The Bronze Eagle Part 41

Had it not rained so persistently and so long that same compelling artillery would have begun its devastating work earlier in the day--at six mayhap, or mayhap at dawn, another five, six, seven hours to add to the length of that awful day: another five, six, seven hours wherein to tax the tenacity, the heroic persistence of the British troops: another five, six, seven hours of dogged resistance on the one side, of impetuous charges on the other, before the arrival of Blucher and his Prussians and the turning of the scales of blind Justice against the daring gambler who had staked his all.

But it was only at half-past eleven that the cannon began to roar, and the undulating plain carried the echo like a thunder-roll from heaving billow to heaving billow till it broke against the silent majesty of the forest of Soigne.

Here with the forest as a background is the highest point of Mont Saint Jean: and here beneath an overhanging elm--all day on horseback--anxious, frigid and heroic, is Wellington--with a rain of bullets all round him, watching, ceaselessly watching that horizon far away, wrapped now in fog, anon in smoke and soon in gathering darkness: watching for the promised Prussian army that was to ease the terrible burden of that desperate stand which the British troops were bearing and had borne all day with such unflinching courage and dogged tenacity.

It is in vain that his aides-de-camp beg him to move away from that perilous position.

"My lord," cries Lord Hill at last in desperation, "if you are killed, what are we to do?"

"The same as I do now," replies Wellington unmoved, "hold this place to the last man."

Then with a sudden outburst of vehemence, that seems to pierce almost involuntarily the rigid armour of British phlegm and British self-control, he calls to his old comrades of Salamanca and Vittoria:

"Boys, which of us now can think of retreating? What would England think of us, if we do?"

Heroic, unflinching and cool the British army has held its ground against the overwhelming power of Napoleon's magnificent cavalry. Raw recruits some of them, against the veterans of Jena and of Wagram! But they have been ordered to hold the place to the last man, and in close and serried squares they have held their ground ever since half-past eleven this morning, while one after another the flower of Napoleon's world-famed cavalry had been hurled against them.

Cuira.s.siers, cha.s.seurs, lancers, up they come to the charge, like whirlwinds up the declivities of the plateau. Like a whirlwind they rush upon those stolid, immovable, impenetrable squares, attacking from every side, making violent, obstinate, desperate onsets upon the stubborn angles, the straight, unshakable walls of red coats; slashing at the bayonets with their swords, at crimson b.r.e.a.s.t.s with their lances, firing their pistols right between those glowing eyes, right into those firm jaws and set teeth.

The sound of bullets on breastplates and helmets and epaulettes is like a shower of hailstones upon a sheet of metal.

Twice, thrice, nay more--a dozen times--they return to the charge, and the plateau gleams with brandished steel like a thousand flashes of simultaneous fork-lightning on the vast canopy of a stormy sky.

From midday till after four, a kind of mysterious haze covers this field of n.o.ble deeds. Fog after the rain wraps the gently-billowing Flemish ground in a white semi-transparent veil--covers with impartial coolness all the mighty actions, the heroic charges and still more heroic stands, all the silent uncomplaining sufferings, the glorious deaths, all the courage and all the endurance.

Through the grey mists we see a medley of moving colours--blue and grey and scarlet and black--of shakos and sabretaches, of English and French and Hanoverian and Scotch, of epaulettes and bare knees; we hear the sound of carbine and artillery fire, the clank of swords and bayonets, the call of bugle and trumpet and the wail of the melancholy pibroch: tunics and gold ta.s.sels and kilts--a medley of sounds and of visions!

We see the attack on Hougoumont--the appearance of Bulow on the heights of Saint Lambert--the charge of the Inniskillings and the Scots Greys--the death of valiant Ponsonby. We see Marshal Ney Prince of Moskowa--the bravest soldier in France--we see him everywhere where the melee is thickest, everywhere where danger is most nigh. His magnificent uniform torn to shreds, his gold lace tarnished, his hair and whiskers singed, his face blackened by powder, indomitable, unconquered, superb, we hear him cry: "Where are those British bullets? Is there not one left for me?"

He knows--none better!--that the plains of Mont Saint Jean are the great gambling tables on which the supreme gambler--Napoleon, once Emperor of the French and master of half the world--had staked his all. "If we come out of this alive and conquered," he cries to Heymes, his aide-de-camp, "there will only be the hangman's rope left for us all."

And we see the gambler himself--Napoleon, Emperor still and still certain of victory--on horseback all day, riding from end to end of his lines; he is gayer than he has ever been before. At Marengo he was despondent, at Austerlitz he was troubled: but at Waterloo he has no doubts. The star of his destiny has risen more brilliant than ever before.

"The day of France's glory has only just dawned," he calls, and his mind is full of projects--the triumphant march back into Paris--the Germans driven back to the Rhine--the English to the sea.

His only anxiety--and it is a slight one still--is that Grouchy with his fresh troops is so late in arriving.

Still, the Prussians are late too, and the British cannot hold the place for ever.

II

At three o'clock the fog lifts--the veil that has wrapped so many sounds, such awful and wonderful visions, in a kind of mystery, is lifted now, and it reveals . . . what? Hougoumont invested--Brave Baring there with a handful of men--English, German, Brunswickians--making a last stand with ten rounds of ammunition left to them per man, and the French engineers already battering in the gates of the enclosing wall that surrounds the chateau and chapel of Goumont: the farm of La Haye Sainte taken--Ney there with his regiment of cuira.s.siers and five battalions of the Old Guard: and the English lines on the heights of Mont Saint Jean apparently giving way.

We see too a vast hecatomb: glory and might must claim their many thousand victims: the dead and dying lie scattered like p.a.w.ns upon an abandoned chessboard, the humble p.a.w.ns in this huge and final gamble for supremacy and power, for national existence and for liberty. Hougoumont, La Haye Sainte, Papelotte are sown with ill.u.s.trious dead--but on the plateau of Mont Saint Jean the British still hold their ground.

Wellington is still there on the heights, with the majestic trees of Soigne behind him, the stately canopy of the elm above his head--more frigid than before, more heroic, but also more desperately anxious.

"Blucher or nightfall," he sighs as a fresh cavalry charge is hurled against those indomitable British squares. The thirteenth a.s.sault, and still they stand or kneel on one knee, those gallant British boys; bayonet in hand or carbine, they fire, fall out and re-form again: shaken, hustled, encroached on they may be, but still they stand and fire with coolness and precision . . . the ranks are not broken yet.

Officers ride up to the field-marshal to tell him that the situation has become desperate, their regiments decimated, their men exhausted. They ask for fresh orders: but he has only one answer for them:

"There are no fresh orders, save to hold out to the last man."

And down in the valley at La Belle Alliance is the great gambler--the man who to-day will either be Emperor again--a greater, mightier monarch than even he has ever been--or who will sink to a status which perhaps the meanest of his erstwhile subjects would never envy.

But just now--at four o'clock--when the fog has lifted--he is flushed with excitement, exultant in the belief in victory.

The English centre on Mont Saint Jean is giving way at last, he is told.

"The beginning of retreat!" he cries.

And he, who had been anxious at Austerlitz, despondent at Marengo, is gay and happy and br.i.m.m.i.n.g full of hope.

"De Marmont," he calls to his faithful friend, "De Marmont, go ride to Paris now; tell them that victory is ours! No, no," he adds excitedly, "don't go all the way--ride to Genappe and send a messenger to Paris from there--then come back to be with us in the hour of victory."

And Victor de Marmont rides off in order to proclaim to the world at large the great victory which the Emperor has won this day over all the armies of Europe banded and coalesced against him.

From far away on the road of Ohain has come the first rumour that Blucher and his body of Prussians are nigh--still several hours' march from Waterloo but advancing--advancing. For hours Wellington has been watching for them, until wearily he has sighed: "Blucher or nightfall alone can save us from annihilation now."

The rumour--oh! it was merely the whispering of the wind, but still a rumour nevertheless--means fresh courage to tired, half-spent troops.

Even deeds of unparalleled heroism need the stimulus of renewed hope sometimes.

The rumour has also come to the ears of the Emperor, of Ney and of all the officers of the staff. They all know that those magnificent British troops whom they have fought all day must be nigh to their final desperate effort at last--with naught left to them but their stubborn courage and that tenacity which has been ever since the wonder of the world.

They know, these brave soldiers of Napoleon--who have fought and admired the brave foe--that the 1st and 2nd Life Guards are decimated by now; that entire British and German regiments are cut up; that Picton is dead, the Scots Greys almost annihilated. They know what havoc their huge cavalry charges have made in the magnificent squares of British infantry; they know that heroism and tenacity and determination must give way at last before superior numbers, before fresh troops, before persistent, ever-renewed attacks.

Only a few fresh troops and Ney declares that he can conquer the final dogged endurance of the British troops, before they in their turn receive the support of Blucher and his Prussians, or before nightfall gives them a chance of rest.

So he sends Colonel Heymes to his Emperor with the urgent message: "More troops, I entreat, more troops and I can break the English centre before the Prussians come!"

None knew better than he that this was the great hazard on which the life and honour of his Emperor had been staked, that Imperial France was fighting hand to hand with Great Britain, each for her national existence, each for supremacy and might and the honour of her flag.

Imperial France--bold, daring, impetuous!

Great Britain--tenacious, firm and impa.s.sive!

Wellington under the elm-tree, calmly scanning the horizon while bullets whiz past around his head, and ordering his troops to hold on to the last man!

The Emperor on horseback under a hailstorm of shot and sh.e.l.l and bullets riding from end to end of his lines!

Ney and his division of cuira.s.siers and grenadiers of the Old Guard had just obeyed the Emperor's last orders which had been to take La Haye Sainte at all costs: and the intrepid Marechal now, flushed with victory, had sent his urgent message to Napoleon:

"More troops! and I can yet break through the English centre before the arrival of the Prussians."

"More troops?" cried the Emperor in despair, "where am I to get them from? Am I a creator of men?"

And from far away the rumour: "Blucher and the Prussians are nigh!"