Cousin Hans did not eat much dinner that day. People in love never eat
much, and, besides, he did not care for rissoles.
At last five o’clock struck. He had already taken up his position on the
ramparts, whence he could survey the whole esplanade. Quite right: there
came the black frock-coat, the light trousers, and the well-brushed hat.
Cousin Hans felt his heart palpitate a little. At first he attributed
this to a sense of shame in thus craftily setting a trap for the good
old captain. But he soon discovered that it was the sight of the beloved
one’s father that set his blood in a ferment. Thus reassured, he began,
in accordance with Uncle Frederick’s advice, to draw strokes and angles
in the sand, attentively fixing his eyes, from time to time, upon the
Castle of Akerhuus.
The whole esplanade was quiet and deserted. Cousin Hans could hear the
captain’s firm steps approaching; they came right up to him and stopped.
Hans did not look up; the captain advanced two more paces and coughed.
Hans drew a long and profoundly significant stroke with his stick, and
then the old fellow could contain himself no longer.
“Aha, young gentleman,” he said, in a friendly tone, taking off his hat,
“are you making a plan of our fortifications?”
Cousin Hans assumed the look of one who is awakened from deep
contemplation, and, bowing politely, he answered with some
embarrassment: “No, it’s only a sort of habit I have of trying to take
my bearings wherever I may be.”
“An excellent habit, a most excellent habit,” the captain exclaimed with
warmth.
“It strengthens the memory,” Cousin Hans remarked, modestly.
“Certainly, certainly, sir!” answered the captain, who was beginning to
be much pleased by this modest young man.
“Especially in situations of any complexity,” continued the modest young
man, rubbing out his strokes with his foot.
“Just what I was going to say!” exclaimed the captain, delighted. “And,
as you may well believe, drawings and plans are especially indispensable
in military science. Look at a battle-field, for example.”
“Ah, battles are altogether too intricate for me,” Cousin Hans
interrupted, with a smile of humility.
“Don’t say that, sir!” answered the kindly old man. “When once you have
a bird’s-eye view of the ground and of the positions of the armies, even
a tolerably complicated battle can be made quite comprehensible.--This
sand, now, that we have before us here, could very well be made to give
us an idea, in miniature, of, for example, the battle of Waterloo.”
“I have come in for the long one,” thought Cousin Hans, “but never mind!
[Note: In English in the original.] I love her.”
“Be so good as to take a seat on the bench here,” continued the captain,
whose heart was rejoiced at the thought of so intelligent a hearer, “and
I shall try to give you in short outline a picture of that momentous and
remarkable battle--if it interests you?”
“Many thanks, sir,” answered Cousin Hans, “nothing could interest me
more. But I’m afraid you’ll find it terribly hard work to make it clear
to a poor, ignorant civilian.”
“By no means; the whole thing is quite simple and easy, if only you
are first familiar with the lay of the land,” the amiable old gentleman
assured him, as he took his seat at Hans’s side, and cast an inquiring
glance around.
While they were thus seated, Cousin Hans examined the captain more
closely, and he could not but admit that in spite of his sixty years,
Captain Schrappe was still a handsome man. He wore his short, iron-gray
mustaches a little turned up at the ends, which gave him a certain air
of youthfulness. On the whole, he bore a strong resemblance to King
Oscar the First on the old sixpenny-pieces.
And as the captain rose and began his dissertation, Cousin Hans decided
in his own mind that he had every reason to be satisfied with his future
father-in-law’s exterior.
The captain took up a position in a corner of the ramparts, a few paces
from the bench, whence he could point all around him with a stick.
Cousin Hans followed what he said, closely, and took all possible
trouble to ingratiate himself with his future father-in-law.
“We will suppose, then, that I am standing here at the farm of
Belle-Alliance, where the Emperor has his headquarters; and to the
north-fourteen miles from Waterloo--we have Brussels, that is to say,
just about at the corner of the gymnastic-school.
“The road there along the rampart is the highway leading to Brussels,
and here,” the captain rushed over the plain of Waterloo, “here in the
grass we have the Forest of Soignies. On the highway to Brussels, and
in front of the forest, the English are stationed--you must imagine the
northern part of the battle-field somewhat higher than it is here. On
Wellington’s left wing, that is to say, to the eastward--here in the
grass--we have the Château of Hougoumont; that must be marked,” said the
captain, looking about him.
The serviceable Cousin Hans at once found a stick, which was fixed in
the ground at this important point.
“Excellent!” cried the captain, who saw that he had found an interested
and imaginative listener. “You see it’s from this side that we have to
expect the Prussians.”
Cousin Hans noticed that the captain picked up a stone and placed it in
the grass with an air of mystery.
“Here at Hougoumont,” the old man continued, “the battle began. It was
Jerome who made the first attack. He took the wood; but the château held
out, garrisoned by Wellington’s best troops.
“In the mean time Napoleon, here at Belle-Alliance, was on the point of
giving Marshal Ney orders to commence the main attack upon Wellington’s
centre, when he observed a column of troops approaching from the east,
behind the bench, over there by tree.”
Cousin Hans looked round, and began to feel uneasy: could Blücher be
here already?
“Blü--Blü--” he murmured, tentatively.
“It was Bülow,” the captain fortunately went on, “who approached with
thirty thousand Prussians. Napoleon made his arrangements hastily to
meet this new enemy, never doubting that Grouchy, at any rate, was
following close on the Prussians’ heels.
“You see, the Emperor had on the previous day detached Marshal Grouchy
with the whole right wing of the army, about fifty thousand men, to
hold Blücher and Bülow in check. But Grouchy--but of course all this is
familiar to you--” the captain broke off.
Cousin Hans nodded reassuringly.
“Ney, accordingly, began the attack with his usual intrepidity. But the
English cavalry hurled themselves upon the Frenchmen, broke their ranks,
and forced them back with the loss of two eagles and several cannons.
Milhaud rushes to the rescue with his cuirassiers, and the Emperor
himself, seeing the danger, puts spurs to his horse and gallops down the
incline of Belle-Alliance.”
Away rushed the captain, prancing like a horse, in his eagerness to show
how the Emperor rode through thick and thin, rallied Ney’s troops, and
sent them forward to a fresh attack.
Whether it was that there lurked a bit of the poet in Cousin Hans, or
that the captain’s representation was really very vivid, or that--and
this is probably the true explanation--he was in love with the captain’s
daughter, certain it is that Cousin Hans was quite carried away by the
situation.
He no longer saw a queer old captain prancing sideways; he saw, through
the cloud of smoke, the Emperor himself on his white horse with the
black eyes, as we know it from the engravings. He tore away over hedge
and ditch, over meadow and garden, his staff with difficulty keeping
up with him. Cool and calm, he sat firmly in his saddle, with his
half-unbuttoned gray coat, his white breeches, and his little hat,
crosswise on his head. His face expressed neither weariness nor anxiety;
smooth and pale as marble, it gave to the whole figure in the simple
uniform on the white horse an exalted, almost a spectral, aspect.
Thus he swept on his course, this sanguinary little monster, who in
three days had fought three battles. All hastened to clear the way for
him, flying peasants, troops in reserve or advancing--aye, even the
wounded and dying dragged themselves aside, and looked up at him with
a mixture of terror and admiration, as he tore past them like a cold
thunderbolt.
Scarcely had he shown himself among the soldiers before they all fell
into order as though by magic, and a moment afterwards the undaunted Ney
could once more vault into the saddle to renew the attack. And this time
he bore down the English and established himself in the farm-house of La
Haie-Sainte.
Napoleon is once more at Belle-Alliance.
“And now here comes Bülow from the east--under the bench here, you
see--and the Emperor sends General Mouton to meet him. At half-past four
(the battle had begun at one o’clock) Wellington attempts to drive Ney
out of La Haie-Sainte. But Ney, who now saw that everything depended on
obtaining possession of the ground in front of the wood--the sand here
by the border of the grass,” the captain threw his glove over to the
spot indicated, “Ney, you see, calls up the reserve brigade of Milhaud’s
cuirassiers and hurls himself at the enemy.
“Presently his men were seen upon the heights, and already the people
around the Emperor were shouting ‘Victoire!’
“‘It is an hour too late,’ answered Napoleon.
“As he now saw that the Marshal in his new position was suffering much
from the enemy’s fire, he determined to go to his assistance, and, at
the same time, to try to crush Wellington at one blow. He chose for
the execution of this plan, Kellermann’s famous dragoons and the heavy
cavalry of the guard. Now comes one of the crucial moments of the fight;
you must come out here upon the battle-field!”
Cousin Hans at once rose from the bench and took the position the
captain pointed out to him.
“Now you are Wellington!” Cousin Hans drew himself up. “You are standing
there on the plain with the greater part of the English infantry. Here
comes the whole of the French cavalry rushing down upon you. Milhaud
has joined Kellermann; they form an illimitable multitude of horses,
breastplates, plumes and shining weapons. Surround yourself with a
square!”
Cousin Hans stood for a moment bewildered; but presently he understood
the captain’s meaning. He hastily drew a square of deep strokes around
him in the sand.
“Right!” cried the captain, beaming, “Now the Frenchmen cut into the
square; the ranks break, but join again, the cavalry wheels away and
gathers for a fresh attack. Wellington has at every moment to surround
himself with a new square.
“The French cavalry fight like lions: the proud memories of the
Emperor’s campaigns fill them with that confidence of victory which made
his armies invincible. They fight for victory, for glory, for the French
eagles, and for the little cold man who, they know, stands on the height
behind them; whose eye follows every single man, who sees all, and
forgets nothing.
“But to-day they have an enemy who is not easy to deal with. They
stand where they stand, these Englishmen, and if they are forced a step
backwards, they regain their position the next moment. They have no
eagles and no Emperor; when they fight they think neither of military
glory nor of revenge; but they think of home. The thought of never
seeing again the oak-trees of Old England is the most melancholy an
Englishman knows. Ah, no, there is one which is still worse: that of
coming home dishonored. And when they think that the proud fleet, which
they know is lying to the northward waiting for them, would deny them
the honor of a salute, and that Old England would not recognize her
sons--then they grip their muskets tighter, they forget their wounds and
their flowing blood; silent and grim, they clinch their teeth, and hold
their post, and die like men.”
Twenty times were the squares broken and reformed, and twelve thousand
brave Englishmen fell. Cousin Hans could understand how Wellington wept,
when he said, “Night or Blücher!”
The captain had in the mean time left Belle-Alliance, and was spying
around in the grass behind the bench, while he continued his exposition
which grew more and more vivid: “Wellington was now in reality beaten
and a total defeat was inevitable,” cried the captain, in a sombre
voice, “when this fellow appeared on the scene!” And as he said this, he
kicked the stone which Cousin Hans had seen him concealing, so that it
rolled in upon the field of battle.
“Now or never,” thought Cousin Hans.
“Blücher!” he cried.
“Exactly!” answered the captain, “it’s the old werewolf Blücher, who
comes marching upon the field with his Prussians.”
So Grouchy never came; there was Napoleon, deprived of his whole right
wing, and facing 150,000 men. But with never failing coolness he gives
his orders for a great change of front.
But it was too late, and the odds were too vast.
Wellington, who, by Blücher’s arrival, was enabled to bring his reserve
into play, now ordered his whole army to advance. And yet once more
the Allies were forced to pause for a moment by a furious charge led by
Ney--the lion of the day.
“Do you see him there!” cried the captain, his eyes flashing.
And Cousin Hans saw him, the romantic hero, Duke of Elchingen, Prince of
Moskwa, son of a cooper in Saarlouis, Marshal and Peer of France. He saw
him rush onward at the head of his battalions--five horses had been
shot under him with his sword in his hand, his uniform torn to shreds,
hatless, and with the blood streaming down his face.
And the battalions rallied and swept ahead; they followed their Prince
of Moskwa, their savior at the Beresina, into the hopeless struggle
for the Emperor and for France. Little did they dream that, six months
later, the King of France would have their dear prince shot as a traitor
to his country in the gardens of the Luxembourg.
There he rushed around, rallying and directing his troops, until there
was nothing more for the general to do; then he plied his sword like a
common soldier until all was over, and he was carried away in the rout.
For the French army fled.
The Emperor threw himself into the throng; but the terrible hubbub
drowned his voice, and in the twilight no one knew the little man on the
white horse.
Then he took his stand in a little square of his Old Guard, which still
held out upon the plain; he would fain have ended his life on his last
battlefield. But his generals flocked around him, and the old grenadiers
shouted: “Withdraw, Sire! Death will not have you.”
They did not know that it was because the _Emperor_ had forfeited his
right to die as a French soldier. They led him half-resisting from the
field; and, unknown in his own army, he rode away into the darkness of
the night, having lost everything. “So ended the battle of Waterloo,”
said the captain, as he seated himself on the bench and arranged his
neck-cloth.--Cousin Hans thought with indignation of Uncle Frederick,
who had spoken of Captain Schrappe in such a tone of superiority. He
was, at least, a far more interesting personage than an old official
mill-horse like Uncle Frederick.
Hans now went about and gathered up the gloves and other small objects
which the generals, in the heat of the fight, had scattered over the
battle-field to mark the positions; and, as he did so, he stumbled upon
old Blücher. He picked him up and examined him carefully.
He was a hard lump of granite, knubbly as sugar-candy, which almost
seemed to bear a personal resemblance to “Feldtmarschall Vorwärts.” Hans
turned to the captain with a polite bow.
“Will you allow me, captain, to keep this stone. It will be the best
possible memento of this interesting and instructive conversation, for
which I am really most grateful to you.” And thereupon he put Blücher
into his coat-tail pocket.
The captain assured him that it had been a real pleasure to him to
observe the interest with which his young friend had followed the
exposition. And this was nothing but the truth, for he was positively
enraptured with Cousin Hans.
“Come and sit down now, young man. We deserve a little rest after a
ten-hours’ battle,” he added, smiling.
Cousin Hans seated himself on the bench and felt his collar with some
anxiety. Before coming out, he had put on the most fascinating one his
wardrobe afforded. Fortunately, it had retained its stiffness; but he
felt the force of Wellington’s words: “Night or Blücher”--for it would
not have held out much longer.
It was fortunate, too, that the warm afternoon sun had kept strollers
away from the esplanade. Otherwise a considerable audience would
probably have gathered around these two gentlemen, who went on
gesticulating with their arms, and now and then prancing around.
They had had only one on-looker--the sentry who stands at the corner of
the gymnastic-school.
His curiosity had enticed him much too far from his post, for he had
marched several leagues along the highway from Brussels to Waterloo.
The captain would certainly have called him to order long ago for this
dereliction of duty but for the fact that the inquisitive private had
been of great strategic importance. He represented, as he stood there,
the whole of Wellington’s reserve; and now that the battle was over the
reserve retired in good order northward towards Brussels, and again took
up _le poste perdu_ at the corner of the gymnastic-school.