building, originally destined for the reception of about three thousand persons; for, in addition to the priestly inhabitants, there were two great hospitals and several schools included within the walls. This, before the battle, had been tenanted by the staffs of many general officers and the corps of engineers and sappers, but now was entirely devoted to the wounded of either army; for Austrians and Russians were everywhere to be met with, receiving equal care and attention with our own troops.
It was the first time I had witnessed a military hospital after a battle, and the impression was too fearful to be ever forgotten by me.
The great chambers and spacious rooms of the convent were soon found inadequate for the numbers who arrived; and already the long corridors and passages of the building were crowded with beds, between which a narrow path scarcely permitted one person to pass. Here, promiscuously, without regard to rank, officers in command lay side by side with the meanest privates, awaiting the turn of medical aid, as no other order was observed than the necessities of each case demanded. A black mark above the bed, indicating that the patient's state was hopeless, proclaimed that no further attention need be bestowed; while the same mark, with a white bar across it, implied that it was a case for operation. In this way the surgeons who arrived at each moment from different corps of the army discovered, at a glance, where their services were required, and not a minute's time was lost.
The dreadful operations of surgery—for which, in the events of every-day life, every provision of delicate secrecy, and every minute detail which can alleviate dread, are so rigidly studied,—were here going forward on every side; the horrible preparations moved from bed to bed with a rapidity which showed that where suffering so abounded there was no time for sympathy; and the surgeons, with arms bare to the shoulder and bedaubed with blood, toiled away as though life no longer moved in the creeping flesh beneath the knife, and human agony spoke not aloud with every motion of their hand.
“Place there! move forward!” said an hospital surgeon, as they carried up the litter on which Pioche lay stretched and senseless.
“What's this?” cried a surgeon, leaning forward, and placing his hand on the sick man's pulse. “Ah! take him back again; it 's all over there!”
“Oh, no!” cried I, in agony, “it can scarcely be; they lifted him alive from the wagon.”
“He's not dead, sir,” replied the surgeon, in a whisper, “but he will soon be; there's internal bleeding going on from that wound, and a few hours, or less perhaps must close the scene.”
“Can nothing be done? nothing?”
“I fear not.” He opened the jacket of the wounded man as he spoke, and slitting the inner clothes asunder with a quick stroke of his scissors, disclosed a tremendous sabre-wound in the side. “That is not the worst,” said he. “Look here,” pointing to a small bluish mark of a bullet hole above it; “here lies the mischief.”
An hospital aid whispered something at the instant in the surgeon's ear, to which he quickly replied, “When?”
“This instant, sir; the ligature slipped, and—”
“Remove him,” was the reply. “Now, sir, I have a bed for your poor fellow here; but I have little hope to give you. His pulse is stronger, otherwise the endeavor would be lost time.”
While they carried the litter forward, I perceived that another party were lifting from a bed near a figure, over whose face the sheet was carelessly thrown. I guessed from the gestures that the form they lifted was lifeless; the heavy sumph of the body upon the ground showed it beyond a doubt. The bearers replaced the dead man by the dying body of poor Pioche; and from a vague feeling of curiosity, I stooped down and drew back the sheet from the face of the corpse. As I did so, my limbs trembled, and I leaned back almost fainting against the wall. Pale with the pallor of death, but scarcely altered from life, I beheld the dead features of Amédée Pichot, the captain whose insolence had left an unsettled quarrel between us. The man for whose coming I waited to expiate an open insult, now lay cold and lifeless at my feet. What a rush of sensations passed through my mind as I gazed on that motionless mass! and oh, what gratitude my heart gushed to think that he did not fall bymyhand!
“A brave soldier, but a quarrelsome friend,” said the surgeon, stooping down to examine the wound, with all the indifference of a man who regarded life as a mere problem. “It was a cannon-shot carried it off.” As he said this, he disclosed the mangled remains of a limb, torn from the trunk too high to permit of amputation. “Poor Amédée! it was the death he always wished for. It was a strange horror he had of falling by the hand of an adversary, rather than being carried off thus. And now for the cuirassier.”
So saying, he turned towards the bed on which Pioche lav, still as death itself. A few minutes' careful investigation of the case enabled him to pronounce that although the chances were many against recovery, yet it was not altogether hopeless.
“All will depend on the care of whoever watches him,” said the surgeon. “Symptoms will arise, requiring prompt attention and a change in treatment; and this is one of those cases where a nurse is worth a hundred doctors. Who takes charge of this bed?” he called aloud.
“Minette, Monsieur,” said a sergeant. “She has lain down to take a little rest, for she was quite worn out with fatigue.”
“Me voici!” said a silvery voice I knew at once to be hers. And the same instant she pierced the crowd around the bed, and approached the patient. No sooner had she beheld the features of the sick man than she reeled back, and grasped the arms of the persons on either side. For a few seconds she stood, with her hands pressed upon her face, and when she withdrew them, her features were almost ghastly in their hue, while, with a great effort over her emotion, she said, in a low voice, “Can he recover?”
“Yes, Minette!” replied the surgeon, “and will, if care avail anything. Just hear me for a moment.”
With that he drew her to one side, and commenced to explain the treatment he proposed to adopt. As he spoke, her cloak, which up to this instant she wore, dropped from her shoulders, and she stood there in the dress of the vivandière: a short frock coat, of light blue, with a thin gold braid upon the collar and the sleeve; loose trousers of white jean, strapped beneath her boots; a silk sash of scarlet and gold entwined was fastened round her waist, and fell in a long fringe at her side; while a cap of blue cloth, with a gold band and tassel, hung by a hook at her girdle. Simple as was the dress, it displayed to perfection the symmetry of her figure and her carriage, and suited the character of her air and gesture, which, abrupt and impatient at times, was almost boyish in the wayward freedom of her action.
The surgeon soon finished his directions, the crowd separated, and Minette alone remained by the sick man's bed. For some minutes her cares did not permit her to look up; but when she did, a slight cry broke from her, and she sank down upon the seat at the bedside.
“Minette, dear Minette, you are not angry with me?” said I, in a low and trembling tone. “I have not done aught to displease you,—have I so?”
She answered not a word, but a blush of the deepest scarlet suffused her face and temples, and her bosom heaved almost convulsively.
“To you I owe my life,” continued I, with earnestness; “nay more, I owe the kindness which made of a sick-bed a place of pleasant thoughts and happy memories. Can I, then, have offended you, while my whole heart was bursting with gratitude?”
A paleness, more striking than the blush that preceded it, now stole over her features, but she uttered not a word. Her eyes turned from me and fell upon her own figure, and I saw the tears till up and roll slowly along her cheeks.
“Why did you leave me, Minette?” said I, wound up by her obstinate silence beyond further endurance. “Did the few words of impatience—”
“No, no, no!” broke she in, “not that! not that!”
“What then? Tell me, for Heaven's sake, how have I earned your displeasure? Believe me, I have met with too little kindness in my way through life, not to feel poignantly the loss of a friend. What was it, I beseech you?”
“Oh, do not ask me!” cried she, with streaming eyes; “do not, I beg of you. Enough that you know—and this I swear to you,—that no fault of yours was in question. You were always good and always kind to me,—too kind, too good,—but not even your teaching could alter the waywardness of my nature. Speak of this no more, I ask you, as the greatest favor you can bestow on me. See here,” cried she, while her lips trembled with emotion; “I have need of all my courage to be of use to him; and you will not, I am sure, render me unequal to my task.”
“But we are friends, Minette; friends as before,” said I, taking her hand, and pressing it within mine.
“Yes, friends!” muttered she, in a broken voice, while she turned her head from me. “Adieu! Monsieur, adieu!”
“Adieu, then, since you wish it so, Minette! But whatever your secret reason for this change towards me, you never can alter the deep-rooted feeling of my heart, which makes me know myself your friend forever.”
The more I thought of Minette's conduct, the more puzzled I was. No jealousy on the part of Pioche could explain her abrupt departure from Elchingen, and her resolve never to rejoin the Fourth. She was, indeed, a strange girl, wayward and self-willed; but her impulses all had their source in high feelings of honor and exalted pride. It might have been that some chance expression had given her offence; yet she denied this. But still, her former frankness was gone, and a sense of coldness, if not distrust, had usurped its place. I could make nothing of it. One thing alone did I feel convinced of,—she did not love Pioche. Poor fellow! with all the fine traits of his honest nature, the manly simplicity and openness of his character, he had not those arts of pleasing which win their way with a woman's mind. Besides that, Minette, from habit and tone of voice, had imbibed feelings and ideas of a very different class in society, and with a feminine tact, had contrived to form acquaintance with, and a relish for, the tastes and pleasures of the cultivated World. The total subversion of all social order effected by the Revolution had opened the path of ambition in life equally to women as to men; and all the endeavors of the Consulate and the Empire had not sobered down the minds of France to their former condition. The sergeant to-day saw no reason why he might not wear his epaulettes to-morrow, and in time exchange his shako even for a crown; and so the vivandière, whose life was passed in the intoxicating atmosphere of glory, might well dream of greatness which should be hers hereafter, and of the time when, as the wife of a marshal or a peer of France, she would walk thesalonsof the Tuileries as proudly as the daughter of a Rohan or a Tavanne.
There was, then, nothing vain or presumptuous in the boldest flight of ambition. However glittering the goal, it was beyond the reach of none; and the hopes which, in better-ordered communities, had been deemed absurd, seemed here but fair and reasonable. And from this element alone proceeded some of the greatest actions, and by far the greatest portion of the unhappiness, of the period. The mind of the nation was unfixed; men had not as yet resolved themselves into those grades and classes, by the means of which public opinion is brought to bear upon individuals from those of his own condition. Each was a law unto himself, suggesting his own means of advancement and estimating his own powers of success; and the result was, a general scramble for rank, dignity, and honors, the unfitness of the possessor for which, when attained, brought neither contempt nor derision. The epaulette was noblesse; the shako, a coronet. What wonder, then, if she, whose personal attractions were so great, and whose manners and tone of thought were so much above her condition, had felt the stirrings of that ambition within her heart which now appeared to be the moving spirit of the nation!
Lost in such thoughts, I turned homewards towards my quarters, and was already some distance from the convent when a dragoon galloped up to my side, and asked eagerly if I were the surgeon of the Sixth Grenadiers. As I replied in the negative, he muttered something between his teeth, and added louder, “The poor general; it will be too late after all.”
So saying, and before I could question him further, he set spurs to his horse, and dashing onwards, soon disappeared in the darkness of the night. A few minutes afterwards I beheld a number of lanterns straight before me on the narrow road, and as I came nearer, a sentinel called out,—
“Halt there! stand!”
I gave my name and rank, when the man, advancing towards me, said in a half whisper,—
“It is our general, sir; they say he cannot be brought any farther, and they must perform the operation here.”
The soldier's voice trembled at every word, and he could scarcely falter out, in reply to my question, the name of the wounded officer.
“General St. Hilaire, sir, who led the grenadiers on the Pratzen,” said the poor fellow, his sorrow struggling with his pride.
I pressed forward; and there on a litter lay the figure of a large and singularly fine-looking man. His coat, which was covered with orders, lay open, and discovered a shirt stained and clotted with blood; but his most dangerous wound was from a grapeshot in the thigh, which shattered the bone, and necessitated amputation. A young staff surgeon, the only medical man present, was kneeling at his side, and occupied in compressing some wounded vessels to arrest the bleeding, which, at the slightest stir of the patient, broke out anew. The remainder of the group were grenadiers of his own regiment, in whose sad and sorrow-struck faces one might read the affection his men invariably bore him.
“Is he coming? can you hear any one coming?” said the young surgeon, in an anxious whisper to the soldier beside him.
“No, sir; but he cannot be far off now,” replied the man.
“Shall I ride back to Reygern for assistance?” said I, in a low voice, to the surgeon.
“I thank you, sir,” said the wounded man, in a low, calm tone,—for with the quick ear of suffering he had overheard my question,—“I thank you, but my orderly has already been sent thither. If you could relieve my young friend here from his fatiguing duty for a little, you would render us both a service. I am truly grieved to see him so much exhausted.”
“No, no, sir!” stammered the youth, as the tears ran fast down his cheeks; “this is my place. I will not leave it.”
“Kind fellow!” muttered the general, as he pressed his hand gently on the young man's arm; “I can bear this better than you can.”
“Ah, here he comes now,” said the sentinel; and the same moment a man dismounted from his horse, and came forward towards us.
It was Louis, the surgeon of the Emperor himself, despatched by Napoleon the moment he heard of the event. At any other moment, perhaps, the abrupt demeanor of this celebrated surgeon would have savored little of delicacy or feeling; nor even then could I forgive the sudden announcement in which he conveyed to the sufferer that immediate amputation must be performed.
“No chance left but this, Louis?” said the general.
“None, sir,” replied the doctor, while he unlocked an instrument case, and busied himself in preparation for the operation.
“Can you defer it a little; an hour or two, I mean?”
“An hour, perhaps; not more, certainly.”
“But am I certain of your services then, Louis?” said the general, trying to smile. “You know I always promised myself your aid when this hour came.”
“I shall return in an hour,” replied the doctor, pulling out his watch; “I am going to Rapp's quarters.”
“Poor Rapp! is he wounded?”
“A mere sabre-cut; but Sebastiani has suffered more severely. Now then, Lanusse,” said he, addressing the young surgeon, “you remain here. Continue as you are doing, and in an hour—”
“In an hour,” echoed the wounded man, with a shudder, as though the anticipation of the dreadful event had thrilled through his very heart. Nor was it till the retiring sounds of the surgeon's horse had died away in the distance that his features recovered their former calm and tranquil expression.
“A prompt fellow is Louis,” said he, after a pause; “and though one might like somewhat more courtesy in the Faubourg, yet on the field of battle it is all for the best; this is no place nor time for compliments.”
The young man answered not a word, either not daring to criticise too harshly his superior, or perhaps his emotion at the moment was too strong for utterance. In reply to my offer to remain with him, however, he thanked me heartily, and seemed gratified that he was not to be left alone in such a trying emergency.
“Come,” said St. Hilaire, after a pause, “I have asked for time, and am already forgetting how to employ it. Who can write here? Can you, Guilbert?”
“Alas, no, sir!” said a dark grenadier, blushing to the very eyes.
“If you will permit a stranger, sir,” said I, “I will be but too proud and too happy to render you any assistance in my power. I am on the staff of General d'Auvergne, and—”
“A French officer, sir,” interrupted he; “quite enough. I ask for no other guerdon of your honor. Sit down here, then, and—But first try if you can discover a pocket-book in my sabretache; I hope it has not been lost.”
“Here it is, General,” said a soldier, coming forward with it; “I found it on the ground beside you.”
“Well, then, I will ask you to write down from my dictation a few lines, which, should this affair,”—he faltered slightly here,—“this affair prove unfortunate, you will undertake to convey, by some means or other, to the address I shall give you in Paris. It is not a will, I assure you,” continued he with a faint smile. “I have no wealth to leave; but I know his Majesty too well to fear anything on that score. But my children, I wish to give some few directions—” Here he stopped for several minutes, and then, in a calm voice, added, “Whenever you are ready.”
It was with a suffering spirit and a faltering hand I wrote down, from his dictation, some short sentences addressed to each member of his family. Of these it is not my intention to speak, save in one instance, where St. Hilaire himself evinced a wish that his sentiments should not be a matter of secrecy.
“I desire,” said he, in a firm tone of voice, as he turned round and addressed the soldiers on either side of him,—“I desire that my son, now at the Polytechnique, should serve the Emperor better than, and as faithfully as, his father has done, if his Majesty will graciously permit him to do so, in the grenadier battalion, which I have long commanded; it will be the greatest favor I can ask of him.” A low murmur of grief, no longer repressible, ran through the little group around the litter. “The grenadiers of the Sixth,” continued he, proudly, while for an instant his pale features flushed up, “will not love him the less for the name he bears. Come, come, men! do not give way thus; what will my kind young friend here say of us, when he joins the hussar brigade? This is not their ordinary mood, believe me,” said he, addressing me. “The Russian Guard would give a very different account of them; they are stouter fellows at thepas dé chargethan around the litter of a wounded comrade.”
While he was yet speaking, Louis returned, followed by two officers, one of whom, notwithstanding his efforts at concealment, I recognized to be Marshal Murat.
“We must remove him, if it be possible,” said the surgeon, in a whisper. “And yet the slightest motion is to be dreaded.”
“May I speak to him?” said Murat, in a low voice.
“Yes, that you may,” replied Louis, who now pushed his way forward and approached the litter.
“Ah, so soon!” said the wounded man, looking up; “a man of your word, Louis. And how is Rapp? Nothing in this fashion, I hope,” added he, pointing to his fractured limb with a sickly smile.
“No, no,” replied the surgeon. “But here is Marshal Murat come to inquire after you, from the Emperor.”
A flush of pride lit up St. Hilaire's features as he heard this, and he asked eagerly, “Where, where?”
“We must remove you, St. Hilaire,” said Murat, endeavoring to speak calmly, when it was evident his feelings were highly excited; “Louis says you must not remain here.”
“As you like, Marshal. What says his Majesty? Is the affair as decisive as he looked for?”
“Far more so. The allied army is destroyed; the campaign is ended.”
“Come, then, this is not so bad as I deemed it,” rejoined St. Hilaire, with a tone of almost gayety; “I can afford to be invalided if the Emperor has no further occasion for me.”
While these few words were interchanging, Louis had applied a tourniquet around the wounded limb, and having given the soldiers directions how they were to step, so as not to disturb or displace the shattered bones, he took his place beside the litter, and said,—
“We are ready now, General.”
They lifted the litter as he spoke, and moved slowly forward. Murat pressed the hand St. Hilaire extended to him without a word; and then, turning his head away, suffered the party to pass on.
Before we reached Beygern, the wounded general had fallen into a heavy sleep, from which he did not awake as they laid him on the bed in the hospital.
“Good-night, sir,—or rather, good-morning,” said Louis to me, as I turned to leave the spot. “We may chance to have better news for you than we anticipated, when you visit us here again.”
And so we parted.