Loe raamatut: «Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 2», lehekülg 33

“Oh, tempt me not thus!” said I, as the warm tears gushed from my eyes. “Lead me not thus astray from what my honor tells me I should do. Hark! They are coming already. I hear the clank of their sabres; they are mounting the steps; not a moment is to be lost! Do you refuse me still?”

“I do,” replied he, firmly; “I am resolved to bide my fate.”

“Then so do I,” cried I, as folding my arms, I sat down beside the window, determined on my course.

“Charley, Charley,” said he, stooping over me, “my friend, my last hope, the protector of my child – ”

“I will not go,” said I, in a hollow whisper.

Already they were at the door; I heard their voices as they challenged the sentry; I heard his musket as he raised it to his shoulder. The thought flashed across me. I jumped up, and throwing the loose mantle of the French dragoon around him, and replacing his own with the foraging cap of St. Croix, I sprang into a corner of the room, and seating myself so as to conceal my face, waited the result. The door opened, the party entered laughing and talking together.

“Come, Eugène,” said one, taking Sir George by the arm, “you have spent long enough time here to learn the English language. We shall be late at the outpost. Messieurs les Anglais, good-night, good-night!”

This was repeated by the others as they passed out with Sir George Dashwood among them, who, seeing that my determination was not to be shaken, and that any demur on his part must necessarily compromise both, yielded to a coup-de-main what he never would have consented to from an appeal to his reason. The door closed; their steps died away in the distance. Again a faint sound struck my ear; it was the challenge of the sentry beneath, and I heard the tramp of horses’ feet. All was still, and in a burst of heart-felt gratitude I sank upon my knees, and thanked God that he was safe.

So soundly did I sleep, that not before I was shaken several times by the shoulder could I awake on the following morning.

“I thought there were two prisoners here,” said a gruff voice, as an old mustached-looking veteran cast a searching look about the room. “However, we shall have enough of them before sunset. Get – get up; Monsieur le Duc de Dalmatie desires some information you can give him.”

As he said this, he led me from the room; and descending the flight of stone steps, we entered the courtyard. It was but four o’clock, the rain, still falling in torrents, yet every one was up and stirring.

“Mount this horse,” said my gruff friend, “and come with me towards the left; the marshal has already gone forward.”

The heavy mist of the morning, darkened by the lowering clouds which almost rested on the earth, prevented our seeing above a hundred yards before us; but the hazy light of the watch-fires showed me extent of the French position, as it stretched away along the ridge towards the Halle road. We rode forward at a trot, but in the deep clayey soil we sank at each moment to our horses’ fetlocks. I turned my head as I heard the tramp and splash of horsemen behind, and perceived that I was followed by two dragoons, who, with their carbines on the rest, kept their eyes steadily upon me to prevent any chance of escape. In a slight hollow of the ground before us stood a number of horsemen, who conversed together in a low tone as we came up.

“There, that is the marshal,” said my companion, in a whisper, as we joined the party.

“Yes, Monsieur le Duc,” said an engineer colonel, who stood beside Soult’s horse with a colored plan in his hand, – “yes, that is the Château de Goumont, yonder. It is, as you perceive, completely covered by the rising ground marked here. They will doubtless place a strong artillery force in this quarter.”

“Ah, who is this?” said the marshal, turning his eyes suddenly upon me, and then casting a look of displeasure around him, lest I should have overheard any portion of their conversation. “You are deficient in cavalry, it would appear, sir,” said he to me.

“You must feel, Monsieur le Duc,” said I, calmly, “how impossible it is for me, as a man of honor and a soldier, to afford you any information as to the army I belong to.”

“I do not see that, sir. You are a prisoner in our hands; your treatment, your fortune, your very life depends on us. Besides, sir, when French officers fall into the power of your people, I have heard they meet with no very ceremonious treatment.”

“Those who say so, say falsely,” said I, “and wrong both your countrymen and mine. In any case – ”

“The Guards are an untried force in your service,” said he, with a mixture of inquiry and assertion.

I replied not a word.

“You must see, sir,” continued he, “that all the chances are against you. The Prussians beaten, the Dutch discouraged, the Belgians only waiting for victory to incline to our standard, to desert your ranks and pass over to ours; while your troops, scarcely forty thousand, – nay, I might say, not more than thirty-five thousand. Is it not so?”

Here was another question so insidiously conveyed that even a change of feature on my part might have given the answer. A half smile, however, and a slight bow was all my reply; while Soult muttered something between his teeth, which called forth a laugh from those around him.

“You may retire, sir, a little,” said he, dryly, to me.

Not sorry to be freed from the awkwardness of my position, I fell back to the little rising ground behind. Although the rain poured down without ceasing, the rising sun dispelled, in part, the heavy vapor, and by degrees different portions of the wide plain presented themselves to view; and as the dense masses of fog moved slowly along, I could detect, but still faintly, the outline of the large, irregular building which I had heard them call the Château de Goumont, and from whence I could hear the clank of masonry, as, at intervals, the wind bore the sounds towards me. These were the sappers piercing the walls for musketry; and this I could now perceive was looked upon as a position of no small importance. Surrounded by a straggling orchard of aged fruit-trees, the château lay some hundred yards in advance of the British line, commanded by two eminences, – one of which, in the possession of the French, was already occupied by a park of eleven guns; of the other I knew nothing, except the passing glance I had obtained of its position on the map. The Second Corps, under Jerome Bonaparte, with Foy and Kellermann’s Brigade of light artillery, stretched behind us. On the right of these came D’Erlon’s Corps, extending to a small wood, which my companion told me was Frischermont; while Lobau’s Division was stationed to the extreme right towards St. Lambert, to maintain the communication with Grouchy at Wavre, or, if need be, to repel the advance of the Prussians and prevent their junction with the Anglo-Dutch army. The Imperial Guard, with the cavalry, formed the reserve. Such was, in substance, the information given me by my guide, who seemed to expatiate with pleasure over the magnificent array of battle, while he felt a pride in displaying his knowledge of the various divisions and their leaders.

“I see the marshal moving towards the right,” said he; “we had better follow him.”

It was now about eight o’clock as from the extremity of the line I could see a party of horsemen advancing at a sharp canter.

“That must be Ney,” said my companion. “See how rashly he approaches the English lines!”

And so it was. The party in question rode fearlessly down the slope, and did not halt until they reached within about three hundred yards of what appeared a ruined church.

“What is that building yonder?”

“That – that,” replied he, after a moment’s thought, – “that must be La Haye Sainte; and yonder, to the right of it, is the road to Brussels. There, look now! Your people are in motion. See, a column is moving towards the right, and the cavalry are defiling on the other side of the road! I was mistaken, that cannot be Ney. Sacre Dieu! it was the Emperor himself, and here he comes.”

As he spoke, the party galloped forward and pulled up short within a few yards of where we stood.

“Ha!” cried he, as his sharp glance fell upon me, “there is my taciturn friend of Quatre Bras. You see, sir, I can dispense with your assistance now; the chess-board is before me;” and then added, in a tone he intended not to be overheard, “Everything depends on Grouchy.”

“Well, Haxo,” he called out to an officer who galloped up, chapeau in hand, “what say you? Are they intrenched in that position?”

“No, Sire, the ground is open, and in two hours more will be firm enough for the guns to manoeuvre.”

“Now, then, for breakfast,” said Napoleon, as with an easy and tranquil smile he turned his horse’s head and cantered gently up the heights towards La Belle Alliance. As he approached the lines, the cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” burst forth. Regiment after regiment took it up; and from the distant wood of Frischermont to the far left beside Merke-braine, the shout resounded. So sudden, so simultaneous the outbreak, that he himself, accustomed as he well was to the enthusiasm of his army, seemed as he reined in his horse, and looked with proud and elated eye upon the countless thousands, astounded and amazed. He lifted with slow and graceful action his unplumed hat above his head, and while he bowed that proud front before which kings have trembled, the acclamation burst forth anew, and rent the very air.

At this moment the sun shone brilliantly from out the dark clouds, and flashed upon the shining blades and glistening bayonets along the line. A dark and lowering shadow hung gloomily over the British position, while the French sparkled and glittered in the sunbeams. His quick glance passed with lightning speed from one to the other; and I thought that, in his look, upturned to heaven, I could detect the flitting thought which bade him hope it was an augury. The bands of the Imperial Guard burst forth in joyous and triumphant strains; and amidst the still repeated cries of “L’Empereur! l’Empereur!” he rode slowly along towards La Belle Alliance.

CHAPTER LIII

WATERLOO

Napoleon’s first intention was to open the battle by an attack upon the extreme right; but Ney, who returned from an observation of the ground, informed him that a rivulet swollen by the late rains had now become a foaming torrent perfectly impassable to infantry. To avoid this difficulty he abandoned his favorite manoeuvre of a flank movement, and resolved to attack the enemy by the centre. Launching his cavalry and artillery by the road to Brussels, he hoped thus to cut off the communication of the British with their own left, as well as with the Prussians, for whom he trusted that Grouchy would be more than a match.

The reserves were in consequence all brought up to the centre. Seven thousand cavalry and a massive artillery assembled upon the heights of La Belle Alliance, and waited but the order to march. It was eleven o’clock, and Napoleon mounted his horse and rode slowly along the line; again the cry of “Vive l’Empereur!” resounded, and the bands of the various regiments struck up their spirit-stirring strains as the gorgeous staff moved along. On the British side all was tranquil; and still the different divisions appeared to have taken up their ground, and the long ridge from Ter-la-Haye to Merke-braine bristled with bayonets. Nothing could possibly be more equal than the circumstances of the field. Each army possessed an eminence whence their artillery might play. A broad and slightly undulating valley lay between both. The ground permitted in all places both cavalry and infantry movements, and except the crumbling walls of the Château of Hougoumont, or the farm-house of La Haye Sainte, both of which were occupied by the British, no advantage either by Nature or art inclined to either side. It was a fair stand-up fight. It was the mighty tournament, not only of the two greatest nations, but the two deadliest rivals and bitterest enemies, led on by the two greatest military geniuses that the world has ever seen; it might not be too much to say, or ever will see. As for me, condemned to be an inactive spectator of the mighty struggle, doomed to witness all the deep-laid schemes and well-devised plans of attack which were destined for the overthrow of my country’s arms, my state was one of torture and suspense. I sat upon the little rising ground of Rossomme; before me in the valley, where yet the tall corn waved in ripe luxuriance, stood the quiet and peaceful-looking old Château of Hougoumont, and the blossoming branches of the orchard; the birds were gayly singing their songs; the shrill whistle of the fatal musketry was to be heard; and through my glass I could detect the uniform of the soldiers who held the position, and my heart beat anxiously and proudly as I recognized the Guards. In the orchard and the garden were stationed some riflemen, – at least their dress and the scattered order they assumed bespoke them such. While I looked, the tirailleurs of Jerome’s Division advanced from the front of the line, and descending the hill in a sling trot, broke into scattered parties, keeping up as they went a desultory and irregular fire. The English skirmishers, less expert in this peculiar service, soon fell back, and the head of Reille’s Brigade began their march towards the château. The English artillery is unmasked and opens its fire. Kellermann advances at a gallop his twelve pieces of artillery; the château is concealed from view by the dense smoke, and as the attack thickens, fresh troops pour forward, the artillery thundering on either side; the entire lines of both armies stand motionless spectators of the terrific combat, while every eye is turned towards that devoted spot from whose dense mass of cloud and smoke the bright glare of artillery is flashing, as the crashing masonry, the burning rafters, and the loud yell of battle add to the frightful interest of the scene. For above an hour the tremendous attack continues without cessation; the artillery stationed upon the height has now found its range, and every ringing shot tells upon the tottering walls; some wounded soldiers return faint and bleeding from the conflict, but there are few who escape. A crashing volley of fire-arms is now heard from the side where the orchard stands; a second, and a third succeed, one after the other as rapid as lightning itself. A silence follows, when, after a few moments, a deafening cheer bursts forth, and an aide-de-camp gallops up to say that the orchard has been carried at the point of the bayonet, the Nassau sharp-shooters who held it having, after a desperate resistance, retired before the irresistible onset of the French infantry. “A moi! maintenant!” said General Foy, as he drew his sabre and rode down to the head of his splendid division, which, anxious for the word to advance, was standing in the valley. “En avant! mes braves!” cried he, while, pointing to the château with his sword, he dashed boldly forward. Scarcely had he advanced a hundred yards, when a cannon-shot, “ricocheting” as it went, struck his horse in the counter and rolled him dead on the plain. Disengaging himself from the lifeless animal, at once he sprang to his feet, and hurried forward. The column was soon hid from my view, and I was left to mourn over the seemingly inevitable fate that impended over my gallant countrymen.

In the intense interest which chained me to this part of the field, I had not noticed till this moment that the Emperor and his staff were standing scarcely thirty yards from where I was. Napoleon, seated upon a gray, almost white, Arabian, had suffered the reins to fall loosely on the neck as he held with both hands his telescope to his eye; his dress, the usual green coat with white facings, the uniform of the chasseurs à cheval, was distinguished merely by the cross of the legion; his high boots were splashed and mud-stained from riding through the deep and clayey soil; his compact and clean-bred charger looked also slightly blown and heated, but he himself, and I watched his features well, looked calm, composed, and tranquil. How anxiously did I scrutinize that face; with what a throbbing heart did I canvass every gesture, hoping to find some passing trait of doubt, of difficulty, or of hesitation; but none was there. Unlike one who looked upon the harrowing spectacle of the battle-field, whose all was depending on the game before him; gambling with one throw his last his only stake, and that the empire of the world. Yet, could I picture to myself one who felt at peace within himself, – naught of reproach, naught of regret to move or stir his spirit, whose tranquil barque had glided over the calm sea of life, unruffled by the breath of passion, – I should have fancied such was he.

Beside him sat one whose flashing eye and changing features looked in every way his opposite; watching with intense anxiety the scene of the deadly struggle round the château, every look, every gesture told the changing fortune of the moment; his broad and brawny chest glittered with orders and decorations, but his heavy brow and lowering look, flushed almost black with excitement, could not easily be forgotten. It was Soult, who, in his quality of major-general, accompanied the Emperor throughout the day.

“They have lost it again, Sire,” said the marshal, passionately; “and see, they are forming beneath the cross-fire of the artillery; the head of the column keeps not its formation two minutes together; why does he not move up?”

“Domont, you know the British; what troops are those in the orchard? They use the bayonet well.”

The officer addressed pointed his glass for a moment to the spot. Then, turning to the Emperor, replied, as he touched his hat, “They are the Guards, Sire.”

During this time Napoleon spoke not a word; his eye ever bent upon the battle, he seemed to pay little if any attention to the conversation about him. As he looked, an aide-de-camp, breathless and heated, galloped up.

“The columns of attack are formed, Sire; everything is ready, and the marshal only waits the order.”

Napoleon turned upon his saddle, and directing his glass towards Ney’s Division, looked fixedly for some moments at them. His eye moved from front to rear slowly, and at last, carrying his telescope along the line, he fixed it steadily upon the far left. Here, towards St. Lambert, a slight cloud seemed to rest on the horizon, as the Emperor continued to gaze steadfastly at it. Every glass of the staff was speedily turned in that direction.

“It is nothing but a cloud; some exhalation from the low grounds in that quarter,” whispered one.

“To me,” said another, “they look like trees, part of the Bois de Wavre.”

“They are men,” said the Emperor, speaking for the first time. “Est-ce Grouchy? Est-ce Blucher?”

Soult inclines to believe it to be the former, and proceeds to give his reasons; but the Emperor, without listening, turns towards Domont, and orders him, with his division of light cavalry and Subervic’s Brigade, to proceed thither at once. If it be Grouchy, to establish a junction with him; to resist, should it prove to be the advanced guard of Marshal Blucher. Scarcely is the order given when a column of cavalry, wheeling “fours about,” unravels itself from the immense mass, and seems to serpentine like an enormous snake between the squares of the mighty army. The pace increases at every moment, and at length we see them emerge from the extreme right and draw up, as if on parade, above half a mile from the wood. This movement, by its precision and beauty, attracted our entire attention, not only from the attack upon Hougoumont, but also from an incident which had taken place close beside us. This was the appearance of a Prussian hussar who had been taken prisoner between Wavre and Planchenoit; he was the bearer of a letter from Bulow to Wellington, announcing his arrival at St. Lambert, and asking for orders.

This at once explains the appearance on the right; but the prisoner also adds, that the three Prussian corps were at Wavre, having pushed their patrols two leagues from that town without ever encountering any portion of the force under the command of Grouchy. For a moment not a word is spoken. A silence like a panic pervades the staff; the Emperor himself is the first to break it.

“This morning,” said he, turning towards Soult, “the chances were ninety to one in our favor; Bulow’s arrival has already lost us thirty of the number; but the odds are still sufficient, if Grouchy but repair the horrible fault he has committed.”

He paused for a moment, and as he lifted up his own hand, and turned a look of indignant passion towards the staff, added, in a voice the sarcasm of whose tone there is no forgetting: —

“Il s’amuse à Gembloux! Still,” said he, speaking rapidly and with more energy than I had hitherto noticed, “Bulow may be entirely cut off. Let an officer approach. Take this letter, sir,” giving as he spoke, Bulow’s letter to Lord Wellington, – “give this letter to Marshal Grouchy; tell him that at this moment he should be before Wavre; tell him that already, had he obeyed his orders – but no, tell him to march at once, to press forward his cavalry, to come up in two hours, in three at farthest. You have but five leagues to ride; see, sir, that you reach him within an hour.”

As the officer hurries away at the top of his speed, an aide-de-camp from General Domont confirms the news; they are the Prussians whom he has before him. As yet, however, they are debouching from the wood, and have attempted no forward movement.

“What’s Bulow’s force, Marshal?”

“Thirty thousand, Sire.”

“Let Lobau take ten thousand, with the Cuirassiers of the Young Guard, and hold the Prussians in check.”

“Maintenant, pour les autres,” this he said with a smile, as he turned his eyes once more towards the field of battle. The aide-de-camp of Marshal Ney, who, bare-headed and expectant, sat waiting for orders, presented himself to view. The Emperor turned towards him as he said, with a clear and firm voice: —

“Tell the marshal to open the fire of his batteries; to carry La Haye Sainte with the bayonet, and leaving an infantry division for its protection, to march against La Papelotte and La Haye. They must be carried by the bayonet.”

The aide-de-camp was gone; Napoleon’s eye followed him as he crossed the open plain and was lost in the dense ranks of the dark columns. Scarcely five minutes elapsed when eighty guns thundered out together, and as the earth shook and trembled beneath, the mighty movement of the day began its execution. From Hougoumont, where the slaughter and the carnage continued unslackened and unstayed, every eye was now turned towards the right. I knew not what troops occupied La Haye Sainte, or whether they were British who crowned the heights above it; but in my heart how fervently did I pray that they might be so. Oh, in that moment of suspense and agonizing doubt, what would I not have given to know that Picton himself and the fighting Fifth were there; that behind that ridge the Greys, the Royals, and the Enniskilleners sat motionless, but burning to advance; and the breath of battle waved among the tartans of the Highlanders, and blew upon the flashing features of my own island countrymen. Had I known this, I could have marked the onset with a less failing spirit.

“There goes Marcognet’s Division,” said my companion, springing to his legs; “they’re moving to the right of the road. I should like to see the troops that will stand before them.”

So saying, he mounted his horse, and desiring me to accompany him, rode to the height beside La Belle Alliance. The battle was now raging from the Château de Hougoumont to St. Lambert, where the Prussian tirailleurs, as they issued from the wood, were skirmishing with the advanced posts of Lobau’s Brigade. The attack upon the centre, however, engrossed all my attention, and I watched the dark columns as they descended into the plain, while the incessant roll of the artillery played about them. To the right of Ney’s attack, D’Erlon advanced with three divisions, and the artillery of the Guard. Towards this part of the field my companion moved. General le Vasseur desired to know if the division on the Brussels road were English or Hanoverian troops, and I was sent for to answer the question. We passed from square to square until at length we found ourselves upon the flank of D’Erlon’s Division. Le Vasseur, who at the head of his cuirassiers waited but the order to charge, waved impatiently with his sword for us to approach. We were now to the right of the high road, and about four hundred yards from the crest of the hill where, protected by a slight hedge, Picton, with Kempt’s Brigade, waited the attack of the enemy.

Just at this moment an incident took place which, while in itself one of the most brilliant achievements of the day, changed in a signal manner my own fortunes. The head of D’Erlon’s column pressed with fixed bayonets up the gentle slope. Already the Belgian infantry give way before them. The brave Brunswickers, overwhelmed by the heavy cavalry of France, at first begin to waver, then are broken; and at last retreat in disorder up the road, a whirlwind of pursuing squadrons thundering behind them. “En avant! en avant! la victoire est ènous,” is shouted madly through the impatient ranks; and the artillery is called up to play upon the British squares; upon which, fixed and immovable, the cuirassiers have charged without success. Like a thunderbolt, the flying artillery dashes to the front; but scarcely has it reached the bottom of the ascent, when, from the deep ground, the guns become embedded in the soil, the wheels refuse to move. In vain the artillery drivers whip and spur their laboring cattle. Impatiently the leading files of the column prick with their bayonets the struggling horses. The hesitation is fatal; for Wellington, who, with eager glance, watches from an eminence beside the high road the advancing column, sees the accident. An order is given; and with one fell swoop, the heavy cavalry brigade pour down. Picton’s Division deploys into line; the bayonets glance above the ridge; and with a shout that tells above the battle, on they come, the fighting Fifth. One volley is exchanged; but the bayonet is now brought to the charge, and the French division retreat in close column, pursued by their gallant enemy. Scarcely have the leading divisions fallen back, and the rear pressed down upon, or thrown into disorder, when the cavalry trumpets sound a charge; the bright helmets of the Enniskilleners come flashing in the sunbeams, and the Scotch Greys, like a white-crested wave, are rolling upon the foe. Marcognet’s Division is surrounded; the dragoons ride them down on every side; the guns are captured; the drivers cut down; and two thousand prisoners are carried off. A sudden panic seems to seize upon the French, as cavalry, infantry, and artillery are hurried back on each other. Vainly the French attempt to rally; the untiring enemy press madly on; the household brigade, led on by Lord Uxbridge, came thundering down the road, riding down with their gigantic force the mailed cuirassiers of France. Borne along with the retreating torrents, I was carried on amidst the densely commingled mass. The British cavalry, which, like the lightnings that sever the thunder-cloud, pierces through in every direction, plunged madly upon us. The roar of battle grew louder, as hand to hand they fought. Milhaud’s Heavy Dragoons, with the 4th Lancers, came up at a gallop. Picton presses forward, waving his plumed hat above his head; his proud eye flashes with the fire of victory. That moment is his last. Struck in the forehead by a musket-ball, he falls dead from the saddle; and the wild yell of the Irish regiments, as they ring his death-cry, are the last sounds which he hears. Meanwhile the Life Guards are among us; prisoners of rank are captured on every side; and I, seizing the moment, throw myself among the ranks of my countrymen, and am borne to the rear with the retiring squadrons.

As we reached the crest of the hill above the road, a loud cheer in the valley beneath us burst forth, and from the midst of the dense smoke a bright and pointed flame shot up towards the sky. It was the farm-house La Haye Sainte, which the French had succeeded in setting fire to with hot shot. For some time past the ammunition of the corps that held it had failed, and a dropping irregular musketry was the only reply to the incessant rattle of the enemy. As the smoke cleared away we discovered that the French had carried the position; and as no quarter was given in that deadly hand-to-hand conflict, not one returned to our ranks to toll the tale of their defeat.

“This is the officer that I spoke of,” said an aide-decamp, as he rode up to where I was standing bare-headed and without a sword. “He has just made his escape from the French lines, and will be able to give your lordship some information.”

The handsome features and gorgeous costume of Lord Uxbridge were known to me; but I was not aware, till afterward, that a soldier-like, resolute-looking officer beside him was General Graham. It was the latter who first addressed me.

“Are you aware, sir,” said he, “if Grouchy’s force have arrived?”

“They have not; on the contrary, shortly before I escaped, an aide-de-camp was despatched to Gembloux, to hasten his coming. And the troops, for they must be troops, were debouching from the wood yonder. They seem to form a junction with the corps to the right; they are the Prussians. They arrived there before noon from St. Lambert, and are part of Bulow’s Corps. Count Lobau and his division of ten thousand men were despatched, about an hour since, to hold them in check.”

“This is great news,” said Lord Uxbridge. “Fitzroy must know it at once.”

So saying, he dashed spurs into his horse, and soon disappeared amidst the crowd on the hill-top.

“You had better see the duke, sir,” said Graham. “Your information is too important to be delayed. Captain Calvert, let this officer have a horse; his own is too tired to go much farther.”