Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

“Cuirassiers of the Guard,” said he, as with raised chapeau he saluted his brave followers, “I have ordered two battalions to carry that bridge; they have failed. Let those who never fail advance to the storm. Montereau shall be inscribed on your helmets, men, when I see you on yonder heights. Go forward!”

“Forward! forward!” shouted the mailed ranks, half maddened by the exciting presence of Napoleon.

The force was formed in four separate columns of attack: the First Cuirassiers leading; followed by the Carbineers of the Guard; then my own regiment; and lastly, the Fourth, the corps of poor Pioche. What would I have given to know he was there! But there was not time for such inquiry now. The squadrons were ready awaiting the moment to dash on.

A loud detonation of nigh twenty guns shook the earth; and in the smoke that rolled from them the bridge was concealed from view. A trumpet sounded, and the cry of “Charge!” followed. The mass sprang forth. What a cheer was theirs as they swept past! The cannonade opens again; the whole ground trembles. The musketry follows; and the clatter of a thousand sabres mingles with the war-cries of the combatants. It is but brief, – the tumult is already subsiding.

And now comes the order for the carbineers to move up; the cuirassiers have been cut to pieces. A few, mangled and bleeding, have reeled back behind the hill; but the regiment is gone!

“Where are the troops of Wagram and Eylau?” said the Emperor, in bitterness, as he saw the one broken squadron, sole remnant of a gallant corps, reeling, bloodstained and dying, to the rear. “Where is that cavalry that carried the Russian battery at Moskowa? You are not what you once were!”

This cruel taunt, at the very moment when the earth was steeped in the blood of his brave soldiers, was heard in mournful silence. None spoke a word, but with clenched lip and clasped hand sat waiting the command to charge. It came; but no cheer followed. The carbineers dashed on, prepared to die: what death so dreadful as the cold irony of Napoleon!

“En avant! cuirassiers of the Tenth,” called out the Emperor, as the last squadrons of the carbineers went by, “support your comrades! Follow up there, men of the Fourth! I must have that bridge.”

And now the whole line moved up. As we turned the cliff in full trot, the scene of combat lay before us: the terrible bridge now actually choked up with dead and wounded, the very battlements strewn with corpses. In an instant the carbineers were upon it; and struggling through the mass of carnage, they rode onward. Like men goaded to despair, they pressed on, and actually reached the archway beyond, which, defended by a strong gate, closed up the way. Whole files now fell at every discharge; but others took their places, to fall as rapidly beneath the murderous musketry.

“A petard to the gate!” is now the cry, – “a petard, and the bridge is won!”

Quick as lightning, four sappers of the Guard rush across the road and gain the bridge. They carry some thing between them, but soon are lost in the dense masses of the horse. The enemy’s fire redoubles; the bridge crashes beneath the cannonade, when a loud shout is raised, —

“Let the cavalry fall back!”

A cheer of triumph breaks from the town as they behold the retiring squadrons; they know not that the petard is now attached to the gate, and that the horsemen are merely withdrawn for the explosion.

The bridge is cleared, and every eye is turned to watch the discharge which shall break the strong door, and leave the passage open. But unhappily the fuze has missed, and the great engine lies inert and inactive. What is to be done? The cavalry cannot venture to approach the spot, which at any moment may explode with ruin on every side; and thus the bridge is rendered impregnable by our own fault.

“Fatality upon fatality!” is the exclamation of Napoleon, as he heard the tidings. “This to the man who puts a match to the fuze!” said he, as he detaches the great cross of the Legion from his breast, and holds it aloft.

With one spring I jump from my saddle, and dash at the burning match a gunner is holding near me. A rush is made by several others; but I am fleetest of foot, and before they reach the road I am on the bridge. The enemy has not seen me, and I am half-way across before a shot is aimed at me. Even then a surprise seems to arrest their fire, for it is a single ball whizzes past. I see the train; I kneel down; the fuze is faint, and I stoop to blow it; and then my action is perceived, and a shattering volley sweeps the bridge. The high projecting parapet protects me, and I am unhurt. But the fuze will not take: horrible moment of agonizing suspense, – the powder is clotted with blood, and will not ignite! I remember that my pistols are in my belt, and detaching one, I draw the charge, and scatter the fresh powder along the line. My shelter still saves me, though the balls are crashing like hail around me. It takes, it takes! the powder spits and flashes, and a loud cry from my comrades bursts out, “Come back! come back!”

Forgetting everything in the intense anxiety of the moment, I spring to my legs; but scarce is my head above the parapet when a bullet strikes me in the chest. I fall covered with blood.

“Save him! save him!” is the cry of a thousand voices; and a rush is made upon the bridge. The musketry opens on these brave fellows, and they fall back wounded and discouraged.

Crouching beneath the parapet, I try to stanch my wound; but the blood is gushing in torrents, my senses are reeling, the objects around grow dimmer, the noise seems fainter. But suddenly I feel a hand upon my neck, and at the same instant a flask is pressed to my lips. I drink, and the wine rallies me; the bleeding is stopped. My eyes open again; and dare I trust their evidence? Who is it that now shelters beneath the parapet beside me? Minette, the vivandière! her handsome face flushed, her eyes wild with excitement, and her brown hair in great tangled masses on her back and shoulders.

“Minette, is it indeed thee?” said I, pressing her hand to my lips.

“I knew you at the head of your regiment some days ago, and I thought we should meet ere long. But lie still; we are safe here. The fire slackens too; they have fallen back since the gate was forced.”

“Is the gate forced, Minette?”

“Ay, the petard has done its work; but the columns are not come up. Lie still till they pass.”

“Dear, dear girl! what a brave heart is thine!” said I, gazing on her beautiful features, tenfold handsomer from the expression which her heroism had lent them.

“You would surely adventure as much for me,” said she, half-timidly, as she pressed her handkerchief against the wound, which still oozed blood.

The action entangled her fingers in a ribbon. She tried to extricate them; and the locket fell out, opening by accident at the same moment. With a convulsive energy she clasped the miniature in both hands, and riveted her eyes upon it. The look was wild as that of madness itself, and her features grew stiff as she gazed, while the pallor of death overspread them. It was scarce the action of a second; in another, she flung back the picture from her and sprang to her feet. One glance she gave me, fleeting as the lightning flash, but how full of storied sorrow!

The moment after she was in the middle of the bridge. She waved her cap wildly above her head, and beckoned to the column to come on. A cheer answered her. The mass rushed forward; the fire again pealed forth; a shriek pierced the din of all the battle, and the leading files halt. Four grenadiers fall back to the rear, carrying a body between them: it is the corpse of Minette the vivandière, who has received her death-wound!

The same evening saw me the occupant of a bed in the ambulance of the Guard. Dreadful as the suffering of my wound was, I carried a deeper one within my heart.

“The Emperor has given you his own cross of the Legion, sir,” said the surgeon, endeavoring to rally me from a dejection whose source he knew not.

“He has made him a general of brigade, too,” said a voice behind him.

It was General Letort who spoke; he had that moment come from the Emperor with the tidings. I buried my head beneath my hands, and felt as though my heart was bursting.

“That was a gallant girl, that vivandière,” said the rough old general; “she must have had a soldier’s heart within that corsage. Parbleu! I’d rather not have another such in my brigade, though, after what happened this evening.”

“What is it you speak of?” said I, faintly.

“They gave her a military funeral this evening, – the Fourth Cuirassiers. The Emperor gave his permission, and sent General Degeon of the staff to be present. And when they placed her in the grave, one of the soldiers, – a corporal, I believe, – kneeled down to kiss her before they covered in the earth; and when he had done so, he lay slowly down on his face on the grass. ‘He has fainted,’ said one of his comrades; and they turned him on his back. Morbleu! it was worse than that: he was stone dead, – one of the very finest fellows of the regiment!”

“Yes, yes! I know him,” muttered I, endeavoring to smother my emotion.

The general looked at me as if my mind was wandering, and briefly added, —

“And so they laid them in the same grave, and the same fusillade gave the last honors to both.”

“Your story has affected my patient overmuch, General,” said the doctor; “you must leave him to himself for some time.”

CHAPTER XL. FONTAINEBLEAU

An order from Berthier, written at the command of the Emperor, admitted me into the ancient Palace of Fontainebleau, where I lay for upwards of two months under my wound. Twice had fever nearly brought me to the grave; but youth and unimpaired health succored me, and I rallied through all. A surgeon of the staff accompanied me, and by his kind companionship, not less than by his skill, did I recover from an illness where sorrow had made an iron inroad not less deep than disease.

In my little chamber, which looked out upon the courtyard of the Palace, I passed my days, thinking over the past and all its vicissitudes. Each day we learned some intelligence either from the seat of war or from Paris: defeat in one, treason and disaffection in the other, were rapidly hastening the downfall of the mightiest Empire the genius of man had ever constructed. Champ-Aubert, Montmirail, and Montereau, great victories as they were, retarded not the current of events. “The week of glory” brought not hope to a cause predestined to ruin.

It was the latter end of March. For some days previous the surgeon had left me to visit an outpost ambulance near Melun, and I was alone. My strength, however, enabled me to sit up at my window; and even in this slight pleasure my wearied senses found enjoyment, after the tedious hours of a sickbed. The evening was calm, and for the season mild and summerlike. The shrubs were putting forth their first leaves, and around the marble fountains the spring flowers were already showing signs of blossom. The setting sun made the tall shadows of the ancient beech-trees stretch across the wide court, where all was still as at midnight. No inhabitant of the Palace was about; not a servant moved, not a footstep was heard.

It was a moment of such perfect stillness as leads the mind to reverie; and my thoughts wandered away to that distant time when gay cavaliers and stately dames trod those spacious terraces, – when tales of chivalry and love mingled with the plashing sounds of those bright fountains, and the fair moon looked down on more lovely forms than even those graceful marbles around. I fancied the time when the horn of the chasseur was heard-echoing through those vast courts, its last notes lost in the merry voices of the cortege round the monarch. And then I called up the brilliant group, with caracoling steeds and gay housings, proudly advancing up that great avenue to the royal entrance, and pictured the ancient ceremonial that awaited his coming, – the descendant of a long line of kings. The frank and kingly Francis, the valiant Henry the Fourth, the “Grand Monarch” himself, – all passed in review before my mind as once they lived, and moved, and spoke in that stately pile.

The sun had set: the mingled shadows threw their gloom over the wide court, and one wing of the Palace was in’ deep shade, when suddenly I heard the roll of wheels and the tramp of horses on the distant road. I listened attentively. They were coming near; I could hear the tread of many together; and my practised ear could detect the clank of dragoons, as their sabres and sabretasches jingled against the horses’ flanks. “Some hurried news from the Emperor,” thought I; “perhaps some marshal wounded, and about to be conveyed to the Palace.” The same instant the guard at the distant entrance beat to arms, and an equipage drawn by six horses dashed in at full gallop; a second followed as fast, with a peloton of dragoons at the side. My anxiety increased. “What if it were the Emperor himself!” thought I. But as the idea flashed across me, it yielded at once on seeing that the carriages did not draw up at the grand stair, but passed on to a low and private door at the distant wing of the Palace.

The bustle of the cortege arriving was but a moment’s work. The carriages moved rapidly away, the dragoons disappeared, and all was as still as before, leaving me to ponder over the whole, and actually ask myself could it have been reality? I opened my door to listen; but not a sound awoke the echo of the long corridors. One could have fancied that no living thing was beneath that wide roof, so silent was all around.

A strange feeling of anxiety, – the dread of something undefined, I knew not what, or whence coming, – was over me, and my nerves, long irritable from illness, became now jarringly sensitive, and banished all thought of sleep. Wild fancies and incoherent ideas crossed my mind, and made me restless and uneasy. I felt, too, as if the night were unusually close and sultry, and I opened my window to admit the air. Scarcely had I drawn the curtain aside, when my eye rested on a long line of light, that, issuing from a window on the ground-floor of the Palace, threw its bright gleam far across the courtyard.

It was in the same wing where the carriages drew up. It must be so; some officer of rank, wounded in a late battle, was brought there. “Poor fellow!” thought I; “what suffering may he be enduring amid all the peace-fulness and calm of this tranquil spot! Who can it be?” was the ever-recurring question to my mind; for my impression had already strengthened itself to a conviction.

The hours went on; the light shone steadily as at first, and the stillness was unbroken. Wearied with thinking, and half forgetful of my weakness, I tottered along the corridor, descended the grand stair, and passed out into the court. How refreshing did the night air feel! how sweet the fair odors of the spring, as, wafted by the motion of the jet d’eau, they were diffused around! The first steps of recovery from severe sickness have a strange thrill of youthfulness about them. Our senses seem once more to revel in the simple enjoyments of early days, and to feel that their greatest delight lies in the associations which gave pleasure to childhood. Weaned from the world’s contentions, we seem to have been lifted for the time above the meaner cares and ambitions of life, and love to linger a little longer in that ideal state of happiness calm thoughts bestow; and thus the interval that brings back health to the body restores freshness to the heart, and purified in thought, we come forth hoping for better things, and striving for them with all the generous ardor of early years. How happy was I as I wandered in that garden! how full of gratitude to feel the current of health once more come back in all my veins, – the sense of enjoyment which flows from every object of the fair world restored to me, after so many dangers and escapes!

As I moved slowly through the terraced court, my eye was constantly attracted to the small and starlike light which glimmered through the darkness; and I turned to it at last, impelled by a feeling of undefinable sympathy. Following a narrow path, I drew near to a little garden, which once contained some rare flowers. They had been favorites of poor Josephine in times past; but the hour was over in which that gave them a claim to care and attention, and now they were wild grown and tangled, and almost concealed the narrow walk which led to the doorway.

I reached this at length; and as I stood, the faint moonlight, slanting beneath a cloud, fell upon a bright and glistening object almost at my feet. I stepped back, and looked fixedly at it. It was the figure of a man sleeping across the entrance of the porch. He was dressed in Mameluke fashion; but his gay trappings and rich costume were travel-stained and splashed. His unsheathed cimeter lay grasped in one hand, and a Turkish pistol seemed to have fallen from the other.

Even by the imperfect light I recognized Rustan, the favorite Mameluke of the Emperor, who always slept at the door of his tent and his chamber, – his chosen bodyguard. Napoleon must then be here; his equipage it was which arrived so hurriedly; his the light which burned through the stillness of the night. As these thoughts followed fast on one another, I almost trembled to think how nearly I had ventured on his presence, where none dared to approach unbidden. To retire quickly and noiselessly was now my care. But my first step entangled my foot; I stumbled. The noise awoke the sleeping Turk, and with a loud cry for the guard he sprang to his feet.

“La garde!” called he a second time, forgetting in his surprise that none was there. But then with a spring he seized me by the arm, and as his shining weapon gleamed above my head, demanded who I was, and for what purpose there.

The first words of my reply were scarcely uttered, when a small door was opened within the vestibule, and the Emperor appeared. Late as was the hour, he was dressed, and even wore his sword at his side.

“What means this? Who are you, sir?” was the quick, sharp question he addressed to me.

A few words – the fewest in which I could convey it – told my story, and expressed my sorrow, that in the sick man’s fancy of a moonlight walk I should have disturbed his Majesty.

“I thought, Sire,” added I, “that your Majesty was many a league distant with the army – ”

“There is no army, sir,” interrupted he, with a rapid gesture of his hand; “to-morrow there will be no Emperor. Go, sir; go, while it is yet the time. Offer your sword and your services where so many others, more exalted than yourself, have done. This is the day of desertion; see that you take advantage of it.”

“Had my name and rank been less humble, they would have assured your Majesty how little I merited this reproach.”

“I am sorry to have offended you,” replied he, in a voice of inexpressible softness. “You led the assault at Montereau? I remember you now. I should have given you your brigade, had I – ” He stopped here suddenly, while an expression of suffering passed across his pale features; he rallied from it, however, in an instant, and resumed, “I should have known you earlier; it is too late! Adieu!”

He inclined his head slightly as he spoke, and extended his hand. I pressed it fervently to my lips, and would have spoken, but I could not. The moment after he was gone.

It is too late! too late! – the same terrible words which were uttered beneath the blackened walls of Moscow; repeated at every new disaster of that dreadful retreat; now spoken by him whose fortune they predicted. Too late! – the exclamation of the proud marshal, harassed by unsuccessful efforts to avert the destiny he saw inevitable. Too late! – the cry of the wearied soldier. Too late! – the fatal expression of the Czar when the brave and faithful Macdonald urged the succession of the King of Rome and the regency of the Empress.

Wearied with a wakeful night, I fell into a slumber towards morning, when I started suddenly at the roll of drums in the court beneath. In an instant I was at my window. What was my astonishment to perceive that the courtyard was filled with troops! The Grenadiers of the Guard were ranged in order of battle, with several squadrons of the chasseurs and the horse artillery; while a staff of general officers stood in the midst, among whom I recognized Belliard, Montesquieu, and Turenne, – great names, and worthy to be recorded for an act of faithful devotion. The Duc de Bassano was there too, in deep mourning; his pale and careworn face attesting the grief within his heart.

The roll of the drums continued; the deep, unbroken murmur of the salute went on from one end of the line to the other. It ceased; and ere I could question the reason, the various staff-officers became uncovered, and stood in attitudes of respectful attention, and the Emperor himself slowly, step by step, descended the wide stair of the “Cheval Blanc,” – as the grand terrace was styled, – and advanced towards the troops. At the same instant the whole line presented arms, and the drums beat the salute. They ceased, and Napoleon raised his hand to command silence, and throughout that crowded mass not a whisper was heard.

I could perceive that he was speaking, but the words did not reach me. Eloquent and burning words they were, and to be recorded in history to the remotest ages. I now saw that he had finished, as General Petit sprang forward with the eagle of the First Regiment of the Guards, and presented it to him. The Emperor pressed it fervently to his lips, and then threw his arms round Petit’s neck; while suddenly disengaging himself, he took the tattered flag that waved above him, and kissed it twice. Unable to bear up any longer, the worn, hard-featured veterans sobbed aloud like children, and turned away their faces to conceal their emotion. No cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” resounded now through those ranks where each had willingly shed his heart’s blood for him. Sorrow had usurped the place of enthusiasm, and they stood overwhelmed by grief.

A tall and soldierlike figure, with head uncovered, approached the Emperor, and said a few words. Napoleon waved his hand towards the troops, and from the ranks many rushed towards him, and fell on their knees before him. He passed his hand across his face and turned away. My eyes grew dim; a misty vapor shut out every object, and I felt as though the very lids were bursting. The great tramp of horses startled me, and then came the roll of wheels. I looked up: an equipage was passing from the gate, a peloton of dragoons escorted it; a second followed at full speed. The colonels formed their men; the word to march was given; the drums beat out; the grenadiers moved on; the chasseurs succeeded; and last the artillery rolled heavily up. The court was deserted; not a man remained: all, all were gone! The Empire was ended; and the Emperor, the mighty genius who created it, on his way to exile!

CHAPTER XLI. THE CONCLUSION

France never appeared to less advantage in the eyes of Europe than at the period I speak of. Scarcely had the proud star of Napoleon set, when the whole current of popular favor flowed along with those whom, but a few days before, they accounted their greatest enemies. The Russians and the Prussians, whom they lampooned and derided, they now flattered and fawned on. They deemed no adulation servile enough to lay at the feet of their conquerors, – not esteeming the exaltation of their victors sufficient, unless purchased at the sacrifice of their own honor as a nation.

The struggle was no longer who should be first in glory, but who foremost in desertion of him and his fortunes whose word had made them. The marshals he had created, the generals he had decorated, the ministers and princes he had endowed with wealth and territory, now turned from him in his hour of misfortune, to court the favor of one against whom every act of their former lives was directed.

These men, whose very titles recalled the fields of glory to which he led them, now hastened to the Tuileries to proffer an allegiance to a monarch they neither loved nor respected. Sad and humiliating spectacle! The long pent-up hatred of the Royalists found a natural vent in this moment of triumphant success. Chateaubriand, Constant, and Madame de Staël led the way to those declarations of the press which denounced Napoleon as the greatest of earthly tyrants; and inveighed even against his greatness and his genius, as though malevolence could produce oblivion.