Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune

‘The Austrians would seem to have been as much deceived as ourselves, sir,’ said an old artillery sergeant to me, as I strolled along the walls at nightfall. ‘The pickets last night were close to the glacis, but see, now they have fallen back a gunshot or more.’

‘But they had time enough since to have resumed their old position,’ said I, half doubting the accuracy of the surmise.

‘Time enough, parbleu! I should think so too! but when the white-coats manoeuvre, they write to Vienna to ask, “What’s to be done next?”’

This passing remark, in which, with all its exaggeration, there lay a germ of truth, was the universal judgment of our soldiers on those of the Imperial army; and to the prevalence of the notion may be ascribed much of that fearless indifference with which small divisions of ours attacked whole army corps of the enemy. Bonaparte was the first to point out this slowness, and to turn it to the best advantage.

‘If our general ever intended a sortie, this would be the night for it, sir,’ resumed he; ‘the noise of those mountain streams would mask the sounds of a march, and even cavalry, if led with caution, might be in upon them before they were aware.’

This speech pleased me, not only for the judgment it conveyed, but as an assurance that our expedition was still a secret in the garrison.

On questioning the sergeant further, I was struck to find that he had abandoned utterly all hope of ever seeing France again; such, he told me, was the universal feeling of the soldiery. ‘We know well, sir, that Massena is not the man to capitulate, and we cannot expect to be relieved’ And yet with this stern, comfortless conviction on their minds – with hunger, and famine, and pestilence on every side – they never uttered one word of complaint, not even a murmur of remonstrance. What would Moreau’s fellows say of us? What would the army of the Meuse think? These were the ever-present arguments against surrender; and the judgment of their comrades was far more terrible to them than the grapeshot of the enemy.

‘But do you not think, when Bonaparte crosses the Alps, he will hasten to our relief?’

‘Not he, sir! I know him well. I was in the same troop with him, a bombardier at the same gun. Bonaparte will never go after small game where there’s a nobler prey before him. If he does cross the Alps, he’ll be for a great battle under Milan; or, mayhap, march on Venice. He’s not thinking of our starved battalions here; he’s planning some great campaign, depend on it. He never faced the Alps to succour Genoa.’

How true was this appreciation of the great general’s ambition, I need scarcely repeat; but so it was at the time; many were able to guess the bold aspirings of one who, to the nation, seemed merely one among the numerous candidates for fame and honours.

It was about an hour after my conversation with the sergeant, that an orderly came to summon me to Colonel de Barres quarters; and with all my haste to obey, I only arrived as the column was formed. The plan of attack was simple enough. Three Voltigeur companies were to attempt the assault of the Monte Facoio, under De Barre; while, to engage attention, and draw off the enemy’s force, a strong body of infantry and cavalry was to debouch on the Chiavari road, as though to force a passage in that direction. In all that regarded secrecy and despatch our expedition was perfect; and as we moved silently through the streets, the sleeping citizens never knew of our march. Arrived at the gate, the column halted, to give us time to pass along the walls and descend the glen, an operation which, it was estimated, would take forty-five minutes; at the expiration of this they were to issue forth to the feint attack.

At a quick step we now pressed forward towards the angle of the bastion, whence many a path led down the cliff in all directions. Half a dozen of our men, well acquainted with the spot, volunteered as guides, and the muskets being slung on the back, the word was given to ‘move on,’ the rallying-place being the plateau of the orange-trees I have already mentioned.

‘Steep enough this,’ said De Barre to me, as, holding on by briers and brambles, we slowly descended the gorge; ‘but few of us will ever climb it again.’

‘You think so?’ asked I, in some surprise.

‘Of course, I know it,’ said he. ‘Vallence, who commands the battalions below, always condemned the scheme; rely on it, he’s not the man to make himself out a false prophet. I don’t pretend to tell you that in our days of monarchy there were neither jealousies nor party grudges, and that men were above all small and ungenerous rivalry; but, assuredly, we had less of them than now. If the field of competition is more open to every one, so are the arts by which success is won; a preeminence in a republic means always the ruin of a rival If we fail, as fail we must, he’ll be a general.’

‘But why must we fail?’

‘For every reason; we are not in force; we know nothing of what we are about to attack; and, if repulsed, have no retreat behind us.’

‘Then why – ?’ I stopped, for already I saw the impropriety of my question.

‘Why did I advise the attack?’ said he mildly, taking up my half-uttered question. ‘Simply because death outside these walls is quicker and more glorious than within them. There’s scarcely a man who follows us has not the same sentiment in his heart. The terrible scenes of the last five weeks have driven our fellows to all but mutiny. Nothing indeed maintained discipline but a kind of tigerish thirst for vengeance – a hope that the day of reckoning would come round, and one fearful lesson teach these same white-coats how dangerous it is to drive a brave enemy to despair.’

De Barre continued to talk in this strain as we descended, every remark he made being uttered with all the coolness of one who talked of a matter indifferent to him. At length the way became too steep for much converse, and slipping and scrambling we now only interchanged a chance word as we went. Although two hundred and fifty men were around and about us, not a voice was heard; and, except the occasional breaking of a branch, or the occasional fall of some heavy stone into the valley, not a sound was heard. At length a long, shrill whistle announced that the first man had reached the bottom, which, to judge from the faintness of the sound, appeared yet a considerable distance off. The excessive darkness increased the difficulty of the way, and De Barre continued to repeat – ‘that we had certainly been misinformed, and that even in daylight the descent would take an hour.’

It was full half an hour after this when we came to a small rivulet, the little boundary line between the two steep cliffs. Here our men were all assembled, refreshing themselves with the water, still muddy from recent rain, and endeavouring to arrange equipments and arms, damaged and displaced by many a fall.

‘We ‘ve taken an hour and twenty-eight minutes,’ said De Barre, as he placed a firefly on the glass of his watch, to see the hour. ‘Now, men, let us make up for lost time. En avant!

‘En avant!,’ was quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and never was a word more spirit-stirring to Frenchmen! With all the alacrity of men fresh and ‘eager for the fray,’ they began the ascent, and such was the emulous ardour to be first, that it assumed all the features of a race.

A close pine wood greatly aided us now, and, in less time than we could believe it possible, we reached the plateau appointed for our rendezvous. This being the last spot of meeting before our attack on the fort, the final dispositions were here settled on, and the orders for the assault arranged. With daylight, the view from this terrace, for such it was in reality, would have been magnificent, for even now, in the darkness, we could track out the great thoroughfares of the city, follow the windings of the bay and harbour, and, by the lights on board, detect the fleet as it lay at anchor. To the left, and for many a mile, as it seemed, were seen twinkling the bivouac fires of the Austrian army; while directly above our heads, glittering like a red star, shone the solitary gleam that marked out the ‘Monte Faccio.’

I was standing silently at De Barre’s side, looking on this sombre scene, so full of terrible interest, when he clutched my arm violently, and whispered – ‘Look yonder; see, the attack has begun.’

The fire of the artillery had flashed as he spoke, and now, with his very words, the deafening roar of the guns was heard from below.

‘I told you he’d not wait for us, Tiernay. I told you how it would happen!’ cried he; then suddenly recovering his habitual composure of voice and manner, he said, ‘Now for our part, men; forwards!’

And away went the brave fellows, tearing up the steep mountain-side, like an assault party at a breach. Though hidden from our view by the darkness and the dense wood, we could hear the incessant din of large and small arms; the roll of the drums summoning men to their quarters, and what we thought were the cheers of charging squadrons.

Such was the mad feeling of excitement these sounds produced, that I cannot guess what time elapsed before we found ourselves on the crest of the mountain, and not above three hundred paces from the outworks of the fort. The trees had been cut away on either side, so as to offer a species of glacis, and this must be crossed under the fire of the batteries, before an attack could be commenced. Fortunately for us, however, the garrison was too confident of its security to dread a coup de main from the side of the town, and had placed all their guns along the bastion, towards Borghetto, and this De Barre immediately detected. A certain ‘alert’ on the walls, however, and a quick movement of lights here and there, showed that they had become aware of the sortie from the town, and gradually we could see figure after figure ascending the walls, as if to peer down into the valley beneath.

‘You see what Vallence has done for us,’ said De Barre bitterly; ‘but for him we should have taken these fellows, en flagrant délit, and carried their walls before they could turn out a captain’s guard.’

As he spoke a heavy crashing sound was heard, and a wild cheer. Already our pioneers had gained the gate, and were battering away at it; another party had reached the walls, and thrown up their rope-ladders, and the attack was opened. In fact, Giorgio had led one division by a path somewhat shorter than ours, and they had begun the assault before we issued from the pine wood.

We now came up at a run, but under a smart fire from the walls, already fast crowding with men. Defiling close beneath the wall, we gained the gate, just as it had fallen beneath the assaults of our men. A steep covered way led up from it, and along this our fellows rushed madly; but suddenly from the gloom a red glare flashed out, and a terrible discharge of grape swept all before it. ‘Lie down!’ was now shouted from front to rear, but even before the order could be obeyed another and more fatal volley followed.

Twice we attempted to storm the ascent; but wearied by the labour of the mountain pass – worn out by fatigue – and, worse still, weak from actual starvation, our men faltered! It was not fear, nor was there anything akin to it; for even as they fell under the thick fire their shrill cheers breathed stern defiance. They were utterly exhausted, and failing strength could do no more! De Barre took the lead, sword in hand, and with one of those wild appeals that soldiers never hear in vain, addressed them; but the next moment his shattered corpse was carried to the rear. The scaling party, alike repulsed, had now defiled to our support; but the death-dealing artillery swept through us without ceasing. Never was there a spectacle so terrible as to see men, animated by courageous devotion, burning with glorious zeal, and yet powerless from very debility – actually dropping from the weakness of famine! The staggering step – the faint shout – the powerless charge – all showing the ravages of pestilence and want!

Some sentiment of compassion must have engaged our enemies’ sympathy, for twice they relaxed their fire, and only resumed it as we returned to the attack. One fearful discharge of grape, at pistol range, now seemed to have closed the struggle; and as the smoke cleared away, the earth was seen crowded with dead and dying. The broken ranks no longer showed discipline – men gathered in groups around their wounded comrades, and, to all seeming, indifferent to the death that menaced them. Scarcely an officer survived, and, among the dead beside me, I recognised Giorgio, who still knelt in the attitude in which he had received his death-wound.

I was like one in some terrible dream, powerless and terror-stricken, as I stood thus amid the slaughtered and the wounded.

‘You are my prisoner,’ said a gruff-looking old Groat grenadier, as he snatched my sword from my hand by a smart blow on the wrist; and I yielded without a word.

‘Is it over?’ said I; ‘is it over?’

‘Yes, parbleu! I think it is,’ said a comrade, whose cheek was hanging down from a bayonet wound. ‘There are not twenty of us remaining, and they will do very little for the service of the “Great Republic’”