The Camp-fires of Napoleon

PREFACE

The vivid pictures of war, however ensanguined, have a wonderful attraction for the mass of men. They stir the heart like a trumpet. No narratives are so generally perused with avidity as those of “feats of broils and battles;” for in them, in spite of many disgusting features, there is always something to excite a pleasing thrill. We love excitement, and it seems that it is to war, and the descriptions of its varied scenes of danger, during which the faculties of the combatants are roused to extraordinary strength, that most look for the gratification of their natural desires. We have heard of many persons who, in the abstract, condemn all wars as brutal and degrading to humanity, peruse, with unwearied attention, narratives of the campaigns of great generals, and dwell upon their details with evident manifestations of delight. The passion is irresistible.

In this work, the author has endeavored to present to the mental eye, more vividly than the so-termed dignity of ordinary history permits, the most striking scenes and remarkable personages of Napoleon’s astonishing career of glory—to show the greatest warrior of any age in the field, and at the nightly bivouacs—upon the fertile plains of Piedmont—in the shadow of the Egyptian pyramids—amid the forests of Germany, and on the frozen plains of Russia—surrounded by his galaxy of splendid generals, his military family—to illustrate a passage in the history of Europe, which, for stirring scenes and powerful characters, has, perhaps, no parallel. From the camp-fire at Toulon, where the young lieutenant of artillery gave the first impression of his wonderful genius, till the terrible night of darkness and death following the battle of Waterloo, the career of Napoleon is traced by his bivouacs; and around each watch-fire is grouped the incidents of the conflicts which there occurred. The salient points in the life of the great warrior are, therefore, illumined, so as to fix them in the memory.

Who can know the incidents of that career of glory without astonishment? We find a genius, under the smile of fortune, rising from the ranks of the people to the summit of despotic power—surpassing the generalship of Hannibal—the statesmanship of Cæsar, and performing exploits, which, before his time, were placed among the impossible. There is imperishable interest attached to every event in the life of such a character; and, therefore, no work which honestly aims to illustrate them can be considered superfluous.

It is hoped that the numerous engravings will add to the attractions of the book, and render its word-pictures clearer and more perfect to the mind. Their value is so well established, that the time is approaching when few historical works will be published without such illustrations.

THE CAMP-FIRE AT TOULON

It was the night of the 19th of December, 1793. A sky of darkness, unbroken by the twinkling of a single star, arched over the town and harbor of Toulon. But on the rugged heights of Balagrier and L’Equillette, where the English had vainly constructed their “Little Gibraltar,” the watch-fires of the French beseigers were redly burning; sending up showers of sparks, which looked like rising stars against the intense blackness of the heavens. It was the 19th of December, and the fate of Toulon, which for four months had lingered in the balance, was decided. Britons, Spaniards, Neapolitans and French—a garrison of the enemies of the republic—had fought in vain. The “Little Gibraltar,” which commanded the town and harbor was in the hands of the French; their troops were even forcing their way into the town, and consternation had seized those who dared to oppose the decrees of the Committee of Safety, as well as those who had so promptly tendered them aid. The evacuation of Toulon had been hurriedly resolved; and now, as the red gleam of the watch-fires and the blaze of the thundering artillery shone upon the dark waters of the bay, crowds of trembling people could be seen embarking in vessels of all kinds, glad to avail themselves of the protection of the English fleet, to escape the bloody revenge of the triumphant republicans.

The batteries of the “Little Gibraltar,” were already sending a shower of death upon the hostile fleet in the roadstead. On a rock, by a small blazing fire, and just above a battery, a form could be dimly seen through the smoke of the guns, which was destined to rise as a terrible image before the eyes of Europe, as it stood now, the conqueror of the foes of France, at Toulon. It was a slender form, on which the costume of a commandant of artillery hung loosely. But the inexorable resolution of the pale face, and the keen, quick flashes of the eagle eyes, caused those who gazed to forget all but awe and wonder before this genius of war. Occasionally, between the reports of the heavy guns, could be heard the shrill voice of command, which none refused to obey—it would be obeyed. Those eyes had seen where to strike, and that voice had commanded, the blow which brought Toulon to the feet of the republic. The commander was Napoleon Bonaparte, the young Corsican—the pet of Paoli—the child cradled amid the civil wars of his native island—who had made the cannon his toy—and who had been educated to war at the military school of Brienne. A subordinate, he had compelled his superior officers to bow before the oracles of his genius. One after another they had yielded, till the last, General Dugommier, a brave old warrior, acknowledged his artillery officer as the conqueror of Toulon.

That was a proud moment for the young Napoleon. He knew that the triumph was secured, and that to him, alone, it was due; for his plan had prevailed against the ignorant and imbecile schemes of the republic’s generals, and his devices for rousing an irresistible enthusiasm in the troops,—such as naming a battery in a desperate position, the battery “des hommes sans peur” had rendered the execution of that plan complete. And now the enemy were preparing for flight—precipitate flight.

“A cooler aim—cut down a flag, brave Junot!” commands the shrill voice, amid the thunder of the guns, and the dusky, slovenly looking artillery man on the right of the battery, fronting Napoleon, steadily watches for a moment when the red glare shall show him a portion of the fleet in the roadstead. A glimpse of the cross of St. George! Loud thunders the gun, and at the next vivid glare, the flag falls; and amid the roar of the storm of death rises the cheer of the artillery men.

“Well done, Junot!” exclaimed the shrill voice. The slovenly man who brought down the cross of St. George was Andoche Junot, afterwards Marshal of France and Duke d’Abrantes, whose cool courage had more than once won the commendation of the commandant during this memorable siege.

But now occurred a scene which caused the fire of the “Little Gibraltar,” to slacken. Even as Napoleon spoke to Junot, he discovered a spreading flame in the harbor, and in a few moments, great tongues of fire licked the air in front of the town, and fit up the scene for miles around with a terrible brilliancy. The English and Spaniards, under the direction of Sir Sydney Smith, had set fire to the arsenal, the stores, and the French ships which they could not remove. The rising flames, growing redder and redder, seemed at length like the glowing crater of a volcano, amid which could be seen the masts and yards of the burning vessels, and the advance of the republican troops who were attempting to force their way into the town. The waters of the bay resembled streams of lava flowing from the mountains and hills around the town, which, themselves glowed like living coals. The Jacobins in the town now arose to take revenge upon the flying royalists. Horrid screams and yells, cries and entreaties rang upon the air like sounds from the infernal regions, while in the midst of all could be heard the swelling chorus of the Marseillais. The guns of Malbosquet were turned upon the town, and their thunder increased the uproar of this terrible scene. Suddenly, a tremendous explosion, as if a mountain had been shattered to its base by a bolt from heaven, shocked the air, and even caused the stern men under the eye of Napoleon to tremble. Hundreds of barrels of powder had exploded, and high above the harbor, the air was filled with the blazing fragments, which descended even among the batteries of the “Little Gibraltar,” causing the men to spring about to save themselves from the fire. Again that awful shock was given, a second magazine had exploded, and again the air seemed fairly alive with soaring fires, which threatened destruction when they fell. Fragments fell at the very feet of Napoleon, but he stood still, as a statue of resolution, a man without fear. His eyes were fixed upon the British fleet, which, by the red glare of earth and sky, could be seen slowly making sail, the decks of the vessels being crowded with fugitives. Once more he commanded the artillery to fire; and before the fleet got beyond the range of the guns, it received a shower of balls. The triumph was now complete.

Wearied officers and men now threw themselves upon the ground to rest, beside the fire. But to most of them, sleep could not come, with such a scene of terror, conflagration and tears before them. Napoleon, however, surveyed the harbor and town, for a few moments, and then, stretching himself upon the ground, commanded himself to slumber,—a faculty which he possessed through life—an evidence of his astonishing force of will.

The day dawned with a pale, ashen light. The roll of the drums, resounding among the hills, roused the triumphant soldiers of the republic; and as they gazed upon the smouldering ruins of the arsenal, and the bay strewn with the black fragments of the ships destroyed, they would have cursed their enemy; but they remembered their conquest, and pitied the destructive spite. Cheer after cheer rent the air. The artillery men crowded round their young chief, and with clamorous congratulations, gave him the first evidence of that enthusiastic affection, which, years afterwards, caused them to yearn to die in his service—to pave with their bodies his path to victory. What thoughts—what feelings burned within that young conqueror’s breast none could know; for his stern, bronze countenance expressed nothing but his concentred strength of resolution. The same day, General Dugommier sent intelligence of the capture of Toulon to the Committee of Public Safety, and in the despatch he particularly recommended Napoleon for promotion, in these remarkable words,—“Promote him, or he will promote himself.”

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONTE NOTTE

The pure, bright moon shone with serene majesty in the soft, dark blue of the Italian sky, dimming the light of the silver stars, in her own calm glory. The rugged heights of Monte Notte, with here and there a tower and wall, or a row of trees upon its broken ascent, and the two small villages at its base, surrounded with groves and vineyards, were revealed with scarce the variation of a shadow. They would have seemed to sleep beneath the soothing influence of the night, but for the numerous red fires, which burned here and there along the mountain side, and at intervals for the distance of half a mile from its base; and the occasional booming of a gun, with its grumbling echoes. At a considerable distance in front could be seen the lights of the redoubts upon the heights of Monte Legino, which throughout the day, under the command of the indomitable Colonel Rampon, had withstood the furious assaults of the Austrians under d’Argenteau, the commander preferring to perish rather than capitulate. His resolution had saved the plans of Bonaparte from receiving a check, and now the young general of the French felt sure of his game.

Around the watch-fires to which we have alluded were gathered the half-fed, half-clothed, but enthusiastic troops of the divisions commanded by La Harpe and Cervoni, who had united and marched to this strong position in the rear of Monte Legino, in accordance with the plans of Bonaparte. The general-in-chief was with them, for near this place he anticipated the triumph of his wonderful combinations, and the defeat of the Austrians. Most of the principal officers were quartered in the villages, resting from the fatigues of a rapid march. But the time was too critical for Bonaparte to think of sleep. He was abroad among those camp-fires, accompanied by the brave and active Swiss, La Harpe, that faithful and untiring friend, Michael Duroc, then aid-de-camp to the young general, and several other officers of distinction. As he walked among them, he looked like a mere boy attending a throng of rough and hardy soldiers. To each group gathered round a fire, he had a pleasant and encouraging word to say, a condescension to which these war-worn veterans were unaccustomed. As he turned away from them he might have heard expressions which showed that the troops believed in his invincibility, and at all events, were prepared to suffer any hardships in his service. The wretched clothing of many of them was observed by the general, and he occasionally reminded them, that they had now an opportunity of winning not only glory, which every true soldier should seek first, but wealth and abundance, amid the fertile plains of Italy. Such words, uttered by a commander among the camp-fires of an army are calculated to have more effect in arousing its enthusiasm than the most eloquent of regular and formal addresses. At length, arriving at a fire much larger than any of the others upon the side of the mountain, Bonaparte threw himself upon the ground, and, motioning his officers to follow his example, he took out the plan of operations, which he had drawn up, and began with his usual precision, to explain how far it had been carried out, and what would be the movements of the next day. In the meantime the soldiers, grim, moustached veterans, withdrew and set about kindling another fire at a respectful distance.

“Augereau will reach this point early in the morning, and render efficient support to the troops already in position. Marching by this road on the other side of the Appenines, Massena will show himself, nearly at the same time, in d’Argenteau’s rear, and then the Austrians cannot escape us. They will be surrounded on all sides by a superior force.

“Thus far it has been successful,” said La Harpe. “But if Rampon had not fought so desperately at Monte Legino, the plan would have been defeated, or at least, checked for a time.”

“Rampon fought bravely; but when such a plan depends upon the maintenance of a post, a good officer should prefer to die rather than yield it to the enemy,” replied Bonaparte.

“Rampon fought like a hero because he knew the importance of his position,” said Duroc.

“I trust Massena will be as active as the occasion demands. He has courage, perseverance, and skill; but it requires the most imminent danger to awaken his activity,” said the young commander-in-chief.

“A singular man, truly,” remarked Duroc.

“However,” continued Bonaparte, following the train of his own reflections, “never had a commander-in-chief more reason to be proud of his general officers than myself. They are all men born to lead. With them, I have nothing to fear from the delinquency of our half-fed troops.”

“Yet, general, the soldiers are in a condition calculated to depress their spirits,” said La Harpe. “We officers, who chiefly fight for glory, and for the honor of our country, never murmur, although very badly treated by our government. But the majority of the soldiers in the ranks have a constant eye to their pay.”

“But to make soldiers worthy of France, we must alter that;” replied Bonaparte, “one and all must be taught to fight for glory, and then our arms will be irresistible.”

La Harpe shook his head. But the enthusiastic Duroc, catching the noble fire of his illustrious friend, exclaimed.

“Yes, the love of glory makes the true soldier! This will cause the troops to forget their toilsome, bare-foot marches, and their long days of hunger! And never have I seen the French soldiers more eager for conflict in defence of their country’s honor, than they have been since our young general took command of the army of Italy. That first proclamation gave them a new spirit, which has been growing stronger every day. There are splendid triumphs before us, I am sure.”

The face of Bonaparte expressed nothing of the emotions which must have heaved in his soul at these words. But he grasped the hand of Duroc and shook it warmly.

“My friends,” said he, “it is all clear enough to me. To-morrow will be a great day for France. Old Beaulieu will begin to know his enemy. The plain before us shall be the scene of more Austrian astonishment and dismay than has been known in Italy for many years. Beaulieu supposes that I intended to file off along the coast to Genoa; whereas, here I am, ready to overwhelm his centre. Following up this victory, it will be easy to cut him off from communication with the Piedmontese.”

The officers gazed with wonder and admiration upon the stripling who was thus summarily disposing of the fate of armies and countries, and while they listened to his words of conscious power, an awe crept over them, they felt themselves in the presence of a superior being; and yet among them were several men of splendid qualities,—born to command.

By this time the groups around the fires had stretched themselves upon the hard earth to repose, and the pacing of the sentinels alone disturbed the stillness of the scene, where thousands of brave warriors submitted to the conqueror, sleep. Bonaparte and his officers returned to a house in the little village of Monte Notte, which had been selected as the quarters for the night. And the army slumbered on, beneath the sweet vigil of the moon, and beside the cheerful warmth of the camp-fires until the cold, white light in the east told that the most glorious king of day, who has arisen and set upon so many fields of conflict, was about to ascend the heavens.

“Far off his coming shone,”

and the stars soared out of sight, and the moon slowly faded to vapor, as the white light turned to a golden glow.

Then was heard the roll of the reveillé. With astonishing rapidity, the French were under arms and in motion. Bonaparte and his staff rode to an elevated knoll, commanding the whole plain, and then were ordered the movements which gave to the young commander-in-chief the victory of Monte Notte. D’Argenteau, the Austrian commander, found himself attacked upon one side by the divisions of La Harpe, Cervoni and Augereau, and upon the other by Massena. Then boomed the cannon, and the rattled musketry over the plain. The Austrian infantry sustained the conflict with admirable courage. But they were surrounded by superior forces and after several charges had been made by the French, in the full confidence of victory, the discomfited d’Argenteau was compelled to retreat towards Dego. In fact, the retreat was a disorderly flight. The French made two thousand prisoners, and several hundred Austrians were left dead on the field. The centre of the Austrian army had been completely overwhelmed. Bonaparte was the victor of Monte Notte. In after years, when the imperial crown adorned his brow, the conqueror showed his contempt for ancestral distinctions by saying that he dated his title to rule from this battle.

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONDOVI

When the conflict is at an end, and the awful silence of night descends upon the field where stark and stiff lie the mangled dead, among the broken weapons and spoils of the fight, the scene is fearfully impressive. There lie the cold forms of those, who in life were furious foes; but in death, side by side, united in their doom of darkness, they are all clay together. The bugle and the drum, which were sounded to signal the contest, are broken beside the mutilated and bloody bodies of those who played them at the head of the marching regiments. The captain, whose gallant “forward!” roused the spirits of his men, lies where he perished, in the van. The standard-bearer still clasps a portion of that dear symbol of his country, which numbers cut from his hands, and seems to have yielded his breath, while hugging that remnant to his heart. The grim veteran of a hundred fights, to whom death has been a jeer and a mockery, and the youth, with blooming cheek and eager eye, who left his mother’s cottage high in the hope of a glorious renown, are found cold and stiff together; the one with a smile of scorn curling his lip, the other with the keen agony, kindled by the rushing remembrance of the dear home lost forever, pictured in his countenance. The meek moon and the sentinel stars shining on this field of death, with a pallid light, add to its horrors, increasing the ghastly hue in the faces of the slain.

Such a scene was presented on the night of the 22nd of April, 1796, after the desperate battle of Mondovi. Near the town of that name, the dispirited army of Colli had been overtaken by two divisions of Bonaparte’s army, commanded by Serrurier and Massena. Serrurier had been repulsed, but the onset of Massena was irresistible, and the enemy were attacked on both flanks at once. The cavalry of the Piedmontese over powered and drove back that of the French, but the wonderful valor of Murat, the most glorious of cavalry officers, renewed the fortune of the day, and, shortly afterwards, Colli’s army was put to flight. During the retreat, the Piedmontese suffered dreadfully, losing the best of their troops, their cannons, baggage and appointments.

Wearied with the desperate conflict, the greater portion of the victorious army encamped in and about the town of Mondovi, a body of cavalry, alone pursuing and harassing the enemy. The description of the field of battle given above, will apply to this one, with the addition of a view of the towers and spires of Mondovi, and of numerous blazing fires in the vicinity, around which the exhausted troops had sunk to repose. Bonaparte had arrived; and, now, having gathered his principal officers at a ruined building, just outside of the town, which seemed to have been an old chapel, talked over with them the achievements of the day, and what was contemplated for the morrow. The ruin consisted of four broken walls, and was entirely roofless. It was several yards square, and the floor was strewn with fragments of sculpture which had once adorned the edifice. In the centre of the floor a fire was kindled, and camp-stools were ranged around it. At some distance from the ruin, guards were placed, with orders to keep the inquisitive beyond ear-shot. This place had evidently been selected by Bonaparte, in preference to the best mansion of Mondovi, to be secure from the treachery of Italians, who might have overheard and communicated to the enemy important information.

As usual, Bonaparte had the paper containing the lines of his movements before him, and with pencil and compasses in hand, he devised and marked alterations even while he talked. Among the officers gathered around the fire, were Massena, Berthier, Serrurier, Murat and Duroc.

Next to the commander-in-chief himself, Massena had the most remarkable personal appearance of any of the group. His massive features had a somewhat Jewish cast and their general expression was extremely heavy, or rather drowsy. The eyes were half-closed, and they did not sparkle like those of the rest, when Bonaparte spoke. Yet it was well known that, when excited by the storm of battle, their flash was terrible. The expression of the mouth, was always that of an inexorable will. The whole aspect of Andrew Massena was that of a man of great powers, difficult to rouse. Napoleon himself remarked that it was only in danger that appalled most men, that Massena acquired clearness and force of thought. His want of activity was his great defect as a commander.

Serrurier was a large man, with rough, prominent features, in which strong passions and dogged determinations were plainly expressed. His dress was torn and dusty; for although repulsed by the Piedmontese, he had fought like a lion on that desperate day.

The face of Duroc was manly and prepossessing. The slightly receding forehead, prominent nose, clear, bright eyes, and firm mouth, were illumined by a bland, but determined expression, indicative of the truly heroic spirit of this faithful friend of Napoleon. By the side of Michael Duroc, could be seen the stalwart form and noble countenance of Joachim Murat, the great leader of the cavalry, whose desperate charge had decided the battle in favor of the French. His gaudy costume was arranged with scrupulous nicety, and it bore no traces of the conflict. He sat toying with his long, dark curls during the conference.