THE LAST THROW
I
It was close on half-past nine and the moon full up on the stormy sky
when a couple of riders detached themselves out of the surging mass of
horses and men that were flying pell-mell towards Genappe, and slightly
checking their horses, put them to a slower gallop and finally to a
trot.
On their right a small cottage gleamed snow-white in the cold, searching
light of the moon. A low wall ran to right and left of it and enclosed a
small yard at the back of the cottage; the wall had a gate in it which
gave on the fields beyond. At the moment that the two riders trotting
slowly down the road reached the first angle of the wall, the gate was
open and a man leading a white horse and wearing a grey redingote turned
into the yard.
"My God! the Emperor!" exclaimed one of the riders as he drew rein.
They both turned their horses into the field, skirting the low,
enclosing wall until they reached the gate. The white horse was now
tethered to a post and the man in the grey redingote was standing in the
doorway at the rear of the cottage. The two men dismounted and in their
turn led their horses into the yard: at sight of them the man in the
grey redingote seemed to wake from his sleep.
"Berthier," he said slowly, "is that you?"
"Yes, Sire,--and Colonel Bertrand is here too."
"What do you want?"
"We earnestly beg you, Sire, to come with us to Genappe. There is not
the slightest hope of rallying any portion of your army now. The
Prussians are on us. You might fall into their hands."
Berthier--conqueror and Prince of Wagram--spoke very earnestly and with
head uncovered, but more abruptly and harshly than he had been wont to
do of yore in the salons of the Tuileries or on the glory-crowned
battlefields at the close of a victorious day.
"I am coming! I am coming!" said the Emperor with a quick sigh of
impatience. "I only wanted to be alone a moment--to think things out--to
. . ."
"There is nothing quite so urgent, Sire, as your safety," retorted the
Prince of Wagram drily.
The Emperor did not--or did not choose to--heed his great Marshal's
marked want of deference. Perhaps he was accustomed to the moods of
these men whom his bounty had fed and loaded with wealth and dignities
and titles in the days of his glory, and who had proved only too ready,
alas!--even last year, even now--to desert him when disaster was in
sight.
Without another word he turned on his heel and pushing open the cottage
door he disappeared into the darkness of the tiny room beyond. With an
impatient shrug of the shoulders Berthier prepared to follow him.
Colonel Bertrand busied himself with tethering the horses, then he too
followed Berthier into the building.
It was deserted, of course, as all isolated cottages and houses had been
in the vicinity of Quatre Bras or Mont Saint Jean. Bertrand struck a
tinder and lighted a tallow candle that stood forlorn on a deal table in
the centre of the room. The flickering light revealed a tiny cottage
kitchen--hastily abandoned but scrupulously clean--white-washed walls, a
red-tiled floor, the iron hearth, the painted dresser decorated with
white crockery, shiny tin pans hung in rows against the walls and two
or three rush chairs. Napoleon sat down.
"I again entreat you, Sire--" began Berthier more earnestly than before.
But the Emperor was staring straight out before him, with eyes that
apparently saw something beyond that rough white wall opposite, on which
the flickering candle-light threw such weird gargantuan shadows. The
precious minutes sped on: minutes wherein death or capture strode with
giant steps across the fields of Flanders to this lonely cottage where
the once mightiest ruler in Europe sat dreaming of what might have been.
The silence of the night was broken by the thunder of flying horses'
hoofs, by the cries of "Sauve qui peut!" and distant volleys of
artillery proclaiming from far away that Death had not finished all his
work yet.
Bertrand and Berthier stood by, with heads uncovered: silent, moody and
anxious.
Suddenly the dreamer roused himself for a moment and spoke abruptly and
with his usual peremptory impatience: "De Marmont," he said. "Has either
of you seen him?"
"Not lately, Sire," replied Colonel Bertrand, "not since five o'clock at
any rate."
"What was he doing then?"
"He was riding furiously in the direction of Nivelles. I shouted to him.
He told me that he was making for Brussels by a circuitous way."
"Ah! that is right! Well done, my brave de Marmont! Braver than your
treacherous kinsman ever was! So you saw him, did you, Bertrand? Did he
tell you that he had just come from Genappe?"
"Yes, Sire, he did," replied Bertrand moodily. "He told me that by your
orders he had sent a messenger from there to Paris with news of your
victory: and that by to-morrow morning the capital would be ringing
with enthusiasm and with cheers."
"And by the time de Marmont came back from Genappe," interposed the
Prince of Wagram with a sneer, "the plains of Waterloo were ringing with
the Grand Army's '_Sauve qui peut!_'"
"An episode, Prince, only an episode!" said Napoleon with an angry frown
of impatience. "To hear you now one would imagine that Essling had never
been. We have been beaten back, of course, but for the moment the world
does not know that. Paris to-morrow will be be-flagged and the bells of
Notre Dame will send forth their joyous peals to cheer the hearts of my
people. And in Brussels this afternoon thousands of our
enemies--Belgians, Dutch, Hanoverians, Brunswickers--were rushing
helter-skelter into the town--demoralised and disorganised after that
brilliant charge of our cuirassiers against the Allied left."
"Would to God the British had been among them too," murmured old Colonel
Bertrand. "But for their stand . . ."
"And a splendid stand it was. Ah! but for that. . . . To think that if
Grouchy had kept the Prussians away, in only another hour we . . ."
The dreamer paused in his dream of the might have been: then he
continued more calmly:
"But I was not thinking of that just now. I was thinking of those who
fled to Brussels this afternoon with the news of our victory and of
Wellington's defeat."
"Even then the truth is known in Brussels by now," protested Berthier.
"Yes! but not before de Marmont has had the time and the pluck to save
us and our Empire! . . . Berthier," he continued more vehemently, "don't
stand there so gloomy, man . . . and you, too, my old Bertrand. . . .
Surely, surely you have realised that at this terrible juncture we must
utilise every circumstance which is in our favour. . . . That early
news of our victory . . . we can make use of that. . . . A big throw in
this mighty game, but we can do it . . . Berthier, do you see how we can
do it . . . ?"
"No, Sire, I confess that I do not," replied the Marshal gloomily.
"You do not see?" retorted the Emperor with a frown of angry impatience.
"De Marmont did--at once--but he is young--and enthusiastic, whereas
you. . . . But don't you see that the news of Wellington's defeat must
have enormous consequences on the money markets of the world--if only
for a few hours? . . . It must send the prices on the foreign Bourses
tumbling about people's ears and create an absolute panic on the London
Stock Exchange. Only for a few hours of course . . . but do you not see
that if any man is wise enough to buy stock in London during that panic
he can make a fortune by re-selling the moment the truth is known?"
"Even then, Sire," stammered Berthier, a little confused by this
avalanche of seemingly irrelevant facts hurled at him at a moment when
the whole map of Europe was being changed by destiny and her future
trembled in the hands of God.
"Ah, de Marmont saw it all . . . at once . . ." continued the Emperor
earnestly, "he saw eye to eye with me. He knows that money--a great deal
of money--is just what I want now . . . money to reorganise my army, to
re-equip and reform it. The Chamber and my Ministers will never give me
what I want. . . . My God! they are such cowards! and some of them would
rather see the foreign troops again in Paris than Napoleon Emperor at
the Tuileries. You should know that, Maréchal, and you, too, my good
Bertrand. De Marmont knows it . . . that is why he rode to Brussels at
the hour when I alone knew that all was lost at Waterloo, but when half
Europe still thought that the Corsican ogre had conquered again. . . .
De Marmont is in Brussels now . . . to-night he crosses over to
England--to-morrow morning he and his broker will be in the Stock
Exchange in London--calm, silent, watchful. An operation on the Bourse,
what? like hundreds that have been done before . . . but in this case
the object will be to turn one million into fifty so that with it I
might rebuild my Empire again."
He spoke with absolute conviction, and with indomitable fervour, sitting
here quietly, he--the architect of the mightiest empire of modern
days--just as he used to do in the camps at Austerlitz and Jena and
Wagram and Friedland--with one clenched hand resting upon the rough deal
table, the flickering light of the tallow candle illuminating the wide
brow, the heavy jaw, those piercing eyes that still gazed--in this hour
of supreme catastrophe--into a glorious future destined never to
be--scheming, planning, scheming still, even while his Grand Army was
melting into nothingness all around him, and distant volleys of musketry
were busy consummating the final annihilation of the Empire which he had
created and still hoped to rebuild.
Berthier gave a quick sign of impatience.
Rebuild an Empire, ye gods!--an Empire!--when the flower of its manhood
lies pale and stark like the windrows of corn after the harvester has
done his work. Thoughts of a dreamer! Schemes of a visionary! How will
the quaking lips which throughout the length and breadth of this vast
hecatomb now cry, "Sauve qui peut!" how will they ever intone again the
old "Vive l'Empereur!"
The conqueror of Wagram gave a bitter sigh and faithful Bertrand hung
his head gloomily; but de Marmont had neither sighed nor doubted: but
then de Marmont was young--he too was a dreamer, and an enthusiast and a
visionary. His idol in his eyes had never had feet of clay. For him the
stricken man was his Emperor still--the architect, the creator, the
invincible conqueror--checked for a moment in his glorious work, but
able at his will to rebuild the Empire of France again on the very ruins
that smouldered now on the fields of Waterloo.
"I can do it, Sire," he had cried exultantly, when his Emperor first
expounded his great, new scheme to him. "I can be in Brussels in an
hour, and catch the midnight packet for England at Ostend. At dawn I
shall be in London, and by ten o'clock at my post. I know a financier--a
Jew, and a mightily clever one--he will operate for me. I have a million
or two francs invested in England, we'll use these for our operations!
Money, Sire! You shall have millions! Our differences on the Stock
Exchange will equip the finest army that even you have ever had! Fifty
millions? I'll bring you a hundred! God has not yet decreed the downfall
of the Empire of France!"
So de Marmont had spoken this afternoon in the enthusiasm of his youth
and of his hero-worship: and since then the great dreamer had continued
to weave his dreams! Nothing was lost, nothing could be lost whilst
enthusiasm such as that survived in the hearts of the young.
And still wrapped in his dream he sat on, while danger and death and
disgrace threatened him on every side. Berthier and Bertrand entreated
in vain, in vain tried to drag him away from this solitary place, where
any moment a party of Prussians might find and capture him.
Unceremoniously the Prince of Wagram had blown out the flickering light
that might have attracted the attention of the pursuers. It was a very
elementary precaution, the only one he or Bertrand was able to take. The
horses were out in the yard for anyone to see, and the greatest spoil of
victory might at any moment fall into the hands of the meanest Prussian
soldier out for loot.
But the dreamer still sat on in the gloom, with the pale light of the
moon streaming in through the narrow casement window and illumining that
marble-like face, rigid and set, that seemed only to live by the
glowing eyes--the eyes that looked into the future and the past and
heeded not the awful present.
Close on a quarter of an hour went by until at last he jumped to his
feet, with the sudden cry of "To Genappe!"
Berthier heaved a sigh of relief and Bertrand hurried out to unfasten
the horses.
"You are impatient, Prince," said the Emperor almost gaily, as he strode
with a firm step to the door. "You are afraid those cursed Prussians
will put the Corsican ogre into a cage and send him at once to His
Victorious Bourbon Majesty King Louis XVIII. Not so, my good Berthier,
not so. The Star of my Destiny has not yet declined. I've done all the
thinking I wanted to do. Now we'll to Genappe, where we'll rally the
remnants of our army and then quietly await de Marmont's return with the
millions which we want. After that we'll boldly on to Paris and defy my
enemies there . . . En avant, Maréchal! the Corsican ogre is not in the
iron cage yet!"
Outside Bertrand was holding his stirrup for him. He swung himself
lightly in the saddle and turned out of the farmyard gate into the open,
throwing back his head and sniffing the storm-laden air as if he was
about to lead his army to one of his victorious charges. Not waiting to
see how close the other two men followed him, he put his horse at once
at a gallop.
He rode on--never pausing--never looking round even on that gigantic
desolation which the cold light of the moon weirdly and fitfully
revealed--his mind was fixed upon a fresh throw on the gaming table of
the world.
Overhead the storm-driven clouds chased one another with unflagging fury
across the moonlit sky, now obscuring, now revealing that gigantic
dissolution of the Grand Army, so like the melting of ice and frost
under the fierce kiss of the sun.
More than men in an attack, less than women in a retreat, the finest
cavalry Europe had ever seen was flying like sand before the wind: but
the somnambulist rode on in his sleep, forgetting that on these vast and
billowing fields twenty-six thousand gallant French heroes had died for
the sake of his dreams.
Bertrand and the Prince of Wagram followed--gloomy and silent--they knew
that all suggestions would be useless, all saner advice remain unheeded.
Besides, de Marmont had gone, and after all, what did it all matter?
What did anything matter, now that Empire, glory, hope, everything were
irretrievably lost?
And in faithful Bertrand's deep-set eyes there came a strange, far-off
look, almost of premonition, as if in his mind he could already see that
lonely island rock in the Atlantic, and the great gambler there, eating
out his heart with vain and bitter regrets.
II
But de Marmont had never had any doubts, never any forebodings: he only
had boundless faith in his hero and boundless enthusiasm for his cause.
Accustomed to handle money since early manhood, owner of a vast fortune
which he had administered himself with no mean skill, he had no doubt
that the Emperor's scheme for manufacturing a few millions in a wild
gamble on the Stock Exchange was not only feasible but certain of
success.
Undoubtedly the false news of Wellington's defeat would reach London
to-morrow, as it had already reached Paris and Brussels. The panic in
the money market was a foregone conclusion: the quick rise in prices
when the truth became known was equally certain. It only meant
forestalling the arrival of Wellington's despatches in London by four
and twenty hours, and one million would make fifty during that time.
As de Marmont had told his Emperor, he had several hundred thousand
pounds invested in England, on which he could lay his hands: operations
on the Bourse were nothing new to him: and already while he was still
listening with respect and enthusiasm to his Emperor's instructions, he
was longing to get away. He knew the country well between here and
Brussels, and he was wildly longing to be at work, to be flying across
the low-lying land, on to Brussels and then across to England in the
wake of the awful news of complete disaster.
He would steal the uniform of some poor dead wretch--a Belgium or a
Hanoverian or a black Brunswicker, he didn't care which--it wouldn't
take long to strip the dead, and the greatness of the work at stake
would justify the sacrilege. In the uniform of one of the Allied army he
could safely continue his journey to Brussels, and with luck could reach
the city long before sunset.
In Brussels he would at once obtain civilian clothes and then catch the
evening packet for England at Ostend. Oh, no! it was not likely that
Wellington could send a messenger over to London quite so soon!
At this hour--it was just past five--he was still on Mont Saint Jean
making another desperate stand against the Imperial cavalry with troops
half worn out with discouragement and whose endurance must even now be
giving way.
At this hour the Prussians had appeared at Braine L'Alleud, they had
engaged Reille at Plancenoit, but Wellington and the British had still
to hold their ground or the news which de Marmont intended to accompany
to London might prove true after all.
Ye gods, if only that were possible! How gladly would Victor then have
lost the hundred thousands which he meant to risk to-morrow! Wellington
really vanquished before Blücher could come to his rescue! Napoleon
once more victorious, as he had always been, and a mightier monarch
than before! Then he, Victor de Marmont, the faithful young enthusiast
who had never ceased to believe when others wavered, who at this last
hour--when the whole world seemed to crumble away from under the feet of
the man who had once been its master--was still ready to serve his
Emperor, never doubting, always hoping, he would reap such a reward as
must at last dazzle the one woman who could make that reward for him
doubly precious.
Victor de Marmont had effected the gruesome exchange. He was now dressed
in the black uniform of a Brunswick regiment wherein so many French
royalists were serving. By a wide détour he had reached the approach to
Brussels. Indeed it seemed as if the news which he had sent flying to
Paris was true after all. Behind the forest of Soigne where he now was,
the fields and roads were full of running men and galloping horses. The
dull green of Belgian uniforms, the yellow facings of the Dutch, the
black of Brunswickers, all mingled together in a moving kaleidoscopic
mass of colour: men were flying unpursued yet panic-stricken towards
Brussels, carrying tidings of an awful disaster to the allied armies in
their haggard faces, their quivering lips, their blood-stained tunics.
De Marmont joined in with them: though his heart was full of hope, he
too contrived to look pale and spent and panic-stricken at will--he
heard the shouts of terror, the hastily murmured "All is lost! even the
British can no longer stand!" as horses maddened with fright bore their
half-senseless riders by. He set his teeth and rode on. His dark eyes
glowed with satisfaction; there was no fear that the great gambler would
stake his last in vain: the news would travel quick enough--as news of
disaster always will. Brussels even now must be full of weeping women
and children, as it soon would be of terror-driven men, of wounded and
of maimed crawling into the shelter of the town to die in peace.
And as he rode, de Marmont thought more and more of Crystal. The last
three months had only enhanced his passionate love for her and his
maddening desire to win her yet at all costs. St. Genis would of course
be fighting to-day. Perchance a convenient shot would put him
effectively out of the way. De Marmont had vainly tried in this wild
gallopade to distinguish his rival's face among this mass of foreigners.
As for the Englishman! Well! no doubt he had disappeared long ago out of
Crystal de Cambray's life. De Marmont had never feared him greatly. That
one look of understanding between Crystal and Clyffurde, and the
latter's strange conduct about the money at the inn, were alone
responsible for the few twinges of jealousy which de Marmont had
experienced in that quarter.
Indeed, the Englishman was a negligible quantity. De Marmont did not
fear him. There was only St. Genis, and with the royalist cause rendered
absolutely hopeless--as it would be, as it _must_ be--St. Genis and the
Comte de Cambray and all those stiff-necked aristocrats of the old
regime who had thought fit to turn their proud backs on him at Brestalou
three months ago, would be irretrievably ruined and discredited and
would have to fly the country once more . . . and Crystal, faced with
the alternative of penury in England or a brilliant existence at the
Tuileries as the wife of the Emperor's most faithful friend, would make
her choice as he--de Marmont--never doubted that any woman would.
Hope for him had already become reality. Brussels was the half-way halt
to the uttermost heights of his ambition. Fortune, the Emperor's
gratitude, the woman he loved, all waited for him there. He reached the
city just as that distant horizon in the west was lit up by a streak of
brilliant crimson from the fast sinking sun: just when--had he but
known it!--on the crest of Mont Saint Jean, Wellington had waved his hat
over his head and given the heroic British army--exhausted, but
undaunted--the order for a general charge; just when the Grand Army,
finally checked in its advance, had first set up the ominous call that
was like the passing-bell of its dying glory: "Sauve qui peut!"
III
"Sauve qui peut!"
Bobby Clyffurde heard the cry too through the fast gathering shadows of
unconsciousness that closed in round his wearied senses, and, as a film
that was so like the kindly veil of approaching Death spread over his
eyes, he raised them up just once to that vivid crimson glow far out in
the west, and on the winged chariot of the setting sun he sent up his
last sigh of gratitude to God. All day he had called for Death--all day
he had wooed her there where bullets and grape-shot were thickest--where
her huge scythe had been most busily at work.
Sons of fond mothers, husbands, sweethearts that were dearly loved,
brothers that would be endlessly mourned, lives that were more precious
than any earthly treasures--the ghostly harvester claimed them all with
impartial cruelty. And he--desolate and lonely--with no one greatly to
care if he came back or no--with not a single golden thread of hope to
which he might cling, without a dream to brighten the coming days of
dreariness--with a life in the future that could hold nothing but vain
regrets, Bobby had sought Death twenty times to-day and Death had
resolutely passed him by.
But now he was grateful for that: he was thankful that he had lived just
long enough to see the sunset, just long enough to take part in that
last glorious charge in obedience to Wellington's inspiring command:
"Up, guards, and at them!" he was glad to have lived just long enough
to hear the "Sauve qui peut!" to know that the Grand Army was in full
retreat, that Blücher had come up in time, that British pluck and
British endurance had won the greatest victory of all times for
Britain's flag and her national existence.
Now with a rough bandage hastily tied round his head where grape-shot
had lacerated cheek and ear, with a bayonet thrust in the thigh and
another in the arm, Bobby had remained lying there with many thousands
round him as silent, as uncomplaining, as he--in the down-trodden
corn--and with the tramp of thousands of galloping, fleeing horses, the
clash of steel and fusillade of tirailleurs and artillery reaching his
dimmed senses like a distant echo from the land of ghosts. And before
his eyes--half veiled in unconsciousness, there flitted the tender,
delicate vision of Crystal de Cambray: of her blue eyes and soft fair
hair, done up in a quaint mass of tiny curls; of the scarf of filmy lace
which she always liked to wrap round her shoulders, and through the lace
the pearly sheen of her skin, of her arms, and of her throat. The air
around him had become pure and rarified: that horrible stench of powder
and smoke and blood no longer struck his nostrils--it was roses, roses
all around him--crimson roses--sweet and caressing and fragrant--with
soft, velvety petals that brushed against his cheek--and from somewhere
close by came a dreamy melody, the half-sad, half-gay lilt of an
intoxicating dance.
It was delicious! and Bobby, wearied, sore and aching in body, felt his
soul lifted to some exquisite heights which were not yet heaven, of
course, but which must of a truth form the very threshold of Paradise.
He saw Crystal more and more clearly every moment: now he was looking
straight into her blue eyes, and her little hand, cool and white as
snow, rested upon his burning forehead. She smiled on him--as on a
friend--there was no contempt, no harshness in her look--only a great,
consoling pity and something that seemed like an appeal!
Yes! the longer he himself looked into those blue eyes of hers, the more
sure he was that there was an appeal in them. It almost seemed as if she
needed him, in a way that she had never needed him before. Apparently
she could not speak: she could not tell him what it was she wanted: but
her little hands seemed to draw him up, out of the trodden, trampled
corn, and having soothed his aches and pains they seemed to impel him to
do something--that was important . . . and imperative . . . something
that she wanted done.
He begged her to let him lie here in peace, for he was now comforted and
happy. He was quite sure now that he was dead, that her sweet face had
been the last tangible vision which he had seen on earth, ere he closed
his eyes in the last long sleep.
He had seen her and she had gone. All of a sudden she had vanished, and
darkness was closing in around him: the scent of roses faded into the
air, which was now filled again with horrid sounds--the deafening roar
of cannon, the sharp and incessant retort of rifle-fire, the awesome
mêlée of cries and groans and bugle-calls and sighs of agony, and one
deafening cry--so like the last wail of departing souls--which came from
somewhere--not very far away: "Vive l'Empereur!"
Bobby raised himself to a sitting posture. His head ached terribly--he
was stiff in every limb: a burning, almost intolerable pain gnawed at
his thigh and at his left arm. But consciousness had returned and with
it all the knowledge of what this day had meant: all round him there was
the broken corn, stained with blood and mud, all round him lay the dead
and the dying in their thousands. Far away in the west a crimson glow
like fire lit up this vast hecatomb of brave lives sacrificed, this
final agony of the vast Empire, the might and grandeur of one man laid
low this day by the mightier hand of God.
It lit up with the weird light of the dying day the pallid, clean-shaven
faces of gallant British boys, the rugged faces of the Scot, the olive
skin of the child of Provence, the bronzed cheeks of old veterans: it
threw its lurid glow on red coats and black coats, white facings and
gilt epaulettes; it drew sparks as of still-living fire from
breastplates and broken swords, discarded casques and bayonets,
sabretaches and kilts and bugles and drums, and dead horses and arms and
accoutrements and dead and dying men, all lying pell-mell in a huge
litter with the glow of midsummer sunset upon them--poor little
chessmen--pawns and knights--castles of strength and kings of some
lonely mourning hearts--all swept together by the Almighty hand of the
Great Master of this terrestrial game.
But with returning consciousness Bobby's gaze took in a wider range of
vision. He visualised exactly where he was--on the south slope of Mont
Saint Jean with La Haye Sainte on ahead a little to his left, and the
whitewashed walls of La Belle Alliance still further away gleaming
golden in the light of the setting sun.
He saw that on the wide road which leads to Genappe and Charleroi the
once invincible cavalry of the mighty Emperor was fleeing helter-skelter
from the scene of its disaster: he saw that the British--what was left
of them--were in hot pursuit! He saw from far Plancenoit the
scintillating casques of Blücher's Prussians.
And on the left a detachment of allied troops--Dutch, Belgian,
Brunswickers--had just started down the slope of the plateau to join in
this death-dealing pell-mell, where amongst the litter of dead and
dying, in the confusion of pursuer and pursued, comrade fought at times
against comrade, brother fired on brother--Prussian against British.
Down below behind the farm buildings of La Haye Sainte two battalions of
chasseurs of the Old Guard had made a stand around a tattered bit of
tricolour and the bronze eagle--symbol of so much decadent grandeur and
of such undying glory. "A moi chasseurs," brave Général Pelet had cried.
"Let us save the eagle or die beneath its wing."
And those who heard this last call of despair stopped in their headlong
flight; they forged a way for themselves through the mass of running
horses and men, they rallied to their flag, and with their
tirailleurs--kneeling on one knee--ranged in a circle round them, they
now formed a living bulwark for their eagle, of dauntless breasts and
bristling bayonets.
And upon this mass of desperate men, the small body of raw Dutch and
Belgian and German troops now hurled themselves with wild huzzas and
blind impetuousness. Against this mass of heroes and of conquerors in a
dozen victorious campaigns--men who had no longer anything to lose but
life, and to whom life meant less than nothing now--against them a
handful of half-trained recruits, drunk with the cry of "Victory" which
drowned the roar of the cannon and the clash of sabres, drunk with the
vision of glory which awaited them if that defiant eagle were brought to
earth by them!
And as Bobby staggered to his feet he already saw the impending
catastrophe--one of the many on this day of cumulative disasters. He saw
the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers rush wildly to the
charge--young men--enthusiasts--brave--but men whose ranks had twice
been broken to-day--who twice had rallied to their colours and then had
broken again--men who were exhausted--men who were none too ably
led--men in fact--and there were many French royalists among their
officers--who had not the physical power of endurance which had enabled
the British to astonish the world to-day.
Bobby could see amongst them the Brunswickers and their black coats--he
would have known them amongst millions of men. The full brilliance of
the evening glow was upon them--on their black coats and the silver
galoons and tassels; two of their officers had made a brave show in
Brussels three days--or was it a hundred years?--ago at the Duchess of
Richmond's ball. Bobby remembered them so well, for one of these two
officers was Maurice de St. Genis.
Oh! how Crystal would love to see him now--even though her dear heart
would be torn with anxiety for him--for he was fighting bravely, bravely
and desperately as every one had fought to-day, as these chasseurs of
the Old Guard--just the few of them that remained--were fighting still
even at this hour round that tattered flag and that bronze eagle, and
with the cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" dying upon their lips.
Despair indeed on both sides--even at this hour when the merest incident
might yet turn the issue of this world-conflict one way or the other.
Bobby, as he steadied himself on his feet, had seen that the attack was
already turning into a rout. Not only had Pelet's chasseurs held the
Dutch and Brunswickers at bay, not only had their tirailleurs made
deadly havoc among their assailants, but the latter now were threatened
with absolute annihilation even whilst all around them their
allies--British and Prussian--were crying "Victory!"
Bobby could see them quite clearly--for he saw with that subtle and
delicate sense which only a great and pure passion can give!--he saw the
danger at the very moment when it was born--at the precise instant when
it threatened that handful of black-coated men, one of whose officers
was named St. Genis. He saw the first sign of wavering, of stupefaction,
that followed the impetuous charge: he saw the gaps in the ranks after
that initial deadly volley from the tirailleurs. It almost seemed as if
he could hear those shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" and the rallying cry of
commanding officers--it was all so near--not more than three hundred
yards away, and the clear, stormy atmosphere carried sights and sounds
upon its wing.
Another volley from the tirailleurs and the Dutch and Brunswickers
turned to fly: in vain did their officers call, they wanted to get away!
They tried to fly--to run, for now the chasseurs were at them with
bayonets--they tried to run, but the ground was littered with their own
wounded and dead--with the wounded and the dead of a long day of
carnage: they stumbled at every step--fell over the dying and the
wounded--over dead and wounded horses--over piles of guns and swords and
bayonets, and sabretaches, over forsaken guns and broken carriages,
litter that impeded them in front even as they were driven with the
bayonet from the rear.
Bobby saw it all, for they were coming now--pursued and pursuers--as
fast as ever they could; they were coming, these flying, black-coated
men, casting away their gay trappings as well as their arms, trying to
run--to get away--but stumbling, falling all the time--picking
themselves up, falling and running again.
And in that one short moment while the whole brief tragedy was enacted
before his eyes, Bobby also saw, in a vision that was equally swift and
fleeting, the blue eyes of Crystal drowned in tears. He saw her with
fair head drooping like a lily, he saw the quiver of her lips, heard the
moan of pain that would come to her lips when the man she loved was
brought home to her--dead. And in that same second--so full of
portent--Bobby understood why it was that her sweet image had called to
him for help just now. Again she called, again she beckoned--her blue
eyes looked on him with an appeal that was all-compelling: her two dear
hands were clasped and she begged of him that he should be her friend.
Such visions come from God! no man sees them save he whose soul is great
and whose heart is pure. Poor Bobby Clyffurde--lonely, heart-broken,
desolate--saw the exquisite face that he would have loved to kiss--he
saw it with the golden glow of evening upon the delicate cheeks, and
with the lurid light of fire and battle upon the soft, fair hair.
And the greatness of his love helped him to understand what life still
held for him--the happiness of supreme sacrifice.
All around him was death, but there was some life too: one or two poor,
abandoned riderless horses were quietly picking bits of corn from
between the piles of dead and dying men, or were standing, sniffing the
air with dilated nostrils, and snorting with terror at the deafening
noise. Bobby had steadied himself, neither his head nor his limbs were
aching now--at any rate he had forgotten them--all that he remembered
was what he saw, those black-coated Brunswickers who longed to fly and
could not and who were being slaughtered like insects even as they
stumbled and fled.
And Bobby caught the bridle of one of these poor, terror-stricken beasts
that stood snorting and sniffing not far away: he crawled up into the
saddle, for his thigh was numb and one of his arms helpless. But once on
horseback he could get along--over trampled corn and over the dead--on
toward that hideous corner behind the farm of La Haye Sainte where
desperate men were butchering others that were more desperate than
they--in among that seething crowd of black coats and fur bonnets, of
silver tassels and of brass eagles, into a whirlpool of swords and
bayonets and gun-fire from the tirailleurs--for there he had seen the
man whom Crystal loved--for whose sake she would eat out her heart with
mourning and regret.
In the deafening noise of shrieking and sighs and whizzing bullets and
cries of agony he heard Crystal's voice telling him what to do. Already
he had seen St. Genis struggling on his knees not fifty mètres away from
the first line of tirailleurs, not a hundred from the advancing steel
wall of fixed bayonets. Maurice had thrown back his head, in the
hopelessness of his despair; the evening sun fell full upon his haggard,
blood-stained face, upon his wide-open eyes filled with the terror of
death. The next moment Bobby Clyffurde was by his side; all around him
bullets were whizzing--all around him men sighed their last sigh of
agony. He stooped over his saddle: "Can you pull yourself up?" he
called. And with his one sound arm he caught Maurice by the elbow and
helped him to struggle to his feet. The horse, dazed with terror,
snorted at the smell of blood, but he did not move. Maurice, equally
dazed, scrambled into the saddle--almost inert--a dead weight--a thing
that impeded progress and movement; but the thing that Crystal loved
above all things on earth and which Bobby knew he must wrest out of
these devouring jaws of Death and lay--safe and sound--within the
shelter of her arms.
IV
After that it meant a struggle--not for his own life, for indeed he
cared little enough for that--but for the sake of the burden which he
was carrying--a burden of infinite preciousness since Crystal's heart
and happiness were bound up with it.
Maurice de St. Genis clung half inert to him with one hand gripping the
saddle-bow, the other clutching Bobby's belt with convulsive tenacity.
Bobby himself was only half conscious, dazed with the pain of wounds,
the exertion of hoisting that dead weight across his saddle, the
deafening noise of whizzing bullets round him, the boring of the
frightened horse against its bridle, as it tried to pick its way through
the tangled heaps upon the ground.
But every moment lessened the danger from stray bullets, and the chance
of the bayonet charge from behind. The cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" round
that still standing eagle were drowned in the medley and confusion of
hundreds of other sounds. Bobby was just able to guide his horse away
from the spots where the fighting was most hot and fierce, where
Vivian's hussars attacked those two battalions of cuirassiers, where
Adam's brigade of artillery turned the flank of the chasseurs and laid
the proud bronze eagle low, where Ney and the Old Guard were showing to
the rest of the Grand Army how grizzled veterans fought and died.
He rode straight up the plateau, however, but well to the right now,
picking his way carefully with that blind instinct which the tracked
beast possesses and which the hunted man sometimes receives from God.
The dead and the dying were less thick here upon the ground. It was here
that earlier in the day the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers
had supported the British left, during those terrific cavalry charges
which British endurance and tenacity had alone been able to withstand.
It was here that Hacke's Cumberland Hussars had broken their ranks and
fled, taking to Brussels and thence to Ghent the news of terrific
disaster. Bobby's lips were tight set and he snorted like a war-horse
when he thought of that--when he thought of the misery and sorrow that
must be reigning in Brussels now--and of the consternation at Ghent
where the poor old Bourbon King was probably mourning his dead hopes and
his vanished throne.
In Brussels women would be weeping; and Crystal--forlorn and
desolate--would perhaps be sitting at her window watching the stream of
fugitives that came in--wounded and exhausted--from the field of battle,
recounting tales of a catastrophe which had no parallel in modern times:
and Crystal, seeing and hearing this, would think of the man she loved,
and believing him to be dead would break her heart with sorrow.
And when Bobby thought of that he was spurred to fresh effort, and he
pulled himself together with a desperate tension of every nerve and
sinew, fighting exhaustion, ignoring pain, conjuring up the vision of
Crystal's blue eyes and her pleading look as she begged him to save her
from lifelong sorrow and the anguish of future loneliness. Then he no
longer heard the weird and incessant cannonade, he no longer saw the
desolation of this utter confusion around him, he no longer felt
exhausted, or the weight of that lifeless, impeding burden upon his
saddle-bow.
Stray bands of fugitives with pursuers hot on their heels passed him by,
stray bullets flew to right and left of him, whizzing by with their
eerie, whistling sound; he was now on the outskirts of the great
pursuit--anon he reached the crest of Mont Saint Jean at last, and
almost blindly struck back eastward in the direction of the forest of
Soigne.
It was blind instinct--and nothing more--that kept him on his horse: he
clung to his saddle with half-paralysed knees, just as a drowning man
will clutch a floating bit of wreckage that helps him to keep his head
above the water. The stately trees of Soigne were not far ahead now:
through the forest any track that bore to the left would strike the
Brussels road; only a little more strength--another effort or two--the
cool solitude of the wood would ease the weight of the burden and the
throbbing of nerves and brain. The setting sun shone full upon the leafy
edge of the wood; hazelnut and beech and oak and clumps of briar rose
quivered under the rough kiss of the wind that blew straight across the
lowland from the southwest, bringing with it still the confusion of
sounds--the weird cannonades and dismal bugle-calls--in such strange
contrast to the rustle of the leaves and the crackling of tiny twigs in
the tangled coppice.
How cool and delicious it must be under those trees--and there was a
narrow track which must lead straight to the Brussels road--the ground
looked soft and mossy and damp after the rain--oh! for the strength to
reach those leafy shadows, to plunge under that thicket and brush with
burning forehead against those soft green leaves heavy with moisture!
Oh! for the power to annihilate this distance of a few hundred yards
that lie between this immense graveyard open to wind and scorching sun,
and the green, cool moss and carpet of twigs and leaves and soft,
sweet-smelling earth, on which a weary body and desolate soul might find
eternal rest! . . .
V
On! on! through the forest of Soigne! There was no question as yet of
rest.
Maurice had not yet wakened from his trance. Bobby vaguely wondered if
he were not already dead. There was no stain of blood upon his fine
uniform, but it was just possible that in stumbling, running and falling
he had hit his head or received a blow which had deprived him of
consciousness directly after he had scrambled into the saddle.
Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked and how his hand had
by the merest instinct clutched at the saddle-bow, and then had dropped
away from it--helpless and inert. Now he lay quite still with his head
resting against Bobby's shoulder.
Under the trees it was cool and the air was sweet and soothing: Bobby
with his left hand contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the
coppice as he passed: they were full of moisture and he pressed them
against Maurice's lips and against his own.
The forest was full of sounds: of running men and horses, the rattle of
wheels, and the calls of terror and of pain, with still and always that
awesome background of persistent cannonade. But Bobby heard nothing, saw
nothing save the narrow track in front of him, along which the horse now
ambled leisurely, and from time to time--when he looked down--the pale,
haggard face of the man whom Crystal loved.
At one moment Maurice opened his eyes and murmured feebly: "Where am I?"
"On the way to Brussels," Bobby contrived to reply.
A little later on horse and rider emerged out of the wood and the
Brussels road stretched out its long straight ribbon before Bobby
Clyffurde's dull, uncomprehending gaze.
Close by at his feet the milestone marked the last six kilomètres to
Brussels. Only another half-dozen kilomètres--only another hour's ride
at most! . . . Only!!! . . . when even now he felt that the next few
minutes must see him tumbling head-foremost from the saddle.
Far away beyond the milestone on his right--in a meadow, the boundary of
which touched the edge of the wood--women were busy tossing hay after
the rain, all unconscious of the simple little tragedy that was being
enacted so close to them: their cotton dresses and the kerchiefs round
their heads stood out as trenchant, vivid notes of colour against the
dull grey landscape beyond. A couple of haycarts were standing by:
beside them two men were lighting their pipes. The wind was playing with
the hay as the women tossed it, and their shrill laughter came echoing
across the meadow.
And even now the ground was shaken with the repercussion of distant
volleys of artillery, and along the road a stream of men were running
toward Brussels, horses galloped by frightened and riderless, or
dragging broken gun-carriages behind them in the mud. The whole of that
stream was carrying the news of Wellington's disaster to Brussels and to
Ghent: not knowing that behind them had already sounded the passing bell
for the Empire of France.
Bobby had drawn rein on the edge of the wood to give his horse a rest,
and for a while he watched that running stream, longing to shout to them
to turn back--there was no occasion to run--to see what had been done,
to take a share in that glorious, final charge for victory. But his
throat was too parched for a shout, and as he watched, he saw in among a
knot of mounted men--fugitives like the others, pale of face, anxious of
mien and with that intent look which men have when life is precious and
has got to be saved--he saw a man in the same uniform that St. Genis
wore--a Brunswicker in black coat and silver galoons--who stared at him,
persistently and strangely, as he rode by.
The face though much altered by three days' growth of beard, and by the
set of the shako worn right down to the brows, was nevertheless a
familiar one. Bobby--stupefied, deprived for the moment of thinking
powers, through sheer exhaustion and burning pain--taxed his weary brain
in vain to understand the look of recognition which the man in the black
uniform cast upon him as he passed.
Until a lightly spoken: "Hullo, my dear Clyffurde!" uttered gaily as the
rider drew near to the edge of the road, brought the name of "Victor de
Marmont!" to Bobby's quivering lips.
And just for the space of sixty seconds Fate rubbed her gaunt hands
complacently together, seeing that she had brought these three men
together--here on this spot--three men who loved the same woman, each
with the utmost ardour and passion at his command--each even at this
very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness.
Behind them in the plains of Waterloo the cannon still was roaring: de
Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he
worshipped and to win imperial regard, imperial favours, fortune and
glory wherewith to conquer a girl's obstinacy. St. Genis--pale and
unconscious--seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any
rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of
caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and
he had both equally at heart and by his very helplessness now he seemed
to prove that he could do no more than he had done and that he had the
right to claim the solace and comfort which her girlish lips and her
girlish love had promised him long ago.
Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save
devotion--his hope, his desire and his love were bounded by her
happiness. And since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he
had dragged out of the jaws of Death, what greater proof could he give
of his love than to lay down his life for him and for her?
De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance: he threw a
quick look of savage hatred on St. Genis and cast one of contemptuous
pity on Clyffurde. Then with a shrug of the shoulders and a light,
triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away.
Bobby's lack-lustre eyes followed horse and rider down the road till
they grew smaller and smaller still and finally disappeared in the
distance. For a moment he felt puzzled. What was de Marmont doing in
this stream of senseless, panic-stricken men? What was he doing in the
uniform of one of the Allied nations? Why had he laughed so gaily and
appeared so triumphant in his mien?
Did he not know then that his hero had fallen along with his mighty
eagle? that the brief adventure begun in the gulf of Jouan had ended in
a hopeless tragedy on the field of Waterloo? But why that uniform? Poor
Bobby's head ached too much to allow him to think, and time was getting
on.
The road now was deserted. The last of the fugitives formed but a cloud
of black specks on the line of the horizon far off toward Brussels. From
the hayfield there came the merry sound of women's laughter, while far
away cannon and musketry still roared. And over the long, straight
road--bordered with straight poplar trees--the setting sun threw
ever-lengthening shadows.
Maurice opened his eyes.
"Where am I?" he asked again.
"Close to Brussels now," replied Bobby.
"To Brussels?" murmured St. Genis feebly. "Crystal!"
"Yes," assented Bobby. "Crystal! God bless her!" Then as St. Genis was
trying to move, he added: "Can you shift a little?"
"I think so," replied the other.
"If you could ease the pressure on my leg . . . steady, now! steady!
. . . Can you sit up in the saddle? . . . Are you hurt? . . ."
"Not much. My head aches terribly. I must have hit it against something.
But that is all. I am only dizzy and sick."
"Could you ride on to Brussels alone, think you?"
"Perhaps."
"It is not far. The horse is very quiet. He will amble along if you give
him his head."
"But you?"
"I'd like to rest. I'll find shelter in a cottage perhaps . . . or in
the wood."
St. Genis said nothing more for the moment. He was intent on sliding
down from the saddle without too much assistance from Bobby. When he had
reached the ground, it took him a little while to collect himself, for
his head was swimming: he closed his eyes and put out a hand to steady
himself against a tree.
When Maurice opened his eyes again, Bobby was sitting on the ground by
the roadside: the horse was nibbling a clump of fresh, green grass.
For the first time since that awful moment when stumbling and falling
against a pile of dead, with Death behind and all around him, he had
heard the welcome call: "Can you pull yourself up?" and felt the
steadying grip upon his elbow--Maurice de St. Genis looked upon the man
to whom he owed his life.
With that stained bandage round his head, dulled and bloodshot eyes,
face blackened with powder and smoke and features drawn and haggard,
Bobby Clyffurde was indeed almost unrecognisable. But Maurice knew him
on the instant. Hitherto, he had not thought of how he had come out of
that terrible hell-fire behind La Haye Sainte--indeed, he had quickly
lost consciousness and never regained it till now: and now he knew that
the same man who in the narrow hotel room near Lyons had ungrudgingly
rendered him a signal service--had risked his life to-day for
his--Maurice's sake.
No one could have entered that awful mêlée and faced the bayonet charge
of Pelet's cuirassiers and the hail of bullets from their tirailleurs
without taking imminent risk of death. Yet Clyffurde had done it. Why?
Maurice--wide-eyed and sullen--could only find one answer to that
insistent question.
That same deadly pang of jealousy which had assailed his heart after the
midnight interview at the inn now held him in its cruel grip again. He
felt that he hated the man to whom he owed his life, and that he hated
himself for this mean and base ingratitude. He would not trust himself
to speak or to look on Bobby at all, lest the ugly thoughts which were
floating through his mind set their stamp upon his face.
"Will you ride on to Brussels?" he said at last. "I can wait here . . .
and perhaps you could send a conveyance for me later on. M. le Comte de
Cambray would . . ."
"M. le Comte de Cambray and Mademoiselle Crystal are even now devoured
with anxiety about you," broke in Clyffurde as firmly as he could. "And
I could not ride to Brussels--even though some one were waiting for me
there--I really am not able to ride further. I would prefer to sit here
and rest."
"I don't like to leave you . . . after . . . after what you have done
for me . . . I would like to . . ."
"I would like you to scramble into that saddle and go," retorted Bobby
with a momentary return to his usual good-natured irony, "and to leave
me in peace."
"I'll send out a conveyance for you," rejoined St. Genis. "I know M. le
Comte de Cambray would wish . . ."
"Mention my name to M. le Comte at your peril . . ." began Clyffurde.
"But . . ."
"By the Lord, man," now exclaimed Bobby with a sudden burst of energy,
"if you do not go, I vow that sick as I am, and sick though you may be,
I'll yet manage to punch your aching head."
Then as the other--still reluctantly--turned to take hold of the horse's
bridle, he added more gently: "Can you mount?"
"Oh, yes! I am better now."
"You won't turn giddy, and fall off your horse?"
"I don't think so."
"Talk about the halt leading the blind!" murmured Clyffurde as he
stretched himself out once more upon the soft ground, whilst Maurice
contrived to hoist himself up into the saddle. "Are you safe now?" he
added as the young man collected the reins in his hand, and planted his
feet firmly into the stirrups.
"Yes! I am safe enough," replied St. Genis. "It is only my head that
aches: and Brussels is not far."
Then he paused a moment ere he started to go--with lips set tight and
looking down on Bobby, whose pale face had taken on an ashen hue:
"How you must despise me," he said bitterly.
But Bobby made no reply: he was just longing to be left alone, whilst
the other still seemed inclined to linger.
"Would to God," Maurice said with a sigh, "that M. le Comte heard the
evil news from other lips than mine."
"Evil news?" And Bobby, whom semi-consciousness was already taking off
once more to the land of visions and of dreams--was brought back to
reality--as if with a sudden jerk--with those two preposterous little
words.
"What evil news?" he asked.
"The allied armies have retreated all along the line . . . the Corsican
adventurer is victorious . . . our poor King . . ."
"Hold your tongue, you young fool," cried Bobby hoarsely. "The Lord help
you but I do believe you are about to blaspheme . . ."
"But . . ."
"The Allied Armies--the British Army, God bless it!--have covered
themselves with glory--Napoleon and his Empire have ceased to be. The
Grand Army is in full retreat . . . the Prussians are in pursuit. . . .
The British have won the day by their pluck and their endurance. . . .
Thank God I lived just long enough to see it all, ere I fell . . ."
"But when we charged the cuirassiers . . ." began St. Genis, not knowing
really if Bobby was raving in delirium, or speaking of what he knew. He
wanted to ask further questions, to hear something more before he
started for Brussels . . . the only thing which he remembered with
absolute certainty was that awful charge of his regiment against the
cuirassiers, then the panic and the rout: and he judged the whole issue
of the battle by what had happened to a detachment of Brunswickers.
And yet, of course--before the charge--he had seen and known all that
Bobby told him now. That rush of the Brunswickers and the Dutch down the
hillside was only a part of the huge and glorious charge of the whole of
the Allied troops against the routed Grand Army of Napoleon. He had
neither the physical strength nor the desire to think out all that it
would mean to him personally if what Bobby now told him was indeed
absolutely true.
He was longing to make the wounded man rouse himself just once more and
reiterate the glad news which meant so much to him--Maurice--and to
Crystal. But it was useless to think of that now. Bobby was either
unconscious or asleep. For a moment a twinge of real pity made St.
Genis' heart ache for the man who seemed to be left so lonely and so
desolate: jealousy itself gave way before that more gentle feeling.
After all, Crystal could only be true to the love of her childhood; her
heart belonged to the companion, the lover, the ideal of her girlish
dreams. This stranger here loved her--that was obvious--but Crystal had
never looked on him with anything but indifference. Even that dance last
night . . . but of this Maurice would not think lest pity die out of his
heart again . . . and jealousy and hate walk hand in hand with base
ingratitude.
He turned his horse's head round to the road, pressed his knees into its
sides, and then as the poor, weary beast started to amble leisurely down
the road, Maurice looked back for the last time on the prostrate,
pathetic figure of the lonely man who had given his all for him: he
looked at every landmark which would enable him to find that man
again--the angle of the forest where it touched the meadow,--the
milestone, the trees by the roadside--oh! he meant to do his duty, to do
it well and quickly, to send the conveyance, to neglect nothing; then,
with a sigh--half of bitterness, yet full of satisfaction--he finally
turned away and looked straight out before him into the distance where
Brussels lay, and where the happiness of Crystal's love called to him,
and he would find rest and peace in the warm affection of her faithful
heart.