Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II
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It was the 1st of February, and the weather was dark, lowering, and gloomy. A cold wind drove the snowdrift in fitful gusts before it, and the deep roads made our progress slow and difficult. As our line of advance, however, was not that by which the other divisions were marching, it was already past noon before we knew that the enemy was but three leagues distant. On advancing farther, we heard the faint sounds of a cannonade; and then they grew louder and louder, till the whole air seemed tremulous with the concussion.
“A heavy fire, Colonel,” said a veteran officer of the regiment. “I should guess there are not less than eighty or a hundred guns engaged.”
“Press on, men! press on!” cried Tascher. “When his Majesty provides such music, it’s scarcely polite to be late.”
At a quick trot we came on, and about three o’clock debouched in the plain behind Oudinot’s battalions of reserve, which were formed in two dense columns, about a hundred yards apart.
“Hussars to the front!” cried an aide-de-camp, as he galloped past, and waved his cap in the direction of the space between the columns.
In separate squadrons we penetrated through the defile, and came out on an open plain behind the centre of the first line. The ground was sufficiently elevated here, so that I could overlook the front line; but all I could see was a dense, heavy smoke, which intervened between the two positions, in the midst of which, and directly in front, a village lay. Towards this, three columns of infantry were converging, and around the sounds of battle were raging. This was La Giberie: the hamlet formed the key of the French position, and had been twice carried by, and twice regained from, the Allies. As I looked, the supporting columns halted, wheeled, and retired; while a tremendous shower of grape was poured upon them from the village, which now seemed to have been retaken by the Allies.
“Cavalry to the front!” was now the order; and a force of six thousand sabres advanced from between the battalions, and formed for attack. It was Nansouty who led them, and his heavy cuirassiers were in the van; and then came the grenadiers à cheval; ours was the third, in column. As each regiment debouched, the word “Charge!” rang out, and forward we went. The snow drifting straight against us, we could see nothing; nor was I conscious of any check to our course till the shaking of the vast column in front and then the opening of the squadrons denoted resistance, when suddenly a flash flared out, and a hurricane of cannon-shot tore through our dense files. Then I knew that we were attacking a battery of guns, – and not till then. Mad cheers and cries of wounded men burst forth upon the air, with the clashing din of sabres and small-arms; the mass of cavalry appeared to heave and throb like some great monster in its agony. The trumpet to retreat sounded, and we galloped back to our lines, leaving above five hundred dead behind us, on a field where I had not yet seen the enemy.
Meanwhile the Russians were assembling a mighty force around the village; for now the cannonade opened with tenfold vigor in front, and fresh guns were called up to reply to the fire. Hitherto all was shrouded in the blue smoke of the artillery and the dense flakes of the snowdrift, when suddenly a storm of wind swept past, carrying with it both sleet and smoke; and now, within less than five hundred yards, we beheld the Allied armies in front of us. Two of the three villages, which formed our advanced position, already had been carried; and towards the third, La Bothière, they were advancing quickly.
Ney’s corps, ordered up to its defence, rushed boldly on, and the clattering musketry announced that they were engaged; while twelve guns were moved up in full gallop to their support, and opened their fire at once. Scarce had they done so, when a wild hurrah was heard; and like a whirlwind, a vast mass of cavalry, – the Cossacks of the Don and the Uhlans of the South, commingled and mixed, – bear down on the guns. The struggle is for life or death; no quarter given. Ney recalls his columns, and the guns are lost.
“Who shall bring the Emperor the tidings?” said Tascher, as his voice trembled with excitement. “I’d rather storm the battery single-handed than do it.”
“He has seen worse than that already to-day,” said an aide-de-camp at our side. “He has seen Lahorie’s squadrons of the Dragoons of the Guard cut to pieces by the Russian horse.”
“The Guard! the Guard!” repeated Tascher, in accents where doubt and despair were blended.
“There goes another battalion to certain death!” muttered the aide-de-camp, as he pointed to a column of grenadiers emerging from the front line; “see, – I knew it well, – they are moving on La Bothière. But here comes the Emperor.”
Before I could detect the figure among the crowd, the staff tore rapidly past, followed by a long train of cavalry moving towards the left.
“His favorite stroke,” said Tascher: “an infantry advance, and a flank movement with cavalry.” And as the words escaped him, we saw the horsemen bearing down at top speed towards the village.
But now we could look no longer; our brigade was ordered to support the attack, and we advanced at a trot. The enemy saw the movement, and a great mass of cavalry were thrown out to meet it.
“Here they come!” was the cry repeated by three or four together, and the earth shook as the squadrons came down.
Our column dashed forward to meet them; when suddenly through the drift we beheld a mass of fugitives, scattered and broken, approaching: they were our own cavalry, routed in the attempt on the flank, now flying to the rear, broken and disordered.
Before we could cover their retreat, the enemy were upon us. The shock was dreadful, and for some minutes carried all before it; but then rallying, the brave horsemen of France closed up and faced the foe. How vain all the efforts of the redoubted warrior of the Dnieper and the Wolga against the stern soldier of Napoleon! Their sabres flashed like lightning glances, and as fatally bore down on all before them; and as the routed squadrons fell back, the wild cheers of “Vive l’Empereur!” told that at least one great moment of success atoned for the misfortunes of the day.
“His Majesty saw your charge, Colonel,” said a general officer to Tascher as he rode back at the head of a squadron. “So gallant a thing as that never goes unrewarded.”
Tascher’s cheek flushed as he bowed in acknowledgment of the praise; but I heard him mutter to himself the same instant, “Too late! too late!” Fatal words they were, – the presage of the mishap they threatened!
A great attack on La Rothière was now preparing. It was to be made by Napoleon’s favorite manoeuvre of cavalry, artillery, and infantry combined, each supporting and sustaining the other. Eighteen guns, with three thousand sabres, and two columns of infantry numbering four thousand each, were drawn up in readiness for the moment to move. Ney received orders to lead them, and now they issued forth into the plain.
Our own impatience at not being of the number was quickly merged in intense anxiety for the result. It was a gorgeous thing, indeed, to see that mighty mass unravelling itself, – the guns galloping madly to the front, supported on either flank by cavalry; while, masked behind, marched the black columns of infantry, their tall shakos nodding like the tree-tops of a forest. The snow was now falling fast, and the figures grew fainter and fainter, and all that remained within our view was the tail of the columns, which were only disengaging themselves from the lines.
A deafening cannonade opened from the Allied artillery on the advance, unreplied to by our guns, which were ordered not to fire until within half range of the enemy. Suddenly a figure is seen emerging from the heavy snowdrift at the full speed of his horse; another, and another, follow him in quick succession. They make for the position of the Emperor. “What can it be?” cries each, in horrible suspense; “see, the columns have halted!”
Dreadful tidings! The guns are embedded in the soft ground, – the horses cannot stir them; one-half of the distance is scarcely won, and there they are beneath the withering cannonade of the Allied guns, powerless and immovable! Cavalry are dismounted, and the horses harnessed to the teams: all in vain! the wheels sink deeper in the miry earth. And now the enemy have found out the range, and their shot are sweeping through the dense mass with frightful slaughter. Again the aides-de-camp hasten to the rear for orders. But Ney can wait no longer; he launches his cavalry at the foe, and orders up the infantry to follow.
Meanwhile a great cloud of cavalry issues from the Allied lines, and directs its course towards the flank of the column: the Emperor sees the danger, and despatches one of his staff to prepare them to receive cavalry. Too late! too late! – the snowdrift has concealed the advance, and the wild horsemen of the desert ride down on the brave ranks. Disorder and confusion ensue; the column breaks and scatters. The lancers pursue the fugitives through the plain; and before the very eyes of the Emperor, the Guard – his Guard – are sabred and routed.
“What is to become of our cavalry?” is now the cry, for they have advanced unsupported against the village. Dreadful moment of suspense! None can see them; the guns lie deserted, alike by friend and foe. Who dares approach them now? “They are cheering yonder,” exclaimed an officer: “I hear them again.”
“Hussars, to the front!” calls out Damrémont, – “to your comrades’ rescue! Men, yonder!” and he points in the direction of the village.
Like an eagle on the swoop, the swift squadrons skim the plain, and mount the slope beyond it. The drift clears, and what a spectacle is before us! The cavalry are dismounted; their horses, dead or dying, cumber the ground; the men, sabre in hand, have attacked the village by assault. Two of the enemy’s guns are taken and turned against them, and the walls are won in many places. An opening in the enclosure of a farmyard admits our leading squadron, and in an instant we have taken them in flank and rear.
The Russians will neither retreat nor surrender, and the carnage is awful; for though overpowered by numbers, they still continue the slaughter, and deal death while dying. The chief farmhouse of the village has been carried by our troops, but the enemy still holds the garden: the low hedge offers a slight obstacle, and over it we dash, and down upon them ride the gallant Tenth with cheers of victory.
At this instant the crashing sound of cannon-shot among masonry is heard. It is the Allied artillery, which, regardless of their own troops, has opened on the village. Every discharge tells; the range is at quarter distance, and whole files fall at every fire. The trumpet sounds a retreat; and I am endeavoring to collect my scattered followers, when my eye falls on the aigulet of a general officer among the heap of dead; and at the same time I perceive that some old and gallant officer has fallen sword in hand, for his long white hair is strewn loosely across his face.
I spring down from my horse and push back the snowy locks, and with a shriek of horror I recognize the friend of my heart, – General d’Auvergne. I lift him in my arms, and search for the wound. Alas! a grapeshot had torn through his chest, and cut asunder that noble heart whose every beat was honor. Though still warm, no ray of life remained: the hand I had so often grasped in friendship, I wrung now in the last energy of despair, and fell upon the corpse in the agony of my grief.
The night was falling fast. All was still around me; none remained near; the village was deserted. The deafening din of the cannonade continued, and at times some straggling shot crashed through the crumbling walls, and brought them thundering to the earth; but all had fled. By the pale crescent of a new moon I dug a grave beneath the ruined wall of the farmhouse. The labor was long and tedious; but my breaking heart took no note of time. My task completed, I sat down beside the grave, and taking his now cold hand in mine, pressed it to my lips. Oh, could I have shared that narrow bed of clay, what rapture would it have brought to my sorrowing soul! I lifted the body and laid it gently in the earth; and as I arose, I found that something had entangled itself in my uniform, and held me. It seemed a locket, which he wore by a ribbon round his neck. I detached it from its place, and put it in my bosom. One lock of the snowy hair I severed from his noble head, and then covered up the grave. “Adieu forever!” I muttered, as I wandered from the spot.
It was the death of a true D’Auvergne, – “on the field of battle!”
CHAPTER XXXIX. THE BRIDGE OF MONTEREAU
Ere I left the village, a shower of shells was thrown into it from the French lines, and in a few minutes the whole blazed up in a red flame, and threw a wide glare over the battlefield. Spurring my horse to his speed, I galloped onward, and now discovered that our troops were retiring in all haste. The Allies had won the battle, and we were falling back on Brienne.
Leaving seventy-three guns in the hands of the enemy, above one thousand prisoners, and six thousand killed in battle, Napoleon drew off his shattered forces, and marched through the long darkness of a winter’s night. Thus ended the battle of Arcis-sur-Aube, – the most fatal for the hopes of the Emperor since the dreadful day of Leipzic.
From that hour Fortune seemed to frown on those whose arms she had so often crowned with victory; and he himself, the mighty leader of so many conquering hosts, stood at the window of the château at Brienne the whole night long, dreading lest the enemy should be on his track. He whose battles were wont to be the ovations of a conqueror, now beheld with joy his masses retiring unpursued.
Why should I dwell on a career of disaster, or linger on the expiring moments of a mighty Empire? Of what avail now are the reinforcements which arrived to our aid, – the veteran legions of the Peninsula? The cry is ever, “Too late! too late!” Dreadful words, heard at every moment! sad omens of an army devoted and despairing!
From Brienne we retreat to Troyes; from thence to Bar-sur-Aube, – ever nearer and nearer to that capital to which the Allies tend with wild shouts of triumph. On the last day of February our headquarters are at Nogent, not thirty leagues from Paris, – Nogent, with the great forest of Fontainebleau on its left; and Meaux, the ancient bishopric of the Monarchy, on its right; and behind that screen, Paris!
Leaving Bourmont in command of the line which holds the Austrians in check, the Emperor himself hastens to oppose Blücher, – the most intrepid and the most daring of all his enemies. A cross-march in the depth of winter, with the ground covered with half-frozen snow, will bring him on the flank of the Prussian army. It is dared! Dangers and difficulties beset every step; the artillery are almost lost, the cavalry exhausted. But the cry of “The enemy!” rouses every energy: they debouch on the plain of Champ-Aubert, to fall on the moving column of the Russians under Alsufief. Glorious stroke of fate! Victory again caresses the spoiled child of fortune: the enemy is routed, and retires on Montmirail and Châlons. The advanced army of the Prussians hear the cannonade, and fall back to support the Allies on Montmirail. But the Emperor already awaits them with the battalions of the Old Guard, and another great battle ends in victory. Areola and Rivoli were again remembered, and recalled by victories not less glorious; and once more hope returned to the ranks it seemed to have quitted forever. Another dreadful blow is aimed at Blucher’s columns; Marmont attacks them at Vaux-Champs, and the army of Silesia falls back beaten.
And now the Emperor hastens towards Nogent, where he has left Bourmont in front of the Austrians. “Too late! too late!” is again the cry, – the columns of Oudinot and Victor are already in retreat. Schwartzenberg, with a force triple their own, advances on the plains of the Seine; the Cossacks bivouac in the forest of Fontainebleau. Staff-officers hurry onward with the news that the Emperor is approaching; the victorious army which had subdued Blucher is on the march, reinforced by the veteran cavalry of Spain and the tried legions of the Peninsula. They halt, and form in battle. The Allies arrest their steps at Nangis, and again are beaten: Nangis becomes another name of glory to the ears of Frenchmen.
Let me rest one instant in this rapid recital of a week whose great deeds not even Napoleon’s life can show the equal of, – the last flash of the lamp of glory ere it darkened forever.
Three days had elapsed from the sad hour in which I laid my dearest friend in his grave, ere I opened the locket I had taken from his bosom. The wild work of war mingled its mad excitement in my brain with thoughts of deep sorrow; and I lived in a kind of fevered dream, and hurried from the affliction which beset me into the torrent of danger.
The gambler who cares not to win rarely loses, so he that seeks death in battle comes unscathed through every danger. Each day I threw myself headlong into some post where escape seemed scarcely possible; but recklessness has its own armor of safety. On the field of Montmirail I was reported to the Emperor; and for an attack on the Austrian rearguard at Melun made colonel of a cuirassier regiment on the field of battle. Such promotions rained on every side: hundreds were falling each day; many regiments were commanded by officers of twenty-three or twenty-four years of age. Few expected to carry their new epaulettes beyond the engagement they gained them in; none believed the Empire itself could survive the struggle. Each played for a mighty stake; few cared to outlive the game itself. The Emperor showered down favors on the heads which each battlefield laid low.
It was on the return from Melun I first opened the locket, which I continued to wear around my neck. In the full expansion of a momentary triumph to see myself at the head of a regiment, I thought of him who would have participated in my pride. I was sitting in the doorway of a little cabaret on the roadside, my squadrons picketed around me, for a brief halt; and as my thoughts recurred to the brave D’Auvergne, I withdrew the locket from my bosom. It was a small oval case of gold, opening by a spring. I touched this, and as I did so, the locket sprang open, and displayed before me a miniature of Marie de Meudon. Yes! beautiful as I had seen her in the forest of Versailles: her dark hair clustering around her noble brow, – and her eyes, so full of tender loveliness, shadowed by their deep fringes, – were there as I remembered them; the lips were half parted, as though the artist had caught the speaking expression, – and as-I gazed, I could fancy that voice, so musically sweet, still ringing in my ears. I could not look on it enough: the features recalled the scenes when first I met her; and the strong current of love, against which so long I struggled and contended, flowed on with tenfold force once more. Should we ever meet again, – and how? were the questions which rushed to my mind, and to which hope and fear dictated the replies.
The locket was a present from the Empress to the general, – at least, so I interpreted an inscription on the back; and this – shall I confess it? – brought pleasure to my heart. Like one whose bosom bore some wondrous amulet, some charm against the approach of danger, I now rode at the head of my gallant band. Life had grown dearer to me, without death becoming more dreaded. Her image next my heart made me feel as if I should combat beneath her very eyes, and I burned to acquit myself as became one who loved her. A wild, half frantic joy animated me as I went, and was caught by the gay companions around me.
At midnight a despatch reached me, ordering me to hasten forward by a forced march to Montereau, the bridge of which town was a post of the greatest importance, and must be held against the Austrians till Victor could come up. We lost not a moment. It was a calm frosty night, with a bright moon, and we hastened along without halting. About an hour before daybreak we were met by a cavalry patrol, who informed us that Gérard and Victor had both arrived, but too late: Montereau was held by the Wurtemberg troops, who garrisoned the village, and defended the bridge with a strong force of artillery; twice the French troops had been beaten back with tremendous loss, and all looked for the morrow to renew the encounter. We continued our journey; and, as the sun was rising, discovered, at a distance on the road beside the river, the mass of an infantry column: it was the Emperor himself, come up with the Guard, to attack the position.
Already the preparations for a fierce assault were in progress. A battery of twelve guns was posted on a height to command the bridge; another, somewhat more distant, overlooked the village itself. Different bodies of infantry and cavalry were disposed wherever shelter presented itself, and ready for the command to move forward. The approach to the bridge was by a wide road, which lay for some distance along the river bank; and this was deeply channelled by the enemy’s artillery, which, stationed on and above the bridge, seemed to defy any attempt to advance.
Never, indeed, did an enterprise seem more full of danger. Every house which looked on the bridge was crenelated for small-arms, and garrisoned by sharpshooters, – the fierce Jager of Germany, whose rifles are the boast of the Vaterland. Cannon bristled along the heights; their wide mouths pointed to that devoted spot, already the grave of hundreds. Withdrawn under cover of a steep hill, my regiment was halted, with two other heavy cavalry corps, awaiting orders; and from the crest of the ridge I could observe the first movements of the fight.
As usual, a fierce cannonade was opened from either side; which, directed mainly against the artillery itself, merely resulted in dismantling a stray battery here and there, without further damage. At last the hoarse roll of a drum was heard, and the head of an infantry column was seen advancing up the road. They passed beneath a rock on which a little group of officers were standing, and as they went a cheer of “Vive l’Empereur!” broke from them. I strained my eyes towards the place, for now I knew the Emperor himself was there. I could not, however, detect him in the crowd, who all waved their hats in encouragement to the troops.
On they went, descending a steep declivity of the highroad to the bridge. Suddenly the cannonade redoubles from the side of the enemy; the shot whistles through the air, while ten thousand muskets peal forth together. I rivet my eyes to watch the column. But what is my horror to perceive that none appear upon the ridge! The masses move up; they mount the ascent; they disappear behind it; and then are lost to sight forever. Not one escapes the dreadful havoc of the guns, which from a distance of less than two hundred yards enfilades the bridge.
But still they moved up. I could hear, from where ï lay, the commands of the officers, as they gave the word to their companies: no fear nor hesitation, – there they went to death; in less than fifteen minutes twelve hundred fell, dead or wounded. And at last the signal to fall back was given, and the shattered fragment of a column reeled back behind the ridge. Again the cannonade opened, and increasing on both sides, was maintained for above an hour without intermission. During this, our guns did tremendous execution on the village, but without effecting anything of importance respecting the bridge.
The Grenadiers of the Guard had reached the scene of combat, by forced marches, from Nangis; and after a brief time to recruit their strength, were now ordered up. What a splendid force that massive column, conspicuous by their scarlet shoulder-knots and tall shakos of black bearskin! with what confidence they move! They halt beneath the rock. The Emperor is there too. And see! the officer who stands beside him descends from the height, and puts himself at the head of the column: it is Guyot, the colonel of the battalion; he waves his plumed hat in answer to the Emperor, – that salute is the last he shall ever give on earth.
The drums roll out; but the hoarse shout of “En avant!” drowns their tumult. On they rush; they are over the height; they disappear down the descent. And see! there they are on the bridge! “Vive la Garde!” shouted ten thousand of their comrades, who watch them from the heights; “Vive la Garde!” is echoed from the tall cliffs beyond the river. The column moves on, and already reaches the middle of the bridge, when eighteen guns throw their fire into it: the blue smoke rolls down the rocky heights and settles on the bridge, broken here and there by flashes, like the forked gleam of lightning; the cloud passes oyer; the bridge is empty, save of dead and dying: the Grenadiers of the Guard are no more!