BEFORE THE BATTLE.
It was long after nightfall. A cold and dismal night. The mountains
of the forests of Thuringia bordered the horizon with their snow-clad
summits, and a piercing wind was howling over the heights and through
the valleys.
The Prussian army seemed at length to have reached its destination, and
here, on the hills and in the valleys of Jena and Auerstadt, the great
conflict was to be decided, for the Prussian army was now confronting
the legions of Napoleon.
The principal army, with the commander-in-chief, the Duke of Brunswick,
the king, and the staff, was encamped at Auerstadt.
The second army, commanded by the Prince von Hohenlohe, was in the
immediate neighborhood of Jena.
It was still firmly believed that Prussia would accomplish her great
purpose, and defeat Napoleon. The disastrous skirmish of Saalfeld, and
the death of Prince Louis Ferdinand, had made a bad impression, but not
shaken the general confidence.
It is true, the Prussians were cold, for they had no cloaks; it is
true, they were hungry, for, owing to the sudden lack of bread, they had
received only half rations for the last few days; but their hearts were
still undismayed, and they longed only for one thing--for the decisive
struggle. The decision, at all events, could not but put an end to their
hunger, either by death or by a victory, which would open to them large
army magazines and supplies.
The Prussian troops encamped at Jena stood quietly before their tents
and chatted about the hopes of the next day; they told each other that
Bonaparte with his French, as soon as he had heard that the Prussians
were already at Jena, had hastily left Weimar again and retreated toward
Gera.
“Then it will be still longer before we get hold of the French,”
exclaimed several soldiers. “We thought we had got him sure at last,
and that he could not escape any more, and when he scented us, he again
found a mouse-hole through which he might get away.”
“But we will close this mouse-hole for him, so that he cannot get out
of it,” said a powerful voice behind them, and when the soldiers turned
anxiously around, they beheld their general, the Prince von Hohenlohe,
who, walking with his adjutants through the camp, just reached their
tents.
The soldiers faced about and respectfully saluted the general, who
kindly nodded to them.
“You would be glad then to meet the French soon?” he asked the soldiers,
whose conversation he had overheard.
“Yes, we should be glad,” they exclaimed; “it would be a holiday for
us.”
“Well, it may happen very soon,” said the prince, smiling, and continued
his walk.
“Long live the Prince von Hohenlohe!” shouted the soldiers. The
prince walked on, everywhere greeting the soldiers and receiving their
salutations; everywhere filling the men with exultation by promising
them that they would soon have a battle and defeat the French.
Now he stopped in front of the grenadiers, who were drawn up in line
before him.
“Boys,” he said, loudly and joyously, “you will have to perform the
heaviest part of the work. If need be, you must make a bayonet charge,
and I know you will rout the enemy wherever you meet with him. I am sure
you will do so!”
“Yes, we will!” shouted the grenadiers; “most assuredly we will! Would
we had already got hold of the French!”
“We will soon enough,” exclaimed the prince; and when he then walked
along the ranks, he asked a tall, broad-shouldered grenadier. “Well, how
many French soldiers will you take?”
“Five,” said the grenadier.
“And you?” said the prince, to another grenadier.
“Three,” he replied.
“I shall not take less than seven!” shouted another.
“I shall not take less than ten!” said still another.
The prince laughed and passed on.
When the night had further advanced, he rode with his staff to a hill
near Kapellendorf, where he had established his headquarters.
From this hill he closely scanned the position of the enemy, whose camp
was marked only by a few lights and bivouac-fires.
“We shall have nothing to do to-morrow,” said the prince, turning to his
officers. “It seems the principal army of the French is moving toward
Leipsic and Naumburg. At the best, we shall have a few skirmishes of no
consequence to-morrow. We may, therefore, calmly go to bed, and so may
our soldiers. Good-night, gentlemen.”
And the prince rode with his adjutants down to his headquarters at
Kapellendorf, to go to bed and sleep. An hour later, profound silence
reigned in the Prussian camp near Jena. The soldiers were sleeping, and
so was their general.
And profound silence reigned also in the Prussian camp at Auerstadt. The
king had held a council of war late in the evening, and conferred with
the Duke of Brunswick, Field-Marshal von Mullendorf, and the other
generals about the operations of the following day. The result of this
consultation had been that nobody believed in the possibility of a
battle on the following day; and hence, it had been decided that the
army was quietly to advance, follow the enemy, who seemed to retreat,
and prevent him from crossing the Saale.
The council of war had then adjourned, and the Duke of Brunswick
hastened to his quarters, in order, like the Prince von Hohenlohe, to go
to bed and sleep.
An hour lafer, profound silence reigned also in the Prussian camp at
Auerstadt. The Duke of Brunswick slept, and so did his soldiers.
The king alone was awake.
With a heavy heart and a gloomy face, he was walking up and down in his
tent. He felt indescribably lonesome, for his wife was no longer with
him. Yielding, with bitter tears, to the supplications of her husband,
she had left the camp to-day and gone toward Naumburg.
The king had implored her to go, but his heart was heavy; and when he at
last, late at night, repaired to his couch, slumber kept aloof from his
eyes.
At the same time, while the Prussian army and its generals were
sleeping, a wondrous scene took place not far from them, and a singular
procession moved across the fields at no great distance from Jena.
Silence, darkness, and fog reigned all around. But suddenly the fog
parted, and two torch-bearers, with grave faces, appeared accompanying
a man clad in a green overcoat, with white facings, with a small
three-cornered hat on his head, and mounted on a white horse. The blaze
of the torches illuminated his pale face; his eyes were as keen as those
of an eagle, and seemed to command the fog to disappear, so that he
might see what it was concealing from him. At his side, whenever the
torches blazed up, two other horsemen, in brilliant uniforms, were to
be seen; but their eyes did not try to pierce the fog, but to fathom the
face of the proud man at their side; their eyes were fixed on him, on
his pale face, on which, even at this hour of the night, the sun of
Austerlitz was shedding his golden rays.
While the Prussian army and its generals were sleeping, Napoleon
was awake and was arranging the plans for the impending battle. The
postmaster of Jena and General Denzel were his torch-bearers; Marshal
Lannes and Marshal Soult were his companions.
The Emperor Napoleon was reconnoitering, in the dead of night, the
ground on which he was to gain a battle over the Prussians on the
morrow, as he had recently gained a battle over the Austrians.
Austria had had her Austerlitz; Prussia was to have her Auerstadt and
Jena.
Napoleon had fixed his plan; to-morrow was the day when he would
take revenge on the King of Prussia for the treaty of Potsdam and the
alliance with Russia.
Arriving at the foot of the hill of Jena, the emperor stopped and
alighted, in order to ascend it on foot. When he reached the summit,
he stood for a long while absorbed in his reflections. The two
torch-bearers were at his side; the two marshals stood a little behind
them. The emperor’s eyes were fixed on the mountains, especially on the
Dornberg which he had previously passed.
The mountain lay dark and silent before him--a lonely, sleeping giant.
The emperor raised his arm and pointed at the Dornberg. “The Prussians
have left the heights,” he said, turning slowly to Marshal Lannes; “they
were probably afraid of the cold night-air, and have descended into
the valley to sleep. They believe we shall not take advantage of their
slumber. But they will be dreadfully mistaken, those old wigs! [Napoleon
said: “Ils se tromperent formidablement ces vieux perruques.”] As soon
as the fog has descended a little post your sharpshooters on the heights
of the Dornberg, that they may bid the Prussians good-morning when they
want to march up again!”
He turned his eyes again to the gorge; suddenly his eyes flashed fire
and seemed to pierce the darkness.
“What is going on in the gorge below?” he asked, hastily.
The torch-bearers lowered their torches; the emperor and the marshals
looked anxiously at a long black line moving forward in the middle
of the gorge, illuminated here and there by a yellow pale light which
seemed to burn in large lanterns.
Napoleon turned with an angry glance to Marshal Lannes. His face was
pale--his right shoulder was quivering, a symptom that he was highly
incensed. “It is the artillery of your corps,” he said. “It has stuck
in the gorge! If we cannot get it off, we shall lose tomorrow’s battle!
Come!”
And he hastened down-hill in so rapid and impetuous a manner that the
torch-bearers and marshals were scarcely able to follow him.
Like an apparition, with flashing eyes, with an angry, pale face, his
form suddenly emerged from the darkness before the artillerists who
vainly tried to move the field-pieces, the wheels of which sank deeply
into the sand. The whole column of cannon and caissons behind them had
been obliged to halt, and an inextricable confusion would have ensued
unless immediate and energetic steps had been taken to open a passage.
This was to be done immediately, for Napoleon was there.
He called in a loud voice for the general commanding the artillery; he
repeated this call three times, and every time his voice became more
threatening, and his face turned paler.
But the officers he called for did not appear. The emperor did not say a
word; his right shoulder was quivering, and his eyes flashed fire.
He commanded all the gunners in a loud voice to come to him, and ordered
them to get their tools and light their large lanterns.
The emperor had himself seized the first lantern that was lighted.
“Now take your pick-axes and spades,” he shouted. “We must widen the
gorge in order to get the field-pieces off again.”
It was hard and exhausting work. Large drops of perspiration ran down
from the foreheads of the gunners, and their breath issued painfully
from their breasts. But they worked on courageously and untiringly,
for the emperor stood at their side, lantern in hand, and lighted them
during their toilsome task.
At times the gunners would pause and lean on their spades--not, however,
for the purpose of resting, but of looking with wondering eyes at this
strange spectacle, this man with his pale marble face and flaming eyes,
this emperor who had transformed himself into an artillery officer, and,
lantern in hand, lighted his gunners. [“Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol.
ii., p. 278.]
Only when the wagons and field-pieces, thanks to the energy of the
gunners, had commenced moving again, the emperor left the gorge and
returned to his bivouac. He took his supper hastily and thoughtfully;
then he summoned all his generals and gave them their instructions for
to-morrow’s battle as lucidly and calmly as ever.
“And now let us sleep, for we must be up and doing to-morrow morning at
four o’clock!” said the emperor, dismissing his generals with a winning
smile.
A few minutes later profound silence reigned all around; the emperor lay
on his straw and slept. Roustan sat at some distance from him, and his
dark eyes were fixed on his master with the expression of a faithful and
vigilant St. Bernard’s dog. The flames of the bivouac-fire enveloped at
times, when they rose higher, the whole form of the emperor in a strange
halo, and when they sank down again the shades of the night shrouded
it once more. Four sentinels were walking up and down in front of the
emperor’s bivouac.
Morning was dawning; it was the morning of the 14th of October, 1806.
The Prussians were still asleep in their tents. But the French were
awake, and the emperor was at their head.
At four o’clock, according to the orders Napoleon had given, the
divisions that were to make the first attack were under arms.
The emperor on his white horse galloped up; an outburst of the most
rapturous enthusiasm hailed his appearance.
“Long live our little corporal! Long live the emperor!” shouted
thousands of voices.
The emperor raised his hat a little and thanked the soldiers with a
smile which penetrated like a warm sunbeam into all hearts. He waved
his right hand, commanding them to be silent, and then his powerful,
sonorous voice resounded through the stillness of the autumnal morning.
“Soldiers,” he shouted in his usual imperious tone, “soldiers, the
Prussian army is cut off, like that of General Mack a year ago at
Ulm. That army will only fight to secure a retreat and to regain its
communications. The French corps, which suffers itself to be defeated
under such circumstances, disgraces itself. Fear not that celebrated
cavalry; meet it in square and with the bayonet!”
“Long live the emperor! Long live the little corporal!” shouted the
soldiers jubilantly, on all sides. The emperor nodded smilingly, and
galloped on to give his orders here and there, and to address the
soldiers.
It was six o’clock in the morning; the Prussians were still asleep! But
now the first guns thundered; they awakened the sleeping Prussians.