i. the story of the forest inn
of all the great battles in which i had the honour of drawing my sword for the emperor and for france there was not one which was lost. at waterloo, although, in a sense, i was present, i was unable to fight, and the enemy was victorious. it is not for me to say that there is a connection between these two things. you know me too well, my friends, to imagine that i would make such a claim. but it gives matter for thought, and some have drawn flattering conclusions from it.
after all, it was only a matter of breaking a few english squares and the day would have been our own. if the hussars of conflans, with etienne gerard to lead them, could not do this, then the best judges are mistaken.
but let that pass. the fates had ordained that i should hold my hand and that the empire should fall. but they had also ordained that this day of gloom and sorrow should bring such honour to me as had never come when i swept on the wings of victory from boulogne to vienna.
never had i burned so brilliantly as at that supreme moment when the darkness fell upon all around me. you are aware that i was faithful to the emperor in his adversity, and that i refused to sell my sword and my honour to the bourbons. never again was i to feel my war horse between my knees, never again to hear the kettledrums and silver trumpets behind me as i rode in front of my little rascals. but it comforts my heart, my friends, and it brings the tears to my eyes, to think how great i was upon that last day of my soldier life, and to remember that of all the remarkable exploits which have won me the love of so many beautiful women, and the respect of so many noble men, there was none which, in splendour, in audacity, and in the great end which was attained, could compare with my famous ride upon the night of june 18th, 1815. i am aware that the story is often told at mess-tables and in barrack-rooms, so that there are few in the army who have not heard it, but modesty has sealed my lips, until now, my friends, in the privacy of these intimate gatherings, i am inclined to lay the true facts before you.
in the first place, there is one thing which i can assure you. in all his career napoleon never had so splendid an army as that with which he took the field for that campaign. in 1813 france was exhausted. for every veteran there were five children—marie louises, as we called them; for the empress had busied herself in raising levies while the emperor took the field. but it was very different in 1815. the prisoners had all come back—the men from the snows of russia, the men from the dungeons of spain, the men from the hulks in england.
these were the dangerous men, veterans of twenty battles, longing for their old trade, and with hearts filled with hatred and revenge. the ranks were full of soldiers who wore two and three chevrons, every chevron meaning five years' service. and the spirit of these men was terrible. they were raging, furious, fanatical, adoring the emperor as a mameluke does his prophet, ready to fall upon their own bayonets if their blood could serve him. if you had seen these fierce old veterans going into battle, with their flushed faces, their savage eyes, their furious yells, you would wonder that anything could stand against them. so high was the spirit of france at that time that every other spirit would have quailed before it; but these people, these english, had neither spirit nor soul, but only solid, immovable beef, against which we broke ourselves in vain. that was it, my friends! on the one side, poetry, gallantry, self-sacrifice—all that is beautiful and heroic. on the other side, beef. our hopes, our ideals, our dreams—all were shattered on that terrible beef of old england.
you have read how the emperor gathered his forces, and then how he and i, with a hundred and thirty thousand veterans, hurried to the northern frontier and fell upon the prussians and the english. on the 16th of june, ney held the english in play at quatre-bras while we beat the prussians at ligny. it is not for me to say how far i contributed to that victory, but it is well known that the hussars of conflans covered themselves with glory. they fought well, these prussians, and eight thousand of them were left upon the field. the emperor thought that he had done with them, as he sent marshal grouchy with thirty-two thousand men to follow them up and to prevent their interfering with his plans. then with nearly eighty thousand men, he turned upon these “goddam” englishmen. how much we had to avenge upon them, we frenchmen—the guineas of pitt, the hulks of portsmouth, the invasion of wellington, the perfidious victories of nelson! at last the day of punishment seemed to have arisen.
wellington had with him sixty-seven thousand men, but many of them were known to be dutch and belgian, who had no great desire to fight against us. of good troops he had not fifty thousand. finding himself in the presence of the emperor in person with eighty thousand men, this englishman was so paralysed with fear that he could neither move himself nor his army. you have seen the rabbit when the snake approaches. so stood the english upon the ridge of waterloo. the night before, the emperor, who had lost an aide-de-camp at ligny, ordered me to join his staff, and i had left my hussars to the charge of major victor. i know not which of us was the most grieved, they or i, that i should be called away upon the eve of battle, but an order is an order, and a good soldier can but shrug his shoulders and obey. with the emperor i rode across the front of the enemy's position on the morning of the 18th, he looking at them through his glass and planning which was the shortest way to destroy them. soult was at his elbow, and ney and foy and others who had fought the english in portugal and spain. “have a care, sire,” said soult. “the english infantry is very solid.”
“you think them good soldiers because they have beaten you,” said the emperor, and we younger men turned away our faces and smiled. but ney and foy were grave and serious. all the time the english line, chequered with red and blue and dotted with batteries, was drawn up silent and watchful within a long musket-shot of us. on the other side of the shallow valley our own people, having finished their soup, were assembling for the battle. it had rained very heavily, but at this moment the sun shone out and beat upon the french army, turning our brigades of cavalry into so many dazzling rivers of steel, and twinkling and sparkling on the innumerable bayonets of the infantry. at the sight of that splendid army, and the beauty and majesty of its appearance, i could contain myself no longer, but, rising in my stirrups, i waved my busby and cried, “vive l'empereur!” a shout which growled and roared and clattered from one end of the line to the other, while the horsemen waved their swords and the footmen held up their shakos upon their bayonets. the english remained petrified upon their ridge. they knew that their hour had come.
and so it would have come if at that moment the word had been given and the whole army had been permitted to advance. we had but to fall upon them and to sweep them from the face of the earth. to put aside all question of courage, we were the more numerous, the older soldiers, and the better led. but the emperor desired to do all things in order, and he waited until the ground should be drier and harder, so that his artillery could manoeuvre. so three hours were wasted, and it was eleven o'clock before we saw jerome buonaparte's columns advance upon our left and heard the crash of the guns which told that the battle had begun. the loss of those three hours was our destruction. the attack upon the left was directed upon a farm-house which was held by the english guards, and we heard the three loud shouts of apprehension which the defenders were compelled to utter. they were still holding out, and d'erlon's corps was advancing upon the right to engage another portion of the english line, when our attention was called away from the battle beneath our noses to a distant portion of the field of action.
the emperor had been looking through his glass to the extreme left of the english line, and now he turned suddenly to the duke of dalmatia, or soult, as we soldiers preferred to call him.
“what is it, marshal?” said he.
we all followed the direction of his gaze, some raising our glasses, some shading our eyes. there was a thick wood over yonder, then a long, bare slope, and another wood beyond. over this bare strip between the two woods there lay something dark, like the shadow of a moving cloud.
“i think that they are cattle, sire,” said soult.
at that instant there came a quick twinkle from amid the dark shadow.
“it is grouchy,” said the emperor, and he lowered his glass. “they are doubly lost, these english. i hold them in the hollow of my hand. they cannot escape me.”
he looked round, and his eyes fell upon me.
“ah! here is the prince of messengers,” said he. “are you well mounted, colonel gerard?”
i was riding my little violette, the pride of the brigade.
i said so.
“then ride hard to marshal grouchy, whose troops you see over yonder. tell him that he is to fall upon the left flank and rear of the english while i attack them in front. together we should crush them and not a man escape.”
i saluted and rode off without a word, my heart dancing with joy that such a mission should be mine. i looked at that long, solid line of red and blue looming through the smoke of the guns, and i shook my fist at it as i went. “we shall crush them and not a man escape.”
they were the emperor's words, and it was i, etienne gerard, who was to turn them into deeds. i burned to reach the marshal, and for an instant i thought of riding through the english left wing, as being the shortest cut. i have done bolder deeds and come out safely, but i reflected that if things went badly with me and i was taken or shot the message would be lost and the plans of the emperor miscarry. i passed in front of the cavalry, therefore, past the chasseurs, the lancers of the guard, the carabineers, the horse grenadiers, and, lastly, my own little rascals, who followed me wistfully with their eyes. beyond the cavalry the old guard was standing, twelve regiments of them, all veterans of many battles, sombre and severe, in long blue overcoats and high bearskins from which the plumes had been removed. each bore within the goatskin knapsack upon his back the blue and white parade uniform which they would use for their entry into brussels next day. as i rode past them i reflected that these men had never been beaten, and as i looked at their weather-beaten faces and their stern and silent bearing, i said to myself that they never would be beaten. great heavens, how little could i foresee what a few more hours would bring!
on the right of the old guard were the young guard and the 6th corps of lobau, and then i passed jacquinot's lancers and marbot's hussars, who held the extreme flank of the line. all these troops knew nothing of the corps which was coming toward them through the wood, and their attention was taken up in watching the battle which raged upon their left. more than a hundred guns were thundering from each side, and the din was so great that of all the battles which i have fought i cannot recall more than half-a-dozen which were as noisy. i looked back over my shoulder, and there were two brigades of cuirassiers, english and french, pouring down the hill together, with the sword-blades playing over them like summer lightning. how i longed to turn violette, and to lead my hussars into the thick of it! what a picture! etienne gerard with his back to the battle, and a fine cavalry action raging behind him.
