If the natural perils of the expedition were sufficient to suggest
grave thoughts, the sight of the troops that were to form it was even
a stronger incentive to fear. I could not believe my eyes, as I watched
the battalions which now deployed before me. Always accustomed,
whatever the hardships they were opposed to, to see French soldiers
light-hearted, gay, and agile, performing their duties in a spirit of
sportive pleasure, as if soldiering were but fun, what was the shock I
received at sight of these careworn, downcast, hollow-cheeked fellows,
dragging their legs wearily along, and scarcely seeming to hear the
words of command; their clothes, patched and mended, sometimes too big,
sometimes too little, showing that they had changed wearers without
being altered; their tattered shoes, tied on with strings round the
ankles; their very weapons dirty and uncared for; they resembled rather
a horde of bandits than the troops of the first army of Europe. There
was, besides, an expression of stealthy, treacherous ferocity in their
faces, such as I never saw before. To this pitiable condition had they
been brought by starvation. Not alone the horses had been eaten, but
dogs and cats; even the vermin of the cellars and sewers was consumed as
food. Leather and skins were all eagerly devoured; and there is but too
terrible reason to believe that human flesh itself was used to prolong
for a few hours this existence of misery.
As they defiled into the ‘Piazza,’ there seemed a kind of effort to
assume the port and bearing of their craft; and although many stumbled,
and some actually fell, from weakness, there was an evident attempt to
put on a military appearance. The manner of the adjutant, as he passed
down the line, revealed at once the exact position of affairs. No
longer inspecting every little detail of equipment, criticising this, or
remarking on that, his whole attention was given to the condition of
the musket, whose lock he closely scrutinised, and then turned to the
cartouch-box. The ragged uniforms, the uncouth shakos, the belts dirty
and awry, never called forth a word of rebuke. Too glad, as it seemed,
to recognise even the remnants of discipline, he came back from his
inspection apparently well satisfied and content.
‘These fellows turn out well,’ said Colonel de Barre, as he looked along
the line; and I started to see if the speech were an unfeeling jest.
Far from it; he spoke in all seriousness. The terrible scenes he had for
months been witnessing; the men dropping from hunger at their posts; the
sentries fainting as they carried arms, and borne away to the hospital
to die; the bursts of madness that would now and then break forth from
men whose agony became unendurable, had so steeled him to horrors, that
even this poor shadow of military display seemed orderly and imposing.
‘They are the 22nd, colonel,’ replied the adjutant, proudly, ‘a corps
that always have maintained their character, whether on parade or under
fire!’
‘Ah! the 22nd, are they? They have come up from Ronco, then?’
‘Yes, sir; they were all that General Soult could spare us.’
‘Fine-looking fellows they are,’ said De Barre, scanning them through
his glass. ‘The third company is a little, a very little to the
rear--don’t you perceive it?--and the flank is a thought or so restless
and unsteady.’
‘A sergeant has just been carried to the rear ill, sir,’ said a young
officer, in a low voice.
‘The heat, I have no douht; a _colpo di sole_, as they tell us
everything is,’ said De Barre. ‘By the way, is not this the regiment
that boasts the pretty vivandière? What’s this her name is?’
‘Lela, sir.’
‘Yes, to be sure, Lela. I’m sure I’ve heard her toasted often enough at
cafés and restaurants.’
‘There she is, sir, yonder, sitting on the steps of the fountain’; and
the officer made a sign with his sword for the girl to come over. She
made an effort to arise at the order, but tottered back, and would have
fallen if a soldier had not caught her. Then suddenly collecting
her strength, she arranged the folds of her short scarlet jupe, and
smoothing down the braids of her fair hair, came forward, at that
sliding, half-skipping pace that is the wont of her craft.
The exertion, and possibly the excitement, had flushed her cheek, so
that as she came forward her look was brilliantly handsome; but as the
colour died away, and a livid pallor spread over her jaws, lank and
drawn in by famine, her expression was dreadful. The large eyes,
lustrous and wild-looking, gleaming with the fire of fever, while her
thin nostrils quivered at each respiration.
Poor girl, even then, with famine and fever eating within her, the
traits of womanly vanity still survived, and as she carried her hand to
her cap in salute, she made a faint attempt at a smile.
‘The 22nd may indeed be proud of their vivandière,* said De Barre
gallantly.
‘What hast in the _tonnslet_, Lela?’ continued he, tapping the little
silver-hooped barrel she carried at her back.
‘_Ah, que voulez-vous?_ cried she laughing, with a low, husky sound, the
laugh of famine.
‘I must have a glass of it to your health, _ma belle_ Lela, if it cost
me a crown-piece’; and he drew forth the coin as he spoke.
‘For such a toast, the liquor is quite good enough,’ said Lela, drawing
back at the offer of money; while slinging the little cask in front, she
unhooked a small silver cup, and filled it with water.
‘No brandy, Lela?’
‘None, colonel,’ said she, shaking her head; ‘and if I had, those poor
fellows yonder would not like it so well.’
‘I understand,’ said he significantly; ‘theirs is the thirst of fever.’
A short, dry cough, and a barely perceptible nod of the head, was all
her reply; but their eyes met, and any so sad an expression as they
interchanged I never beheld! it was a confession in full of all each had
seen of sorrow, of suffering, and of death--the terrible events three
months of famine had revealed, and all the agonies of pestilence and
madness.
‘That is delicious water, Tiernay,’ said the colonel, as he passed me
the cup, and thus trying to get away from the sad theme of his thoughts.
‘I fetch it from a well outside the walls every morning,’ said Lela;
‘ay, and within gunshot of the Austrian sentries, too.’
‘There’s coolness for you, Tiernay,’ said the colonel; ‘think what the
22nd are made of when their vivandière dares to do this!’
‘They’ll not astonish him,’ said Lela, looking steadily at me
‘And why not, _ma belle?_’ cried De Barre. ‘He was a Tapageur, one of
the “Naughty Ninth,” as they called them.’
‘How do you know that, Lela? Have we ever met before?’ cried I eagerly.
‘I’ve seen you, sir,’ said she slyly. ‘They used to call you the
corporal that won the battle of Kehl. I know my father always said so.’
I would have given worlds to have interrogated her further; so
fascinating is selfishness, that already at least a hundred questions
were presenting themselves to my mind. Who could Lela be? and who was
her father? and what were these reports about me? Had I really won fame
without knowing it? and did my comrades indeed speak of me with honour?
All these, and many more inquiries, were pressing for utterance, as
General Masséna walked up with his staff. The general fully corroborated
De Barre’s opinion of the ‘22nd.’ They were, as he expressed it, a
‘magnificent body.’ It was a perfect pleasure to see such troops under
arms.’ ‘Those fellows certainly exhibited few traces of a starved-out
garrison.’
Such and such like were the observations bandied from one to the other,
in all the earnest seriousness of truth What more terrible evidence of
the scenes they had passed through, than these convictions! What more
stunning proof of the condition to which long suffering had reduced
them!
‘Where is our pleasant friend, who talked to us of the Black Forest last
night? Ah, there he is; well, Monsieur Tiernay, do you think General
Moreau’s people turned out better than that after the retreat from
Donau-eschingen?’
There was no need for any reply, since the scornful burst of laughter of
the staff already gave the answer he wanted; and now he walked forward
to the centre of the piazza, while the troops proceeded to march past.
The band, a miserable group, reduced from fifty to thirteen in number,
struck up a quick step, and the troops, animated by the sounds, and more
still, perhaps, by Masséna’s presence, made an effort to step out in
quick time; but the rocking, wavering motion, the clinking muskets and
uncertain gait, were indescribably painful to a soldier’s eye. Their
colonel, De Vallence, however, evidently did not regard them thus, for
as he joined the staff, he received the general’s compliments with all
the good faith and composure in the world.
The battalions were marched off to barracks, and the group of officers
broke up to repair to their several quarters. It was the hour of dinner,
but it had been many a day since that meal had been heard of amongst
them. A stray café here and there was open in the city, but a cup of
coffee, without milk, and a small roll of black bread, a horrid compound
of rye and cocoa, was all the refreshment obtainable; and yet, I am bold
to say that a murmur or a complaint was unheard against the general
or the Government. The heaviest reverses, the gloomiest hours of ill
fortune, never extinguished the hope that Genoa was to be relieved
at last, and that all we had to do was to hold out for the arrival of
Bonaparte. To the extent of this conviction is to be attributed the
wide disparity between the feeling displayed by the military and the
townsfolk.
The latter, unsustained by hope, without one spark of speculation to
cheer their gloomy destiny, starved, and sickened, and died in masses.
The very requirements of discipline were useful in averting the
despondent vacuity which comes of hunger. Of the sanguine confidence of
the soldiery in the coming of their comrades, I was to witness a strong
illustration on the very day of which I have been speaking.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, the weather had been heavy
and overcast, and the heat excessive, so that all who were free from
duty had either lain down to sleep, or were quietly resting within
doors, when a certain stir and movement in the streets, a rare event
during the hours of the siesta, drew many a head to the windows. The
report ran, and like wildfire it spread through the city, that the
advanced guard of Bonaparte had reached Ronco that morning, and were
already in march on Genoa. Although nobody could trace this story to
any direct source, each believed and repeated it; the tale growing more
consistent and fuller at every repetition. I need not weary my reader
with all the additions and corrections the narrative received, nor
recount how now it was Moreau with the right wing of the army of the
Rhine; now it was Kellermann’s brigade; now it was Macdonald, who had
passed the Ticino; and last of all, Bonaparte. The controversy was
often even an angry one, when, finally, all speculation was met by the
official report, that all that was known lay in the simple fact, that
heavy guns had been heard that morning, near Ronco, and as the Austrians
held no position with artillery there, the firing must needs be French.
This very bare announcement was, of course, a great ‘come down’ for all
the circumstantial detail with which we had been amusing ourselves and
each other, but yet it nourished hope, and the hope that was nearest to
all our hearts, too! The streets were soon filled; officers and soldiers
hastily dressed, and with many a fault of costume were all
commingled, exchanging opinions, resolving doubts, and even bandying
congratulations. The starved and hungry faces were lighted up with an
expression of savage glee. It was like the last flickering gleam of
passion in men whose whole vitality was the energy of fever! The heavy
debt they owed their enemy was at last to be paid, and all the insulting
injury of a besieged and famine-stricken garrison to be avenged. A
surging movement in the crowd told that some event had occurred; it
was Masséna and his staff, who were proceeding to a watch-tower in the
bastion, from whence a wide range of country could be seen. This was
reassuring. The general himself entertained the story, and here was
proof that there was ‘something in it.’ All the population now made
for the walls; every spot from which the view towards Ronco could
be obtained was speedily crowded, every window filled, and all the
housetops crammed. A dark mass of inky cloud covered the tops of the
Apennines, and even descended to some distance down the sides. With what
shapes and forms of military splendour did our imaginations people the
space behind that sombre curtain! What columns of stern warriors, what
prancing squadrons, what earth-shaking masses of heavy artillery! How
longingly each eye grew weary watching--waiting for the veil to be rent,
and the glancing steel to be seen glistening bright in the sun-rays!
As if to torture our anxieties, the lowering mass grew darker and
heavier, and, rolling lazily adown the mountain, it filled up the
valley, wrapping earth and sky in one murky mantle.
‘There, did you hear that?’ cried one; ‘that was artillery.’
A pause followed, each ear was bent to listen, and not a word was
uttered for full a minute or more; the immense host, as if swayed by
the one impulse, strained to catch the sounds, when suddenly, from the
direction of the mountain top, there came a rattling, crashing noise,
followed by the dull, deep booming that every soldier’s heart responds
to What a cheer then burst forth! never did I hear--never may I
hear--such a cry as that was; it was like the wild yell of a shipwrecked
crew, as some distant sail hove in sight; and yet, through its cadence,
there rang the mad lust for vengeance! Yes, in all the agonies of
sinking strength, with fever in their hearts, and the death sweat on
their cheeks, their cry was Blood! The puny shout, for such it seemed
now, was drowned in the deafening crash that now was heard; peal after
peal shook the air, the same rattling, peppering noise of musketry
continuing through all.
That the French were in strong force, as well as the enemy, there could
now be no doubt. Nothing but a serious affair and a stubborn resistance
could warrant such a fire. It had every semblance of an attack with all
arms. The roar of the heavy guns made the air vibrate, and the clatter
of small-arms was incessant. How each of us filled up the picture from
the impulses of his own fancy! Some said that the French were still
behind the mountain, and storming the heights of the Borghetto; others
thought that they had gained the summit, but not _en force_, and were
only contesting their position there; and a few, more sanguine, of whom
I was one myself, imagined that they were driving the Austrians down the
Apennines, cleaving their ranks, as they went, with their artillery.
Each new crash, every momentary change of direction of the sounds,
favoured this opinion or that, and the excitement of partisanship rose
to an immense height. What added indescribably to the interest of the
scene, was a group of Austrian officers on horseback, who, in their
eagerness to obtain tidings, had ridden beyond their lines, and were
now standing almost within musket range of us. We could see that their
telescopes were turned to the eventful spot, and we gloried to think of
the effect the scene must have been producing on them.
‘They’ve seen enough!’ cried one of our fellows, laughing, while he
pointed to the horsemen, who, suddenly wheeling about, galloped back to
their camp at full speed.
‘You ‘ll have the drums beat to arms now; there’s little time to lose.
Our cuirassiers will soon be upon them,’ cried another, in ecstasy.
‘No, but the rain will, and upon us, too,’ said Giorgio, who had
now come up; ‘don’t you see that it’s not a battle yonder, it’s a
_burrasca_. There it comes.’ And as if the outstretched finger of the
dwarf had been the wand of a magician, the great cloud was suddenly torn
open with a crash, and the rain descended like a deluge, swept along by
a hurricane wind, and came in vast sheets of water, while high over our
heads, and moving onward towards the sea, growled the distant thunder.
The great mountain was now visible from base to summit, but not a
soldier, not a gun, to be seen! Swollen and yellow, the gushing torrents
leaped madly from crag to crag, and crashing trees, and falling rocks,
added their wild sounds to the tumult.
There we stood, mute and sorrow-struck, regardless of the seething rain,
unconscious of anything save our disappointment. The hope we built upon
had left us, and the dreary scene of storm around seemed but a type of
our own future! And yet we could not turn away, but with eyes strained
and aching, gazed at the spot from where our succour should have come.
I looked up at the watch-tower, and there was Massena still, his arms
folded, on a battlement; he seemed to be deep in thought. At last
he arose, and, drawing his cloak across his face, descended the
winding-stair outside the tower. His step was slow, and more than once
he halted, as if to think. When he reached the walls, he walked rapidly
on, his suite following him.
‘Ah, Monsieur Tiernay,’ said he, as he passed me, ‘you know what an
Apennine storm is now; but it will cool the air and give us delicious
weather’; and so he passed on with an easy smile.