Part 23 (1/2)

The odds were too heavy, in fine. The Emperor did not realize their preponderance until it was too late. If he had a.s.sembled every soldier, abandoning everything else but the defense of France, and if he had shown with such an army as he could have gathered under those conditions the same spirit of generals.h.i.+p which he had exhibited in that marvelous campaign against Blucher, he might have saved France, his throne, his wife, his little son, his prestige, everything. As it was, he lost all. But not without fighting. Stubborn, determined, magnificently defiant he had been to the last.

Marteau had often thrilled to the recollection during the long hours he spent in captivity in Austria, and even in the delirium and fever of his long and wasting illness, begot of the foul prison, he had remembered it. In all the hard fighting and hard marching of those mournful if splendid days the young man had faithfully and well borne his important if humble part. There was a great dearth of officers, staff officers as well as the others. He had been very near to the Emperor during those last days.

He remembered the smas.h.i.+ng attack upon the van of the allies at Montereau. He could feel once more the thrill of the army, as the circ.u.mspect Schwarzenberg stopped his advance, retired, concentrated his columns. He remembered the long, swift march back across the country, after further demonstrations to keep Schwarzenberg in his cautious mood, against the rear of the reorganized and advancing army of Blucher; the desperate, b.l.o.o.d.y, fruitless battles of Laon and Craonne, rendered necessary by treachery.

He could recall again the furious rage of Napoleon, the almost despair that filled the Emperor's heart, when the news came of the cowardly surrender of the fort at Soissons by its incapable commandant, which rendered useless Napoleon's cunning plans, and all the hard marching and harder fighting of his heroic soldiery.

He recalled the escape of hard-pressed Blucher again, the return of the French to face the overwhelming main army of the allies, slowly but surely moving toward its goal whenever the withdrawal of the Emperor left it free to advance, the detachment of Marmont and Mortier to defend Paris, the fierce two-day battle at Arcis-sur-Aube, the dash of Maurice's and Sebastiani's gallant cavalry upon the whole Austrian army, the deadly conflict before the bridge, the picture of the retreat that bade fair to become a rout.

He could see again the Emperor, riding down, sword in hand, into the midst of the fugitives crossing the bridge, and, amid a storm of bullets, ordering and beseeching and imploring the men to rally. He had been there on that mad March morning. He would never forget the sight of that figure, the words the Emperor said. It reminded him of the dash of the ”little corporal” with the flag on the bridge of Lodi, of which old Bullet-Stopper had often told him and the other young men over the camp-fires.

The Fifth-of-the-Line had immortalized itself that day, adding to the fame it had gained upon a hundred fields, an imperishable crown.

Napoleon saw that the battle was lost, that the whole Austrian army had blundered upon that first French division and that, unless their steady advance could be checked, the division itself would be cut to pieces.

Men had grown more precious to the Emperor every hour. What would he not have given for those he had spent so recklessly years before? And here was a whole division about to be annihilated, to say nothing of the cavalry, which had performed prodigies of valor.

”What regiment is that?” he had asked Marteau, who was riding at his heels in the midst of the fugitives, and doing his best to second the Emperor's frantic efforts to restore order and bring the men to a stand.

”The Fifth-of-the-Line, Sire.”

”Your old regiment?”

”The same, Sire.”

”It still stands.”

”And it will stand.”

”Good! Go to it. Tell them that I, the Emperor, devote them to death, for me and for the army. They must hold the Austrians in check and cover the retreat.”

”Farewell, Sire,” the young soldier had said, saluting.

”What mean you?”

”I shall not come back with the remainder.”

”Adieu,” said the Emperor, acknowledging the salute and understanding all.

How well Marteau remembered that frightful conflict. The Fifth-of-the-Line had not waited to be attacked. It had gone forward.

The Colonel had been shot down. Officer after officer had fallen. The advancing line had wavered, hesitated, halted. The Eagle-bearer fell.

Eager hands caught the staff. The Austrian fire was concentrated upon it. The color guard was shot to pieces. The Eagle itself had the tip of its right wing shot away. Mortal men could do no more. The regiment began to give back.

It was Marteau who sprang to the front, he and young Pierre, who had attached himself to the officer in a sort of unofficial way. It was Marteau who seized the Eagle; it was he who rallied the line. The new men formed up like veterans, the old men settled in their places, cool and ready. They returned the Austrian fire, they checked the Austrian advance, they stood ready while the troops behind them ran for their lives. Napoleon, whose eye nothing escaped, saw it all. He even recognized Marteau carrying the Eagle.

The Fifth-of-the-Line made good that defense until the time came for the retreat. Then it retired slowly, fighting every step of the way down the low hill to the bridge. The men dropped by scores. The Austrians, seeing victory in reach, pressed closer. A charge at the last minute by the cuira.s.siers of the Emperor Francis' guard almost completed the annihilation of the first battalion of the regiment. The survivors sought to form a square, under a withering gun fire, to meet the uplifted sabers of the heavy cavalry. There were not enough of them left. They were ridden down. Two hundred and fifty of the four hundred who went into that fight lay dead on that field. Of the survivors scarce a handful got across the river. Some of the unhurt men, disdaining quarter and unable to fly, fought until they fell. The wounded, of whom there were many, were all captured out of hand.

Marteau, with the Eagle, had stood nearest the enemy. They had swarmed about him at last. He found himself alone, save for the boy, Pierre.

He could see the red-faced, excited, shouting, yelling, pa.s.sion-animated Austrian soldiers crowding upon him. His sword was broken, his pistols empty and gone. He was defenseless. Retreat was cut off. The Eagle staff had been shot away. The flag torn to pieces.