A military friend of mine, who died of a fever in Greece a few years
ago, told me one day about the first action in which he took part. His
story made such an impression on me that I wrote it down from memory as
soon as I had time. Here it is:
I joined the regiment on the fourth of September, in the evening. I
found the colonel in camp. He received me rather roughly; but when he
had read General B----’s recommendation, his manner changed and he said
a few courteous words to me.
I was presented by him to my captain, who had just returned from a
reconnaissance. This captain, with whom I hardly had time to become
acquainted, was a tall, dark man, with a harsh, repellent face. He
had been a private and had won his epaulets and his cross on the
battle-field. His voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted
strangely with his almost gigantic stature. I was told that he owed
that peculiar voice to a bullet which had passed through his lungs at
the battle of Jena.
When he learned that I was fresh from the school at Fontainebleau, he
made a wry face and said:
“My lieutenant died yesterday.”
I understood that he meant to imply: “You ought to take his place, and
you are not capable of it.”
A sharp retort came to my lips, but I restrained myself.
The moon rose behind the redoubt of Cheverino, about two gunshots from
our bivouac. It was large and red, as it usually is when it rises. But
on that evening it seemed to me of extraordinary size. For an instant
the redoubt stood sharply out in black against the brilliant disk of
the moon. It resembled the crater of a volcano at the instant of an
eruption.
An old soldier beside whom I happened to be, remarked upon the colour
of the moon.
“It is very red,” said he; “that’s a sign that it will cost us dear to
take that famous redoubt!”
I have always been superstitious, and that prophecy, at that particular
moment especially, affected me. I lay down, but I could not sleep. I
rose and walked about for some time, watching the tremendously long
line of camp-fires that covered the heights above the village of
Cheverino.
When I thought that the fresh, sharp night air had cooled my blood
sufficiently, I returned to the fire; I wrapped myself carefully in
my cloak and closed my eyes, hoping not to open them before dawn. But
sleep refused to come. Insensibly my thoughts took a gloomy turn. I
said to myself that I had not a friend among the hundred thousand
men who covered that plain. If I were wounded, I should be taken to
a hospital and treated roughly by ignorant surgeons. All that I had
heard of surgical operations came to my mind. My heart beat violently,
and I instinctively arranged my handkerchief, and the wallet that I had
in my breast pocket, as a sort of cuirass. I was worn out with fatigue,
I nodded every moment, and every moment some sinister thought returned
with renewed force and roused me with a start.
But weariness carried the day, and when they beat the reveille, I was
sound asleep. We were drawn up in battle array, the roll was called,
then we stacked arms, and everything indicated that we were to have a
quiet day.
About three o’clock an aide-de-camp appeared, bringing an order. We
were ordered under arms again; our skirmishers spread out over the
plain; we followed them slowly, and after about twenty minutes, we saw
all the advanced posts of the Russians fall back and return inside the
redoubt.
A battery of artillery came into position at our right, another at our
left, but both well in advance of us. They began a very hot fire at
the enemy, who replied vigorously, and the redoubt of Cheverino soon
disappeared beneath dense clouds of smoke.
Our regiment was almost protected from the Russian fire by a rise in
the ground. Their balls, which, indeed, were rarely aimed at us, for
they preferred to fire at our gunners, passed over our heads, or, at
the worst, spattered us with dirt and small stones.
As soon as we received the order to advance, my captain looked at me
with a close scrutiny which compelled me to run my hand over my budding
moustache twice or thrice, as unconcernedly as I could. Indeed, I was
not frightened, and the only fear I had was that he should believe that
I was frightened. Those harmless cannon-balls helped to maintain me in
my heroically calm frame of mind. My self-esteem told me that I was
really in danger, as I was at last under the fire of a battery. I was
overjoyed to be so entirely at my ease, and I thought of the pleasure I
should take in telling of the capture of the redoubt of Cheverino in
Madame de B----’s salon on Rue de Provence.
The colonel passed our company; he spoke to me:
“Well, you are going to see some sharp work for your début.”
I smiled with an altogether martial air as I brushed my coat sleeve, on
which a shot that struck the ground thirty yards away had spattered a
little dust.
It seems that the Russians observed the ill success of their
cannon-balls; for they replaced them with shells, which could more
easily be made to reach us in the hollow where we were posted. A large
piece of one took off my shako and killed a man near me.
“I congratulate you,” said my captain, as I picked up my shako; “you’re
safe now for to-day.”
I was acquainted with the military superstition which believes that
the axiom, _Non bis in idem_, has the same application on a field of
battle as in a court of justice. I proudly replaced my shako on my head.
“That is making a fellow salute rather unceremoniously,” I said as
gaily as I could. That wretched joke was considered first-rate, in view
of the circumstances.
“I congratulate you,” continued the captain; “you will get nothing
worse, and you will command a company this evening; for I feel that the
oven is being heated for me. Every time that I have been wounded the
officer nearest me has been hit by a spent ball; and,” he added in a
low tone and almost as if he were ashamed, “their names always began
with a P.”
I feigned incredulity; many men would have done the same; many men too
would have been, as I was, profoundly impressed by those prophetic
words. Conscript as I was, I realised that I could not confide my
sensations to any one, and that I must always appear cool and fearless.
After about half an hour the Russian fire sensibly diminished;
thereupon we left our sheltered position to march upon the redoubt.
Our regiment consisted of three battalions. The second was ordered to
turn the redoubt on the side of the entrance; the other two were to
make the assault. I was in the third battalion.
As we came out from behind the species of ridge which had protected
us, we were received by several volleys of musketry, which did little
damage in our ranks. The whistling of the bullets surprised me; I
kept turning my head, and thus induced divers jests on the part of my
comrades, who were more familiar with that sound.
“Take it all in all,” I said to myself, “a battle isn’t such a terrible
thing.”
We advanced at the double-quick, preceded by skirmishers; suddenly the
Russians gave three hurrahs, three distinct hurrahs, then remained
silent and ceased firing.
“I don’t like this silence,” said my captain; “it bodes us no good.”
I considered that our men were a little too noisy, and I could not
forbear making a mental comparison between their tumultuous shouting
and the enemy’s impressive silence.
We speedily reached the foot of the redoubt; the palisades had been
shattered and the earth torn up by our balls. The soldiers rushed at
these newly made ruins with shouts of “_Vive l’Empereur!_” louder than
one would have expected to hear from men who had already shouted so
much.
I raised my eyes, and I shall never forget the spectacle that I saw.
The greater part of the smoke had risen, and hung like a canopy about
twenty feet above the redoubt. Through a bluish haze one could see
the Russian grenadiers behind their half-destroyed parapet, with arms
raised, motionless as statues. It seems to me that I can see now each
soldier, with his left eye fastened upon us, the right hidden by the
levelled musket. In an embrasure, a few yards away, a man stood beside
a cannon, holding a fusee.