Tired of reading? Add this page to your Bookmarks or Favorites and finish it later.
|
|
He did not, as you know, find the death he sought, but he met it
a few weeks later in cold blood at the hands of his enemies.
There is an old proverb that in attack the French are more than
men, in defeat they are less than women. I knew that it was true
that day. But even in that rout I saw things which I can tell
with pride. Through the fields which skirt the road moved
Cambronne's three reserve battalions of the Guard, the cream of
our army.
They walked slowly in square, their colours waving over the
sombre line of the bearskins. All round them raged the English
cavalry and the black Lancers of Brunswick, wave after wave
thundering up, breaking with a crash, and recoiling in ruin.
When last I saw them, the English guns, six at a time, were
smashing grape-shot through their ranks and the English infantry
were closing in upon three sides and pouring volleys into them;
but still, like a noble lion with fierce hounds clinging to its
flanks, the glorious remnant of the Guard, marching slowly,
halting, closing up, dressing, moved majestically from their last
battle. Behind them the Guard's battery of twelve- pounders was
drawn up upon the ridge. Every gunner was in his place, but no
gun fired. "Why do you not fire?" I asked the colonel as I
passed. "Our powder is finished." "Then why not retire?" "Our
appearance may hold them back for a little. We must give the
Emperor time to escape." Such were the soldiers of France.
|