An hour before, fifteen of us had entered that old barn, now there were but six to come out.
Buche and Zébédé were among the living; the Pfalzbourgers had been fortunate.
Once outside it was necessary to follow the attacking column.
We advanced over the heaps of dead. Our feet encountered this yielding mass, but we did not look to see if we stepped on the face of a wounded man, on his breast, or on his limbs; we marched straight on. We found out next morning, that this mass of men had been cut down by the battery in front of the church; their obstinacy had proved their ruin. Blücher was only waiting to serve us in the same manner, but instead of going over the bridge we turned off to the right and occupied the houses along the brook. The Prussians fired at us from every window opposite, but as soon as we were ambushed we opened our fire on their guns and they were obliged to fall back.
They had already begun to talk of attacking the other part of the village, when the rumor was heard that a column of Prussians forty thousand strong had come up behind us from Charleroi. We could not understand it, as we had swept everything before us to the banks of the Sambre. This column which had fallen on our rear, must have been hidden in the forest.
It was about half-past six and the combat at St. Amand seemed to grow fiercer than ever. Blücher had moved his forces to that side, and it was a favorable moment to carry the other part of the village, but this column forced us to wait.
The houses on either side of the brook were filled with troops, the French on the right and the Prussians on the left. The firing had ceased, a few shots were still heard from time to time, but they were evidently by design. We looked at each other as if to say, "Let us breathe awhile now, and we will commence again presently."
The Prussians in the house opposite us, in their blue coats and leather shakos, with their mustaches turned up, were all strongly built men, old soldiers with square chins and their ears standing out from their heads. They looked as if they might overthrow us at a blow. The officers, too, were looking on.
Along the two streets which were parallel with the brook and in the brook itself, the dead were lying in long rows.
Many of them were seated with their backs against the walls. They had been dangerously wounded in the battle but had had sufficient strength to retire from the strife, and had sunk down against the wall and died from loss of blood.
Some were still standing upright in the brook, their hands clutching the bank as if to climb out, rigid in death. And in obscure corners of the ruined houses, when they were lighted up with the sun's rays, we could see the miserable wretches crushed under the rubbish, with stones and beams lying across their bodies.
The struggle at St. Amand became still more terrible, the discharges of cannon seemed to rise one above the other, and if we had not all been looking death in the face, nothing could have prevented us from admiring this grand music.
At every discharge hundreds of men perished, but there was no interruption, the solid earth trembled under our feet. We could breathe again now, and very soon we began to feel a most intolerable thirst. During the fight nobody had thought of it, but now everybody wanted to drink.
Our house formed the corner at the left of the bridge, but the little water that was running over the muddy bottom of the brook was red with blood. Between our house and the next there was a little garden, where there was a well from which to water it. We all looked at this well with its curb and its wooden posts; the bucket was still hanging to the chain in spite of the showers of shot, but three men were already lying face downward in the path leading to it. The Prussians had shot them as they were trying to reach it.
As we stood there with our loaded muskets, one said, "I would give half my blood for one glass of that water;" another, "Yes, but the Prussians are on the watch."
This was true, there they were, a hundred paces from us, perhaps they were as thirsty as we, and were guessing our thoughts.
The shots that were still fired came from these houses, and no one could go along the street, they would shoot him at once, so we were all suffering horribly.
This lasted for another half hour, when the cannonade extended from St. Amand to Ligny, and we could see that our batteries had opened with grape and canister on the Prussians by the great gaps made in their columns at every discharge.
This new attack produced a great excitement. Buche, who had not stirred till that moment, ran down through the path leading to the well in the garden and sheltered himself behind the curb. From the two houses opposite a volley was fired, and the stones and the posts were soon riddled with balls.
But we opened our fire on their windows and in an instant it began again from one end of the village to the other, and everything was enveloped in smoke.
At that moment I heard some one shout from below, "Joseph, Joseph!"
It was Buche; he had had the courage after he had drank himself, to fill the bucket, unfasten it, and bring it back with him.
He had had the courage to pull up the bucket.He had had the courage to pull up the bucket.
He had had the courage to pull up the bucket.He had had the courage to pull up the bucket.
Several old soldiers wanted to take it from him, but he shouted, "My comrade first! let go, or I'll pour it all out!"
They were compelled to wait till I had drank, then they took their turn, and afterward the others who were upstairs drained the rest.
We all went up together greatly refreshed.
It was about seven o'clock and near sunset, the shadows of the houses on our side reached quite to the brook—while those occupied by the Prussians were still in the sunlight, as well as the hill-side of Bry, down which we could see the fresh troops coming on the run. The cannonade had never been so fierce as at this moment from our side.
Every one now knows, that at nightfall between seven and eight o'clock the Emperor, having discovered that the column which had been signalled in our rear was the corps of General d'Erlon, which had missed its route between the battle of Ney with the English at Quatre-Bras and ours here at Ligny, had ordered the Old Guard to support us at once.
The lieutenant who was with us said, "This is the grand attack. Attention!"
The whole of the Prussian cavalry was swarming between the two villages. We felt that there was a grand movement behind us, though we did not see it. The lieutenant repeated, "Attention to orders! Let no one stay behind after the order to march! Here is the attack!"
We all opened our eyes. The farther the night advanced the redder the sky grew over St. Amand. We were so absorbed in listening to the cannonade that, we no longer thought of anything else. At each discharge you would have said the heavens were on fire. The tumult behind us was increasing.
Suddenly the broad street running along the brook was full of troops, from the bridge quite to the end of Ligny. On the left in the distance the Prussians were shooting from the windows again, while we did not reply. The shout rose—"The Guard! the Guard!" I do not know how that mass of men passed the muddy ditch, probably by means of plank thrown across, but in a moment they were on the left bank in force.
The batteries of the Prussians at the top of the ravine between the two villages, cut gaps through our columns, but they closed up immediately, and moved steadily up the hill. What remained of our division ran across the bridge, followed by the artillerymen and their pieces with the horses at a gallop.
Then we went down to the street, but we had not reached the bridge when the cuirassiers began to file over it, followed by the dragoons and the mounted grenadiers of the guard. They were passing everywhere, across and around the village. It was like a new and innumerable army.
The slaughter began again on the hill, this time the battle was in the open fields, and we could trace the outlines of the Prussian squares on the hill-side at every discharge of musketry.
We rushed on over the dead and wounded, and when we were clear of the village we could see that there was an engagement between the cavalry, though we could only distinguish the white cuirasses as they pierced the lines of the Uhlans; then they would be indiscriminately mingled and the cuirassiers would re-form and set off again like a solid wall.
It was dark already, and the dense masses of smoke made it impossible to see fifty paces ahead. Everything was moving toward the windmills, the clatter of the cavalry, the shouts, the orders of the officers and the file-firing in the distance, all were confounded. Several of the squares were broken. From time to time a flash would reveal a lancer bent to his horse's neck, or a cuirassier, with his broad white back and his helmet with its floating plume, shooting off like a bullet, two or three foot soldiers running about in the midst of the fray,—all would come and go like lightning. The trampled grain, the rain streaking the heavens, the wounded under the feet of the horses, all came out of the black night—through the storm which had just broken out—for a quarter of a second.
Every flash of musket or pistol showed us inexplicable things by thousands. But everything moved up the hill and away from Ligny; we were masters.
We had pierced the enemy's centre, the Prussians no longer made any defence, except at the top of the hill near the mills and in the direction of Sombref, at our right. St. Amand and Ligny were both in our hands.
As for us, a dozen or so of our company there alone among the ruins of the cottages, with our cartridge-boxes almost empty;—we did not know which way to turn.
Zébédé, Lieutenant Bretonville, and Captain Florentin had disappeared, and Sergeant Rabot was in command. He was a little old fellow, thin and deformed, but as tough as steel; he squinted and seemed to have had red hair when young. Now, as I speak of him, I seem to hear him say quietly to us, "The battle is won! by file right! forward, march!"
Several wanted to stop and make some soup, for we had eaten nothing since noon and began to be hungry. The sergeant marched down the lane with his musket on his shoulder, laughing quietly, and saying in an ironical tone:
"Oh! soup, soup! wait a little, the commissary is coming!"
We followed him down the dark lane; about midway we saw a cuirassier on horseback with his back toward us. He had a sabre cut in the abdomen and had retired into this lane, the horse leaned against the wall to prevent him from falling off.
As we filed past he called out, "Comrades!" But nobody even turned his head.
Twenty paces farther on we found the ruins of a cottage completely riddled with balls, but half the thatched roof was still there, and this was why Sergeant Rabot had selected it; and we filed into it for shelter.
We could see no more than if we had been in an oven; the sergeant exploded the priming of his musket, and we saw that it was the kitchen, that the fireplace was at the right, and the stairway on the left. Five or six Prussians and Frenchmen were stretched on the floor, white as wax, and with their eyes wide open.
"Here is the mess-room," said the sergeant, "let every one make himself comfortable. Our bedfellows will not kick us."
As we saw plainly that there were to be no rations, each one took off his knapsack and placed it by the wall on the floor for a pillow. We could still hear the firing, but it was far in the distance on the hill.
The rain fell in torrents. The sergeant shut the door, which creaked on its hinges, and then quietly lighted his pipe. Some of the men were already snoring when I looked up, and he was standing at the little window, in which not a pane of glass remained, smoking.
He was a firm, just man, he could read and write, had been wounded and had his three chevrons, and ought to have been an officer, only he was not well formed.
He soon laid his head on his knapsack, and shortly after all were asleep. It was long after this when I was suddenly awakened by footsteps and fumbling about the house outside.
I raised up on my elbow to listen, when somebody tried to open the door. I could not help screaming out. "What's the matter?" said the sergeant.
We could hear them running away, and Rabot turned on his knapsack saying:
"Night birds,—rascals,—clear out, or I'll send a ball after you!" He said no more and I got up and looked out of the window, and saw the wretches in the act of robbing the dead and wounded. They were going softly from one to another, while the rain was falling in torrents. It was something horrible.
I lay down again and fell asleep overcome by fatigue.
At daybreak the sergeant was up and crying, "En route!"
We left the cottage and went back through the lane. The cuirassier was on the ground, but his horse still stood beside him. The sergeant took him by the bridle and led him out into the orchard, pulled the bits from his mouth and said:
"Go, and eat, they will find you again by and by."
And the poor beast walked quietly away. We hurried along the path which runs by Ligny. The furrows stopped here and some plats of garden ground lay along by the road. The sergeant looked about him as he went, and stooped down to dig up some carrots and turnips which were left. I quickly followed his example, while our comrades hastened on without looking round.
I saw that it was a good thing to know the fruits of the earth. I found two beautiful turnips and some carrots, which are very good raw, but I followed the example of the sergeant and put them in my shako.
I ran on to overtake the squad, which was directing its steps toward the fires at Sombref. As for the rest, I will not attempt to describe to you the appearance of the plateau in the rear of Ligny where our cuirassiers and dragoons had slaughtered all before them. The men and horses were lying in heaps. The horses with their long necks stretched out on the ground and the dead and wounded lying under them.
Sometimes the wounded men would raise their hands to make signs when the horses would attempt to get up and fall back, crushing them still more fearfully.
Blood! blood! everywhere. The directions of the balls and shot was marked on the slope by the red lines, just as we see in our country the lines in the sand formed by the water from the melting snow. But will you believe it? These horrors scarcely made any impression upon me. Before I went to Lutzen such a sight would have knocked me down. I should have thought then, "Do our masters look upon us as brutes? Will the good God give us up to be eaten by wolves? Have we mothers and sisters and friends, beings who are dear to us, and will they not cry out for vengeance?"
I should have thought of a thousand other things, but now I did not think at all. From having seen such a mass of slaughter and wrong every day and in every fashion, I began to say to myself:
"The strongest are always right. The Emperor is the strongest, and he has called us, and we must come in spite of everything, from Pfalzbourg, from Saverne, or other cities, and take our places in the ranks and march. The one who would show the least sign of resistance ought to be shot at once. The marshals, the generals, the officers, down to the last man, follow their instructions, they dare not make a move without orders, and everybody obeys the army. It is the Emperor who wills, who has the power and who does everything. And would not Joseph Bertha be a fool to believe that the Emperor ever committed a single fault in his life? Would it not be contrary to reason?"
That was what we all thought, and if the Emperor had remained here, all France would have had the same opinion.
My only satisfaction was in thinking that I had some carrots and turnips, for in passing in the rear of the pickets to find our place in the battalion, we learned that no rations had been distributed except brandy and cartridges.
The veterans were filling their kettles; but the conscripts, who had not yet learned the art of living while on a campaign, and who had unfortunately already eaten all their bread, as will happen when one is twenty years old, and is on the march with a good appetite, they had not a spoonful of anything. At last about seven o'clock we reached the camp. Zébédé came to meet me and was delighted to see me, and said, "What have you brought, Joseph? We have found a fat kid and we have some salt, but not a mouthful of bread."
I showed him the rice which I had left, and my turnips and carrots.
"That's good," said he, "we shall have the best soup in the battalion."
I wanted Buche to eat with us too, and the six men belonging to our mess, who had all escaped with only bruises and scratches, consented. Padoue, the drum-major, said, laughing, "Veterans are always veterans, they never come empty-handed."
We looked into the kettles of the five conscripts, and winked, for they had nothing but rice and water in them, while we had a good rich soup, the odor of which filled the air around us.
At eight we took our breakfast with an appetite, as you can imagine.
Not even on my wedding-day did I eat a better meal, and it is a pleasure even now to think of it. When we are old we are not so enthusiastic about such things as when we are young, but still we always recall them with satisfaction.
This breakfast sustained us a long time, but the poor conscripts with only a few crumbs as it were soaked in rain water, had a hard time next day—the 18th. We were to have a short but terrible campaign.
Though all is over now, yet I cannot think of those terrible sufferings without emotion, or without thanking God that we escaped them. The sun shone again and the weather was fine,—we had hardly finished our breakfast when the drums began to beat the assembly along the whole line.
The Prussian rear-guard had just left Sombref, and it was a question whether we should pursue them. Some said we ought to send out the light-horse, to pick up the prisoners. But no one paid any attention to them,—the Emperor knew what he was doing.
But I remember that everybody was astonished notwithstanding, because it is the custom to profit by victories. The veterans had never seen anything like it. They thought that the Emperor was preparing some grand stroke; that Ney had turned the enemy's line, and so forth.
Meanwhile the roll commenced and General Gérard reviewed the Fourth corps. Our battalion had suffered most, because in the three attacks we had always been in the front.
The Commandant Gémeau and Captain Vidal were wounded, and Captains Grégoire and Vignot killed, seven lieutenants and second lieutenants, and three hundred and sixty menhors de combat.
Zébédé said that it was worse than at Montmirail, and that they would finish us up completely before we got through.
Fortunately the fourth battalion arrived from Metz under Commandant Délong and took our place in the line.
Captain Florentin ordered us to file off to the left, and we went back to the village near the church, where a quantity of carts were stationed.
We were then distributed in squads to superintend the removal of the wounded. Several detachments of chasseurs were ordered to escort the convoys to Fleurus as there was no room for them at Ligny; the church was already filled with the poor fellows. We did not select those to be removed, the surgeons did that, as we could hardly distinguish in numbers of cases, between the living and the dead. We only laid them on the straw in the carts.
I knew how all this was, for I was at Lutzen, and I understand what a man suffers in recovering from a ball, or a musket-shot, or such a cut as our cuirassiers made.
Every time I saw one of these men taken up, I thanked God that I was not reduced to that condition, and, thinking that the same thing might befall me, I said to myself: "You do not know how many balls and slugs have been near you, or you would be horrified." I was astonished that so many of us had escaped in the carnage, which had been far greater than at Lutzen or even at Leipzig. The battle had only lasted five hours, and the dead in many places were piled two or three feet deep. The blood flowed from under them in streams. Through the principal street where the artillery went, the mud was red with blood, and the mud itself was crushed flesh and bones.
It is necessary to tell you this, in order that the young men may understand. I shall fight no more, thank God, I am too old, but all these young men who think of nothing but war, instead of being industrious and helping their aged parents, should know how the soldiers are treated. Let them imagine what the poor fellows who have done their duty think, as they lie in the street, wanting an arm or a leg, and hear the cannon, weighing twelve or fifteen thousand pounds, coming with their big well-shod horses, plunging and neighing.
Then it is that they will recall their old parents who embraced them in their own village, while they went off saying:
"I am going, but I shall return with the cross of honor, and with my epaulettes."
Yes, indeed! if they could weep and ask God's pardon, we should hear their cries and complaints, but there is no time for that; the cannon and the caissons with their freight of bombs and bullets arrive—and they can hear their own bones crack beforehand—and all pass right over their bodies, just as they do through the mud.
When we are old, and think that such horrible things may happen to the children we love, we feel as if we would part with the last sou before we would allow them to go.
But all this does no good, bad men cannot be changed, while good ones must do their duty, and if misfortune comes, their confidence in the justice of God remains. Such men do not destroy their fellows from the love of glory, they are forced to do so, they have nothing with which to reproach themselves, they defend their own lives and the blood which is shed is not on their hands.
But I must finish my story of the battle and the removal of the wounded.
I saw sights there which are incredible; men killed in a moment of fury, whose faces had not lost their horrible expression, still held their muskets in their hands and stood upright against the walls, and you could almost hear them cry, as they stared with glazed eyes, "To the bayonet! No quarter!"
It was with this thought and this cry that they appeared before God. He was awaiting them, and He may have said to them, "Here am I. Thou killest thy brethren—thou givest no quarter? None shall be given thee!"
I have seen others mortally wounded strangling each other. At Fleurus we were obliged to separate the French and the Prussians, because they would rise from their beds, or their bundles of straw, to tear each other to pieces. Ah! war! those who wish for it, and those who make men like ferocious beasts, will have a terrible account to settle above.
The removal of the wounded continued until night. About noon shouts ofVive l'Empereurextended along the whole line of our bivouac from the village of Bry to Sombref. Napoleon had left Fleurus with his staff and had passed in review the whole army on the plateau. These shouts continued for an hour, and then all was quiet and the army took up its march.
We waited a long time for the orders to follow, but as they did not come, Captain Florentin went to see what was the matter, and came back at full speed shouting, "Beat the assembly!" The detachments of the battalion joined each other and we passed through the village at a quick step.
All had left, many other squads had received no orders, and in the vicinity of St. Amand the streets were full of soldiers.
Several companies remained behind, and reached the road by crossing the fields on the left, where we could see the rear of the column as far as the eye could reach—caissons, wagons, and baggage of every sort.
I have often thought that we might have been left behind, as Gérard's division was at St. Amand, and nobody could have blamed us, as we followed our orders to pick up the wounded, but Captain Florentin would have thought himself dishonored.
We hurried forward as fast as possible. It had commenced to rain again and we slipped in the mud and darkness. I never saw worse weather, not even at the retreat from Leipzig when we were in Germany. The rain came down as if from a watering pot, and we tramped on with our guns under our arms with the cape of our cloaks over the locks, so wet that if we had been through a river it could not have been worse; and such mud! With all this we began to feel the want of food. Buche kept saying:
"Well! a dozen big potatoes roasted in the ashes as we do at Harberg would rejoice my eyes. We don't eat meat every day at home, but we always have potatoes."
I thought of our warm little room at Pfalzbourg, the table with its white cloth, Father Goulden with his plate before him, while Catherine served the rich hot soup and the smoked cutlets on the gridiron. My present sufferings and troubles overwhelmed me, and if wishing for death only had been necessary to rid me of them, I should have long ago been out of this world.
The night was dark, and if it had not been for the ruts, into which we plunged to our knees at every step, we should have found it difficult to keep the road; as it was, we had only to march in the mud to be sure we were right.
Between seven and eight o'clock we heard in the distance something like thunder. Some said: "It is a thunder-storm!" others, "It is cannon!"
Great numbers of disbanded soldiers were following us.
At eight o'clock we reached Quatre-Bras. There are two houses opposite each other at the intersection of the road from Nivelles to Namur with that from Brussels to Charleroi. They were both full of wounded men. It was here that Marshal Ney had given battle to the English, to prevent them from going to the support of the Prussians along the road by which we had just come. He had but twenty thousand men against forty thousand, and yet Nicholas Cloutier, the tanner, maintains to-day even, that he ought to have sent half his troops to attack the Prussian rear, as if it were not enough to stop the English.
To such people everything is easy, but if they were in command, it would be easy to rout them with four men and a corporal.
Below us the barley and oat fields were full of dead men. It was then that I saw the first red-coats stretched out in the road.
The captain ordered us to halt, and he went into the house at the right. We waited for some time in the rain, when he came out with Dauzelot, general of the division, who was laughing, because we had not followed Grouchy toward Namur; the want of orders had compelled us to turn off to Quatre-Bras. Notwithstanding, we received orders to continue our march without stopping.
I thought I should drop every moment from weakness, but it was worse still when we overtook the baggage, for then we were obliged to march on the sides of the road, and the farther from it we went the more deeply we sank in the soft soil.
About eleven o'clock we reached a large village called Genappe, which lies on both sides of the route.
The crowd of wagons, cannon, and baggage was so great that we were forced to turn to the right and cross the Thy by a bridge, and from this point we continued to march through the fields of grain and hemp, like savages who respect nothing. The night was so dark that the mounted dragoons, who were placed at intervals of two hundred paces like guide-posts, kept shouting, "This way, this way!"
About midnight we reached a sort of farm-house thatched with straw, which was filled with superior officers. It was not far from the main road, as we could hear the cavalry and artillery and baggage wagons rushing by like a torrent.
The captain had hardly got into the house, when we jumped over the hedge into the garden. I did like the rest, and snatched what I could. Nearly the whole battalion followed this example in spite of the shouts of the officers, and each one began digging up what he could find with his bayonet. In two minutes there was nothing left. The sergeants and corporals were with us, but when the captain returned we had all regained our ranks.
Those who pillage and steal on a campaign ought to be shot; but what could you do? There was not a quarter enough food in the towns through which we passed to supply such numbers. The English had already taken nearly everything. We had a little rice left, but rice without meat is not very strengthening.
The English troops received sheep and beeves from Brussels, they were well fed and glowing with health. We had come too late, the convoys of supplies were belated, and the next day when the terrible battle of Waterloo was fought the only ration we received was brandy.
We left the village, and on mounting a little elevation we perceived the English pickets through the rain. We were ordered to take a position in the grain fields with several regiments which we could not see, and not to light our fires for fear of alarming the English, if they should discover us in line, and so induce them to continue their retreat.
Now just imagine us lying in the grain under a pouring rain like regular gypsies, shivering with cold and bent on destroying our fellows, and happy in having a turnip or a radish to keep up our strength and tell me if that is the kind of life for honest people. Is it for that, that God has created us and put us in the world? Is it not abominable that a king or an emperor, instead of watching over the affairs of the state, encouraging commerce, and instructing the people in the principles of liberty and giving good examples, should reduce us to such a condition as that by hundreds of thousands. I know very well that this is called glory, but the people are very stupid to glorify such men as those. Yes, indeed, they must have first lost all sense of right, all heart, and all religion!
But all this did not prevent my teeth from chattering, or from seeing the English in our front warming and enjoying themselves around their good fires, after receiving their rations of beef, brandy, and tobacco. And I thought, "It is we poor devils, drenched to our very marrow, who are to be compelled to attack these fellows who are full of confidence, and want neither cannon nor supplies, who sleep with their feet to the fire, with their stomachs well lined, while we must lie here in the mud." I was indignant the whole night. Buche would say:
"I do not care for the rain, I have been through many a worse one when on the watch; but then I had at least a crust of bread and some onions and salt."
I was quite absorbed with my own troubles and said nothing, but he was angry.
The rain ceased between two and three in the morning. Buche and I were lying back to back in a furrow, in order to keep warm, and at last overcome by fatigue I fell asleep.
When I woke about five in the morning, the church bells were ringing matins over all that vast plain.
I shall never forget the scene; and as I looked at the gray sky, the trampled grain, and my sleeping comrades on the right and left, my heart sunk under the sense of desolation. The sound of the bells as they responded to each other from Planchenois to Genappe, from Frichemont to Waterloo, reminded me of Pfalzbourg, and I thought:
"To-day is Sunday, the day of rest and peace. Mr. Goulden has hung his best coat, with a white shirt, on the back of his chair. He is getting up now and he is thinking of me; Catherine has risen too and is sitting crying on the bed, and Aunt Grédel at Quatre Vents is pushing open the shutters and she has taken her prayer-book from the shelf and is going to mass." I could hear the bells of Dann and Mittelbronn and Bigelberg ring out in the silence. I thought of that peaceful quiet life and was ready to burst into tears.
The roll of the drums was heard through the damp air, and there was something inauspicious and portentous in the sound.
Near the main road, on the left, they were beating the assembly, and the bugles of the cavalry sounded the reveille. The men rose and looked over the grain. Those three days of marching and fighting in the bad weather without rations made them sober; there was no talking as at Ligny, every one looked in silence and kept his thoughts to himself.
We could see too, that the battle was to be a much more important affair, for instead of having villages already occupied, which caused so many separate battles, on our front, there was an immense elevated naked plain on which the English were encamped.
Behind their lines at the top of the hill was the village of Mont-St.-Jean, and a league and a half still farther away, was a forest which bounded the horizon.
Between us and the English, the ground descended gently and rose again nearest us, forming a little valley, but one must have been accustomed to the country to perceive this; it was deepest on the right and contracted like a ravine. On the slope of this ravine on our side, behind the hedges and poplars and other trees, some thatched roofs indicated a hamlet; this was Planchenois. In the same direction but much higher, and in the rear of the enemy's left, the plain extended as far as the eye could reach, and was scattered over with little villages.
The clear atmosphere after the storm enabled us to distinguish all this very plainly.
We could even see the little village of Saint-Lambert three leagues distant on our right.
At our left in the rear of the English right, there were other little villages to be seen, of which I never knew the names.
We took in all this grand region covered with a magnificent crop just in flower, at a glance; and we asked ourselves why the English were there, and what advantage they had in guarding that position. But when we observed their line a little more closely—it was from fifteen hundred to two thousand yards from us—we could see the broad, well-paved road, which we had followed from Quatre-Bras and which led to Brussels, dividing their position nearly in the centre. It was straight, and we could follow it with the eye to the village of Mont-St.-Jean and beyond quite to the entrance of the forest of Soignes. This we saw the English intended to hold to prevent us from going to Brussels.
On looking carefully we could see that their line of battle was curved a little toward us at the wings, and that it followed a road which cut the route to Brussels like a cross. On the left it was a deep cut, and on the right of the road it was bordered with thick hedges of holly and dwarf beech which are common in that country. Behind these were posted mass of red-coats who watched us from their trenches. In the front, the slope was like a glacis. This was very dangerous.
Immense bodies of cavalry were stationed on the flanks, which extended nearly three-quarters of a league.
We saw that the cavalry on the plateau in the vicinity of the main road after having passed the hill, descended before going to Mont-St.-Jean, and we understood that there was a hollow between the position of the English and that village; not very deep, as we could see the plumes of the soldiers as they passed through, but still deep enough to shelter heavy reserves from our bullets.
I had already seen Weissenfels, Lutzen, Leipzig, and Ligny, and I began to understand what these things meant, and why they arranged themselves in one way rather than another, and I thought that the manner in which these English had laid their plans and stationed their forces on this cross-road to defend the road to Brussels, and to shelter their reserves, showed a vast deal of good sense.
But in spite of all that, three things seemed to me to be in our favor. The position of the enemy with its covered ways and hidden reserves was like a great fort. Every one knows that in time of war everything is demolished that can furnish a shelter to the enemy.
Well! just in their centre, on the high-road and on the slope of their glacis, was a farm-house like the "Roulette" at Quatre Vents, but five or six times larger.
I could see it plainly from where we stood. It was a great square, the offices, the house, the stables and barns formed a triangle on the side toward the English, and on our side the other half was formed by a wall and sheds, with a court in the centre. The wall running along the field side, had a small door, the other on the road had an entrance for carriages and wagons.
It was built of brick and was very solid. Of course the English had filled it with troops like a sort of demilune, but if we could take it we should be close to their centre and could throw our attacking columns upon them, without remaining long under their fire.
Nothing could be better for us. This place was called Haie-Sainte, as we found out afterward.
A little farther on, in front of their right wing was another little farmstead and grove, which we could also try to take. I could not see it from where I stood, but it was a stronger position than Haie-Sainte as it was covered by an orchard, surrounded with walls, and farther on was the wood. The fire from the windows swept the garden, and that from the garden covered the wood, and that from the wood the side-hill, and the enemy could beat a retreat from one to the other.
I did not see this with my own eyes, but some veterans gave me an account of the attack on this farm; it was called Hougoumont.
One must be exact in speaking of such a battle, the things seen with one's own eyes are the principal, and we can say:
"I saw them, but the other accounts I had from men incapable of falsehood or deception."
And lastly in front of their left wing on the road leading to Wavre, about a hundred paces from the hill on our side, were the farms of Papelotte and La Haye, occupied by the Germans, and the little hamlets of Smohain, Cheval-de-Bois, and Jean-Loo, which I informed myself about afterward in order to understand all that took place. I could see these hamlets plainly enough then, but I did not pay much attention to them as they were beyond our line of battle on the right, and we did not see any troops there.
Now you can all see the position of the English on our front, the road to Brussels which traversed it, the cross-road which covered it, the plateau in the rear where the reserves were, and the three farms, Hougoumont, Haie-Sainte, and Papelotte in front, well garrisoned. You can all see that it would be very difficult to force.
I looked at it about six o'clock that morning very attentively, as a man will do who is to run the risk of breaking his bones and losing his life in some enterprise, and who at least likes to know if he has any chance of escape.
Zébédé, Sergeant Rabot, and Captain Florentin, Buche, and indeed every one as he rose cast a glance at that hill-side without saying a word. Then they looked around them at the great squares of infantry, the squadrons of cuirassiers, of dragoons, chasseurs, lancers, etc., encamped amid the growing grain.
Nobody had any fears now that the English would beat a retreat, we lighted as many fires as we pleased, and the smoke from the damp straw filled the air. Those who had a little rice left, put on their camp-kettles, while those who had none looked on thinking:
"Each has his turn; yesterday we had meat, and we despised the rice, now we should be very grateful for even that."
About eight o'clock the wagons arrived with cartridges and hogsheads of brandy; each soldier received a double ration: with a crust of bread we might have done very well, but the bread was not there. You can imagine what sort of humor we were in.
This was all we had that day: immediately after, the grand movements commenced. Regiments joined their brigades, brigades their divisions, and the divisions re-formed their corps. Officers on horseback carried orders back and forth, everything was in motion.
Our battalion joined Donzelot's division; the others had only eight battalions, but his had nine.
I have often heard the veterans repeat the order of battle given by Napoleon. The corps of Reille was on the left of the road opposite Hougoumont, that of d'Erlon, at the right, opposite Haie-Sainte; Ney on horseback on the highway, and Napoleon in the rear with the Old Guard, the special detachments, the lancers and chasseurs, etc. That was all that I understood, for when they began to talk of the movements of eleven columns, of the distance which they deployed, and when they named the generals one after another, it seemed to me as if they were talking of something which I had never seen.
I like better therefore to tell you simply what I saw and remember myself.
The first movement was at half-past eight, when our four divisions received the order to take the advance to the right of the highway. There were about fifteen or twenty thousand men marching in two columns, with arms at will, sinking to our knees at every step in the soft ground. Nobody spoke a word.
Several persons have related that we were jubilant and were all singing; but it is false. Marching all night without rations, sleeping in the water, forbidden to light a fire, when preparing for showers of grape and canister, all this took away any inclination to sing, we were glad to pull our shoes out of the holes in which they were buried at every step, and chilled and drenched to our waists by the wet grain, the hardiest and most courageous among us wore a discontented air. It is true that the bands played marches for their regiments, that the trumpets of the cavalry, the drums of the infantry, and the trombones mingled their tones and produced a terrible effect, as they do always.
It is also true that these thousands of men marched briskly and in good order, with their knapsacks at their backs, and their muskets on their shoulders, the white lines of the cuirassiers followed the red, brown, and green of the dragoons, hussars, and lancers, with their little swallow-tailed pennons filling the air; the artillerymen in the intervals between the brigades, on horseback around their guns, which cut through the ground to their axles,—all these moved straight through the grain, not a head of which remained standing behind them, and truly there could not be a sight more dreadful.
The English drawn up in perfect order in front, their gunners ready with their lighted matches in their hands, made us think, but did not delight us quite so much as some have pretended, and men who like to receive cannon-balls are still rather rare.
Father Goulden told me that the soldiers sang in his time, but then they went voluntarily and not from force. They fought in defence of their homes and for human rights, which they loved better than their own eyes, and it was not at all like risking our lives to find out whether we were to have an old or a new nobility. As for me, I never heard any one sing either at Leipzig or Waterloo.
On we went, the bands still playing by order from head-quarters.
The music ceased, and the silence which followed was profound. Then we were at the edge of the little valley, and about twelve hundred paces from the English left. We were in the centre of our army, with the chasseurs and lancers on our right flank.
We took our distances and closed up the intervals. The first brigade of the first division turned to the left and formed on the highway. Our battalion formed a part of the second division, and we were in the first line, with a single brigade of the first division before us. The artillery was passed up to the front, and that of the English was directly opposite and on the same level. And for a long time the other divisions were moving up to support us. It seemed as if the earth itself was in motion. The veterans would say: "There are Milhaud's cuirassiers! Here are the chasseurs of Lefebvre-Desnoëttes! Yonder is Lobau's corps!"
On every side, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing to be seen but cuirasses, helmets, colbacks,[1] sabres, lances, and files of bayonets.