The bloody victory of Magenta opened the gates of Milan to the
French Army, which the towns of Pavia, Lodi and Cremona welcomed
enthusiastically.
The Austrians, abandoning the lines of the Adda, the Oglio, and the
Chiese, gathered their forces on the bank of the River Mincio, at whose
head the young and courageous Emperor Joseph placed himself.
The King of Sardinia, Victor Emmanuel, arrived on the seventeenth
of June, 1859, at Brescia, where, with great joy, the inhabitants
welcomed him, seeing in the son of Charles Albert a saviour and a hero.
During the next day the French Emperor entered the same town amid the
enthusiastic cries of the people, happy to show their gratitude to the
monarch who came to help them gain their independence.
On the twenty-first of June, Napoleon III and Victor Emmanuel II
left Brescia, from which place their armies had departed during the
previous day. On the twenty-second they occupied Lonato, Castenedolo
and Montechiaro. On the evening of the twenty-third Napoleon, who was
commander-in-chief, published strict orders for the army of the King
of Sardinia, encamped at Desenzano, and forming the left flank of the
allied armies, to proceed early the following day to Pozzelengo.
Marshal Baraguey d'Hilliers was ordered to march on Solferino; Marshal
MacMahon, Duke de Magenta, on Cavriana; General Neil was to proceed to
Guidizzolo; Marshal Canrobert to Medole; Marshal Regnaud de Saint-Jean
d'Angley, with the Imperial Guard, to Castiglione.
These united forces amounted to 150,000 men, with 400 cannon.
The Austrian Emperor had at his disposition, in the Lombardo-Venetian
kingdom, nine army corps, amounting in all to 250,000 men, comprising
the garrison of Verona and Mantua. The effective force prepared to
enter the line of battle consisted of seven corps, some 170,000 men,
supported by 500 cannon.
The headquarters of the Emperor Francis Joseph had been moved from
Verona to Villafranca, then to Valeggio. On the evening of the
twenty-third the Austrian troops received the order to recross the
River Mincio during the night to Peschiera, Salionze, Valeggio, Ferri,
Goito and Mantua. The main part of the army took up its position from
Pozzolengo to Guidizzolo, in order to attack the enemy between the
Rivers Mincio and Chiese.
The Austrian forces formed two armies. The first having as
Commander-in-chief Count Wimpffen, under whose orders were the corps
commanded by Field Marshals Prince Edmund Schwarzenberg, Count
Schaffgotsche and Baron Veigl, also the cavalry division of Count
Zeidewitz. This composed the left flank. It was stationed in the
neighborhood of Volta, Guidizzolo, Medole and Castel-Gioffredo.
The second army was commanded by Count Schlick, having under his orders
the Field Marshals Count Clam-Gallas, Count Stadion, Baron Zobel and
Cavalier Benedek, as well as the cavalry division of Count Mensdorf.
This composed the right flank. It occupied Cavriana, Pozzolengo and San
Martino.
Thus, on the morning of the twenty-fourth, the Austrians occupied all
the heights between Pozzolengo, Solferino, Cavriana and Guidizzolo.
They ranged their artillery in series of breastworks, forming the
center of the attacking line, which permitted their right and left
flanks to fall back upon these fortified heights which they believed to
be unconquerable.
The two belligerent armies, although marching one against the other,
did not expect such a sudden meeting. Austria, misinformed, supposed
that only a part of the allied army had crossed the Chiese River. On
their side the confederates did not expect this attack in return, and
did not believe that they would find themselves so soon before the army
of the Austrian Emperor. The reconnoitering, the observations and the
reports of the scouts, and those made from the fire balloons during the
day of the twenty-third showed no signs of such an imminent encounter.
The collision of the armies of Austria and Franco-Sardinia on Friday,
the twenty-fourth of June, 1859, was, therefore, unexpected, although
the combatants on both sides conjectured that a great battle was near.
The Austrian army, already fatigued by the difficult march during the
night of the twenty-third and twenty-fourth, had to support from the
earliest dawn the attack of the enemies' armies and to suffer from the
intensely hot weather as well as from hunger and thirst, for, except
a double ration of brandy, the greater number of the Austrians were
unable to take any food.
The French troops already in movement before daybreak had had nothing
but coffee. Therefore, this exhaustion of the soldiers, and above all,
of the unfortunate wounded, was extreme at the end of this very bloody
battle, which lasted more than fifteen hours.
Both armies are awake.
Three hundred thousand men are standing face to face. The line of
battle is ten miles long.
Already at three o'clock in the morning, corps commanded by Marshals
Baraguey d'Hilliers and MacMahon are commencing to move on Solferino
and Cavriana.
Hardly have the advance columns passed Castiglione when they themselves
are in the presence of the first posts of the Austrians, who dispute
the ground.
On all sides bugles are playing the charges and the drums are sounding.
The Emperor Napoleon who passed the night at Montechiaro hastens
rapidly to Castiglione.
By six o'clock a furious fire has commenced.
The Austrians march in a compact mass in perfect order along the open
roads. In the air are flying their black and yellow standards, on which
are embroidered the ancient Imperial arms.
The day is very clear. The Italian sun makes the brilliant equipments
of the dragoons, the lancers and the cuirassiers of the French army
glitter brightly.
At the commencement of the engagement the Emperor Francis Joseph,
together with his entire staff, leaves headquarters in order to go to
Volta. He is accompanied by the Archdukes of the House of Lorraine,
among whom are the Grand Duke of Tuscany and the Duke of Modena.
In the midst of the difficulties of a field unknown to the French
army the first meeting takes place. It has to make its way through
plantations of mulberry trees, interlaced by climbing vines, which form
almost impassable barriers.
The earth is cut by great dried up trenches which the horses have to
leap, and by long walls with broad foundations which they have to climb.
From the hills the Austrians pour on the enemy a constant hail of shot
and shell. With the smoke of the cannon's continual discharge the
rain of bullets is ploughing up the earth and dust into thousands of
missiles.
The French hurl themselves upon these strongly fortified places in
spite of the firing of the batteries which falls upon the earth with
redoubled force.
During the burning heat of noon the battle everywhere becomes more and
more furious.
Column after column throw themselves one against the other with the
force of a devastating torrent.
A number of French regiments surround masses of Austrian troops, but,
like iron walls, these resist and at first remain unshaken.
Entire divisions throw their knapsacks to the earth in order to rush at
the enemy with fixed bayonets.
If a battalion is driven away another replaces it; each hill, each
height, each rocky eminence becomes a theatre for an obstinate struggle.
On the heights, as well as in the ravines, the dead lie piled up. The
Austrians and the allied armies march one against the other, killing
each other above the blood-covered corpses, butchering with gunshots,
crushing each other's skulls or disemboweling with the sword or
bayonet. No cessation in the conflict, no quarter given. The wounded
are defending themselves to the last. It is butchery by madmen drunk
with blood.
Sometimes the fighting becomes more terrible on account of the arrival
of rushing, galloping cavalry. The horses, more compassionate than
their riders, seek in vain to step over the victims of this butchery,
but their iron hoofs crush the dead and dying. With the neighing of
the horses are mingled blasphemies, cries of rage, shrieks of pain and
despair.
The artillery, at full speed, follows the cavalry which has cut a way
through the corpses and the wounded lying in confusion on the ground.
A jaw-bone of one of these last is torn away; the head of another is
battered in; the breast of a third is crushed. Limbs are broken and
bruised; the field is covered with human remains; the earth is soaked
with blood.
The French troops, with fiery ardor, scale the steep hills and rocky
declivities in spite of shot and shell.
Hardly does some harassed and profusely perspiring company capture
a hill and reach its summit, when it falls like an avalanche on the
Austrians, overthrows, repulses and pursues them to the depths of the
hollows.
But the Austrians regain the advantage. Ambuscaded behind the houses,
the churches and the walls of Medole, Solferino and Cavriana, they
heroically fight on and very nearly win the victory.
The unending combat rages incessantly and in every place with fury.
Nothing stops, nothing interrupts the butchery. They are killing
one another by the hundreds. Every foot of ground is carried at the
bayonet's point, every post disputed foot by foot. From the hands of
the enemy are taken villages, house after house, farm after farm, each
is the theatre of a siege. Doors, windows and courts are abattoirs.
A rain of cannon balls is sending death to the distant reserves of
Austria. If these desert the field they yield it only step by step, and
soon recommence action. Their ranks are ceaselessly reforming. On the
plains the wind raises the dust, which flies over the roads like dense
clouds, darkening the day and blinding the fighters.
The French cavalry flings itself on the Austrian cavalry; uhlans and
hussars slash furiously at each other with their swords.
The rage is so great that in some places, after the exhaustion of the
cartridges and the breaking of the muskets, they fight with fists and
beat one another with stones.
The strongest positions are captured, lost, and recaptured, to be lost
again. Everywhere men are falling mutilated, riddled with bullets,
covered with wounds.
In the midst of these endless combats, these massacres, blasphemies
arise in different tongues, telling of the diverse nationalities of the
men, many of whom are obliged to become homicides in their twentieth
year.
The soldiers of the Sardinian King, defending and attacking with
fervor, continue their skirmishes from early morning. The hills of San
Martino, Roccolo, Madonno della Scoperta are captured and recaptured
five or six times. Their Generals Mollard, La Marmora, Della Rocca,
Durando, Fanti, Cialdini, Cucchiari, de Sonnoz, with all kinds and all
grades of officers help the king before whose eyes lie the wounded
Generals Cedale, Perrier and Arnoldi.
The French Emperor orders that the corps of Baraguey d'Hilliers and
MacMahon, together with the Imperial Guard, attack at the same time the
fortress of San Cassiano and occupy Solferino.
But the brave Austrians make the allied army pay dearly for its
success.... One of its heroes, Prince Aleksandro de Hessen, after
fighting with great courage at San Cassiano defends against repeated
attacks, the three heights of Mount Fontana.... At Guidizzolo, Prince
Charles of Windischraetz, braves certain death in seeking to recapture
under a hail of balls Casa Nova. Mortally wounded, he still commands,
supported and carried by his brave soldiers, who vainly make for him a
rampart of their own bodies.
Marshal Baraguey d'Hilliers finally enters the town of Solferino,
courageously defended by Baron Stadion.
The sky is darkened, dense clouds cover the horizon. A furious wind
is rising. It carries away the broken branches of the trees. A cold
rain, driven by the tempest, a veritable cloud-burst, drenches the
combatants, exhausted from hunger and fatigue, while dust, hail and
smoke are blinding the soldiers forced to fight also the elements.
The army of the Emperor Francis Joseph retreats. Throughout the entire
action the chief of the House of Hapsburg shows admirable tranquillity
and self-control.
During the capture of Cavriana the Austrian Emperor finds himself,
together with Baron Schlick and the Prince of Nassau, on the adjacent
heights, Madonna della Pieve, opposite a church surrounded by cypress
trees. Towards evening, the Austrian center having yielded and the
left flank not daring to hope to force the position of the allies,
the general retreat is decided. In this grave moment, Emperor Francis
Joseph, around whom rained balls and bullets during the whole day,
goes with a part of his staff to Volta, while the Archdukes and the
hereditary Grand Duke of Tuscany returned to Valeggio.
The Austrian officers fought like lions. Some, through despair, let
themselves die, but sold their lives dearly. The greater number rejoin
their regiments covered with the blood of their own wounds or with that
of the enemy. To their bravery should be rendered merited praise.
... Guidizzolo remains occupied by the Austrians until ten o'clock
in the evening.... The roads are covered with army wagons, carts
and reserve artillery. The transport vans are saved by the rapid
construction of improvised bridges. The first Austrian wounded
consisting of men slightly injured, commence to enter Villafranca.
The more seriously wounded follow them. Austrian physicians and their
assistants rapidly bandage the wounds, give some nourishment to
the wounded and send them by railroad trains to Verona, where the
embarrassment is becoming terrible.
Although during its retreat the Austrian army tries to carry away all
the wounded which it could transport (and with what great suffering!),
nevertheless, thousands remain lying on the ground moistened with their
blood.
The allied army is in possession of the conquered field.
Near the close of the day when the evening shadows creep over this vast
field of carnage, more than one officer, more than one French soldier,
seek here and there a comrade, a compatriot, or a friend, when he
finds the wounded friend, he kneels beside, trying to restore him to
consciousness, wiping away the blood, bandaging the wounds as well as
he can, wrapping a handkerchief around the broken limb, but rarely can
he secure water for the suffering man.
How many silent tears were shed during this sad night, when all false
pride, all human regard were set aside.
During the battle, hospitals for the wounded established in nearby
farmhouses, churches, monasteries, in the open air, under the shade
of trees receive the wounded officers and non-commissioned officers,
who are hastily given treatment. After these comes the turn of the
soldiers, when that is possible. Those of the latter who are still
able to walk find their way to the field hospitals. The others are
carried on litters and stretchers, weakened as they are by loss of
blood, by pain, by continued lack of food, and by the mental and moral
shock they have experienced. During the battle a pennant fixed on an
elevation marks the station for the wounded and the field hospitals of
the fighting regiments. Unfortunately, only a few of the soldiers know
the color of the hospital pennant or that of the hospital flag of the
enemy, for the colors differ with the different nations. The bombs fall
upon them, sparing neither physicians, nor wounded, nor wagons loaded
with bread, wine, meat or lint.
The heights which extend from Castiglione to Volta, sparkle with
thousands of fires, which are fed by pieces of Austrian gun-wagons and
by huge branches of trees, broken by the tempest or by cannon balls.
The soldiers dry their dripping clothes; then, overcome by fatigue and
exhaustion, they fall asleep on the stones or on the ground.
What terrible episodes! What touching scenes! What disillusionments!
There are battalions without food, companies lacking almost every
necessity, because of the loss of the knapsacks. Water also is lacking,
but their thirst is so intense that officers and soldiers resort to
slimy and even bloody pools. Everywhere the wounded are begging for
water.
Through the silence of the night are heard groans, stifled cries of
anguish and pain, and heartrending voices calling for help.
Who will ever be able to paint the agonies of this horrible night!
The sun on the twenty-fifth of June, 1859, shines above one of the most
frightful sights imaginable. The battle-field is everywhere covered
with corpses of men and horses. They appear as if sown along the roads,
in the hollows, the thickets and the fields, above all, near the
village of Solferino.
The fields ready for the harvest are ruined, the grain trodden down,
the fences overturned, the orchards destroyed.
Here and there one finds pools of blood.
The villages are deserted. They bear traces of bullets, of bombs and
shells and grenades.
The houses whose walls have been pierced with bullets and are gaping
widely, are shaken and ruined.
The inhabitants, of whom the greater number have passed almost twenty
hours in the refuge of their cellars, without light or food, are
commencing to come out. The look of stupor of these poor peasants bears
testimony to the long terror they have endured.
The ground is covered with all kinds of debris, broken pieces of arms,
articles of equipments and blood-stained clothing.
The miserable wounded gathered up during the day are pale, livid and
inert.
Some, principally those seriously injured, have a vacant look, they
seem not to understand what is said to them. They turn their staring
eyes toward those who bring them help.
Others, in a dangerous state of nervous shock, are shaking with
convulsive tremblings.
Still others, with uncovered wounds, where inflammation has already
appeared, seem frenzied with pain; they beg that someone may end their
sufferings, and, with drawn faces, writhe in the last torments of agony.
Elsewhere, poor fellows are prostrated on the ground by bullets and
bursting shells. Their arms and legs have been fractured by the cannon
wheels that have passed over them.
The shock of the cylindrical ball shatters the bones, so that the wound
it causes is always very dangerous. The bursting of shells and the
conical balls make extremely painful fractures, the internal injury
being terrible. Every kind of pieces of bone, of earth, of lead, of
clothing, of equipments, of shoes, aggravate and irritate the wounds of
the patients and increase their sufferings.
Those who cross this vast field of yesterday's battle meet at every
step, in the midst of a confusion without parallel, inexpressible
despair and suffering of every kind.
Some of the battalions which had taken off their knapsacks during the
battle, at last find them again, but they have been robbed of all their
contents. During the night, vagabonds have stolen everything. A grave
loss to the poor men whose linen and uniforms are stained and torn. Not
only do they find themselves deprived of their clothing, but even their
smallest savings, all their fortune as well as of the treasures dear to
them; small family mementoes given by mothers, sisters and sweethearts.
In several places the dead are stripped of their clothing by the
thieves, who do not always spare the wounded who are still living.
Besides these painful sights are others still more dramatic.
Here the old, retired General Le Breton wanders, seeking his
son-in-law, the wounded General Douay, who has left his daughter,
Madame Douay, in the midst of the tumult of war, in a state of the
most cruel uneasiness. There, Colonel de Maleville, shot at Casa
Nova, expires. Here, it is Colonel de Genlis, whose dangerous wound
causes a burning fever. There, Lieutenant de Selve of the artillery,
only a few weeks out of Saint Cyr, has his right arm amputated on the
battle-field, where he was wounded.
I help care for a poor sergeant-major of the Vincennes Chasseurs, both
of whose legs are pierced through with balls. I meet him again in the
Brescia Hospital; but he will die crossing Mount Cenis.
Lieutenant de Guiseul, who was believed dead, is picked up on the
spot, where, having fallen with his standard, he was lying in a swoon.
The courageous sub-lieutenant Fournier, of the flying-guard, gravely
wounded, finishes in his twentieth year a military career commenced in
his tenth year by voluntarily enlisting in the foreign legion. They
bury the Commander de Pontgibaud, who died during the night, and the
young Count de Saint Paer, who had attained the rank of major hardly
seven days before. General Auger, of the artillery, is carried to the
field hospital of Casa Morino. His left shoulder has been shattered by
a six-inch shell, part of which remained imbedded for twenty-four hours
in the interior of the muscles of the armpit. Carried to Castiglione he
is attacked with gangrene, and dies as a result of the disarticulation
of the arm. General de Ladmirault and General Dieu, both gravely
wounded, also arrived at Castiglione.
The lack of water becomes greater and greater. The sun is burning, the
ditches are dried up. The soldiers have only brackish and unwholesome
water to appease their thirst. Where even the least little stream or
spring trickling drop by drop is found, guards with loaded guns have
great difficulty in preserving this water for the most urgent needs.
Wounded horses, who have lost their riders, and have wandered during
the whole night, drag themselves to their comrades, from whom they seem
to beg for help. They are put out of their agony by a bullet. One of
these noble chargers comes alone into the midst of a French company.
The rich saddle-bag, fastened to the saddle, shows that it belongs to
Prince von Isenberg. Afterwards, the wounded Prince himself is found;
but careful nursing during a serious illness will allow him to return
to Germany, where his family, in ignorance of the truth, have believed
him dead and have mourned for him.
Among the dead some have peaceful faces; these are the men who were
struck suddenly and died at once. But those who did not perish
immediately have their limbs rigid and twisted in agony, their bodies
are covered with dirt; their hands clutch the earth, their eyes are
open and staring, a convulsive contraction has uncovered their clenched
teeth.
Three days and three nights are passed in burying the dead who are left
on the battle-field.
On so large a field, many of the corpses hidden in the ditches, covered
by the thickets or by some uneveness of the ground are discovered very
late. They, as well as the dead horses, emit a fetid stench.
In the French army a number of soldiers from each company are detailed
to recognize and bury the dead. As far as possible soldiers of the
same corps must pick up their fellow-members. They write down the
number stamped on the clothing of the dead. Then, aided in this painful
duty by paid Lombardy peasants, they put the corpses in a common grave.
Unfortunately, it is possible that, because of the unavoidable rapidity
in this labor, and because of the carelessness and inattention of the
paid workmen, more than one living man is buried with the dead.
The letters, papers, orders, money, watches found on the officers are
sent to their families, but the great number of the interred bodies
make the faithful accomplishment of this task impossible.
A son, the idol of his parents, educated and cared for during many
years by a loving mother who was uneasy at the very slightest
indisposition. A brilliant officer, beloved by his family, having left
at home his wife and children. A young soldier who has just left his
betrothed and his mother, sisters and old father; there he lies in the
mud and in the dust, soaked in his own blood. Because of the wound in
his head his face has become unrecognizable. He is in agony, he expires
in cruel suffering, and his body, black, swollen, hideous, thrown in
a shallow grave, is covered with a little lime and earth. The birds
of prey will not respect his feet and hands protruding from the muddy
ground of the slope which serves him as a tomb. Someone will come back,
will carry more earth there and, perhaps, will put up a wooden cross
above the place where his body rests, and that will be all.
The corpses of the Austrians, clothed in mud-stained cloaks, torn linen
jackets, white tunics stained with blood are strewn by thousands on
the hills and plains of Medole. Clouds of crows fly over the bodies in
hopes of having them for prey.
By hundreds they are crowded into a great common grave.
Once out of the line of fire, Austrian soldiers, slightly wounded,
young first-year recruits, throw themselves on the ground from fatigue
and inanition, then weakened by loss of blood, they die miserably from
exhaustion and hunger.
Unhappy mothers in Austria, Hungary and Bohemia, your sorrow will be
great when you learn that your children died in the enemy's country,
without care, without help, and without consolation!
The lot of the Austrian prisoners-of-war is very sad. Led like simple
cattle, they are sent in a crowd, with a strong guard, to Brescia,
where they at last find repose, if not a kind welcome.
Some French soldiers wish to do violence to the Hungarian
captives whom they take for Croates, adding furiously that those
"Glued-pantalooners," as they called them, always killed the wounded.
I succeeded in tearing from their hands these unfortunate, trembling
captives.
On the battle-field many Austrians are permitted to keep their swords.
They have the same food as the French officers. Some troops of the
allied army fraternally divide their biscuits with the famished
prisoners. Some even take the wounded on their backs and carry them to
the ambulances. Near me the lieutenant of the guard bandages with his
white handkerchief the head of a Tyrolese which was scarcely covered
with old, torn, and dirty linen.
During the previous day at the height of the battle, Commandant de la
Rochefoucauld-Liancourt, the fearless African hunter, threw himself
upon a squad of Hungarians; but his horse having been pierced through
with balls, he himself was struck by two shots and made prisoner by the
Hungarians. Learning that wounded La Rochefoucauld had been captured
by the soldiers, the Austrian Emperor ordered that he be treated with
great kindness and given the best care.
The commissary continue to pick up the wounded. These, bandaged or not,
are carried by mules or wheelbarrows and litters to the field hospitals
in the villages and towns near the place where they fell.
In these towns, churches, monasteries, houses, parks, courts, streets
and promenades are transformed into improvised hospitals.
In Carpenedolo, Castel-Goffredo, Medole, Guidizzolo, Volta and
neighboring places are arriving many of the wounded. But the greater
number are carried to Castiglione, where the least mutilated have
already succeeded in dragging themselves.
Behold the long procession of vehicles of the Commissary Department,
loaded with soldiers, non-commissioned officers and officers of all
grades mixed together; cavalry-men, infantry, artillerymen, bleeding,
fatigued, lacerated, covered with dust. Each jolt of the wagons which
carry them imposing on them new suffering.
Then the mules come trotting in, their gait drawing, each instant,
bitter cries from the throats of the unfortunate wounded whom they are
bearing.
Many die during the transportation.
Their corpses are put on the sides of the roads. To others is left the
duty of burying them. These dead are enscribed, "Disappeared."
The wounded are sent to Castiglione. From there they are carried on to
the hospitals in Brescia, Cremona, Bergama, Milan, and other cities
of Lombardy, where they will receive the regular care and will submit
to the necessary amputations. But as the means of transportation are
very scarce, they are obliged to wait several days in Castiglione. This
city, where the confusion surpasses all imagination, soon becomes for
the French and Austrians a vast temporary hospital.
On the day of battle the field-hospital of headquarters is established
there. Chests of lint are unpacked, dressings for wounds and medicate
necessities are prepared. The inhabitants give everything that they can
get ready--coverings, linens, mattresses and straw.
The Hospital of Castiglione, the monastery, the Barracks of San Luigi,
the Church of the Capucines, the stations of the police, the churches
of Maggiore, San Giuseppe, Santa Rosalie, are filled with the wounded
lying crowded on the straw.
Straw is also arranged for them in the courts and in the public parks.
Plank roofs are quickly put up and linen is stretched to protect them
from the hot sun.
The private dwellings are soon converted into hospitals. Officers and
soldiers are there received by the inhabitants.
Some of these last run through the streets anxiously searching for a
physician for their guests. Later, others, in consternation, go and
come through the city, insistently begging that someone take away from
their houses the corpses with which they do not know what to do.
A number of French surgeons, having remained in Castiglione, aided by
young Italian physicians and by hospital orderlies, dress and bandage
the wounds.
But all this is very insufficient.
The number of convoys of wounded becomes so great during Saturday
that the administration, the citizens and the few soldiers left in
Castiglione are incapable of caring for so much misery.
Then, melancholy scenes occur. There is water; there is food; and
nevertheless the wounded are dying of hunger and thirst. There is much
lint, but not enough hands to put it on the wounds! The greater number
of the army of physicians must go to Cavriana; the hospital orderlies
make mistakes, and hands are lacking at this critical moment.
A voluntary service, good or bad, must be organized. But this is
difficult in the midst of such disorder, to which is added a panic of
the Castiglionians, which results in aggravating the misery of the
wounded. This panic is caused by a very insignificant circumstance.
As each corps of the French army had recovered itself, after taking up
its position, on the day after the battle, convoys of prisoners were
formed who were sent to Brescia, through Castiglione and Montechiaro.
The inhabitants took one band of captives coming from Cavriana escorted
by hussars, for the Austrian army returning in force. Alarm was given
by the frightened peasants, by the assistant conductors of the baggage,
by itinerant merchants who follow the troops in a campaign.
Immediately all the houses are closed, the inhabitants barricading
themselves in their homes, burning the tri-color flags which had
adorned their windows, hiding themselves in the cellars or the attics.
Some run into the fields with their wives and children carrying with
them their most valuable possessions. Others, less frightened and more
sagacious, remain at home, but take in the first Austrian wounded upon
whom they lay their hands and overwhelm them with kindness and care.
In the streets, on the roads, blocked by wagonloads of wounded, by
convoys of supplies, are rapid transport wagons, horses flying in all
directions, amid cries of fear, of anger and of pain. Baggage wagons
are overturned, bread and biscuits fall into the gutter. The drivers
detach the horses, dashing away with hanging bridles on the road to
Brescia, spreading the alarm as they go. They collide with carts of
provisions and convoys of wounded. These latter, trodden under foot and
frenzied with terror, beg to be taken with them. In the city some of
them deaf to all orders tear away their bandages, go staggering out of
the churches, into the streets where they are jostled and bruised and
finally fall from exhaustion and pain.
* * * * *
What agonies! What suffering during the days of June twenty-fifth,
twenty-sixth and twenty-seventh!
Wounds poisoned by heat, by dust and by lack of water and care, have
become intensely painful.
Suffocating stenches pollute the air in spite of efforts to keep in
good condition these local hospitals.
Every quarter of an hour the convoys sent to Castiglione are bringing
new loads of wounded. The insufficiency in the number of assistants, of
hospital orderlies, of servants is cruelly felt.
In spite of the activity of the Commissary Department, which is
organizing transportation to Brescia by means of ox-carts; in spite of
the spontaneous care of the inhabitants of Castiglione, who transport
the sick, the departures are much less numerous than the arrivals, and
the crowding grows unceasingly greater.
On the stone floors of the churches of Castiglione are placed, side
by side, men of every nation. French, Germans, Slavs and Arabs are
temporarily crowded to the most remote part of the chapels. Many have
no longer the strength to move themselves and cannot move or stir in
the narrow space where they are lying. Oaths, blasphemies and cries
which can be interpreted by no expression, are sounding beneath the
arches of the sanctuaries.
"Ah, sir, how I suffer!" say to me some of these poor fellows. "We are
abandoned, left to die miserably, and yet we fought bravely!" They can
get no rest, in spite of the nights they have passed in sleeplessness
and long-endured fatigue. In their distress they beg for help which
is not given. Some, in despair, roll in convulsions which will end in
tetanus and death. Others, believing that the cold water poured on
their festered wounds produce worms, which appear in great numbers,
refuse to have the bandages moistened. Others still, whose wounds
were dressed at the improvised hospitals on the battle-fields, are
given no further attention during the halt they are obliged to make
in Castiglione, and as these bandages are very tight, in view of the
roughness of the transportation and have not been changed, they are
suffering veritable tortures.
These, whose faces are black with flies, with which the air is infested
and which cling to their wounds, cast on all sides distracted glances.
But no one notices. On these, the cloaks, shirts, flesh and blood form
a compact mass that cannot be removed.
Here, lies a soldier totally disfigured; his tongue hanging far out
of his broken jaws. He stirs and wishes to rise. I moisten his dried
palate and hardened tongue. Seizing a handful of lint I soak it in
a bucket and squeeze the water from this improvised sponge in the
formless opening which is in the place of his mouth.
There, is an unfortunate man a part of whose face, the nose, lips and
chin have been cut away by the stroke of a sword. Incapable of speech,
half blind, he makes signs with his hands, and by that heartrending
pantomime, accompanied by guttural sounds, draws attention to himself.
I give him a drink by dropping gently on his blood-covered face a
little pure water.
A third, with a cleft head, expires, his blood spreading over the stone
floor of the church. He presents a horrible sight. His companions in
misfortune push him with their feet, for he incommodes the passage. I
protect his last moments and cover with a handkerchief his poor head
which he still feebly moves.
Although every house has become an infirmary, and every family has
dedicated itself to nursing the wounded officers, that it has gathered
in, nevertheless I succeed by Sunday morning in collecting a certain
number of women of the people, who assist, as best they can, in the
efforts made to help so many thousands of wounded men who are without
succor. Food must be given, and above all, drink, to the men who
literally are dying from hunger and thirst. Wounds must be bandaged,
blood-stained bodies, covered all over with dirt and vermin, must be
washed, and all this must be done in the extremely hot weather, in the
midst of the suffocating, nauseating stench, and of groans and cries of
pain.
Nevertheless, a little group of volunteers is formed. I organize, well
as I can, aid in the section which seems to be the most without care,
and I choose one of the churches of Castiglione, called Chiesa Maggiore.
Nearly five hundred soldiers are crowded together on the straw, about
one hundred others, suffering and groaning, are lying in the public
park before the church.
In the church the women of Lombardy go from one to the other with
jars and pitchers full of clear water, which serves to appease the
thirst and to bathe the wounds. Some of these improvised nurses
are good-hearted old women, others are charming young girls. Their
gentleness, goodness, compassion, and their attentive care restores a
little courage to the wounded.
The boys of the neighborhood come and go between the church and the
nearby springs with buckets, pitchers and jars.
The distribution of water is followed by that of bouillon and soup, of
which the servants of the Commissary Department are obliged to cook a
marvelous quantity.
Thick bundles of lint are placed here and there. Everyone can use it
freely; but bandages, linen and shirts are lacking, and one can hardly
procure the most necessary articles. I purchase, however, some new
shirts by the aid of those kind-hearted women who have already given
all their old linen; and, on Monday, early in the morning, I send my
coachman to Brescia to bring back supplies. He returns after some hours
with his cabriolet loaded with sponges, linen, pins, cigars, tobacco,
camomile, mallow, sambuca, oranges, sugar and lemons.
This makes it possible to give refreshing lemonade, wash the wounds
with mallow-water, put on warm compresses and renew the material of the
bandages.
In the meantime we have gained some recruits, who help us. The first
is an old naval officer, then some English tourists, who, desiring to
see everything, have entered the church, and whom we keep almost by
force. Two other Englishmen, on the contrary, show themselves desirous
to help. They distribute cigars to the Austrians. An Italian priest,
three or four travelers, a Swiss merchant from Neuchatel, a Parisian
journalist, who afterwards takes charge of the relief in the adjacent
church, and some officers whose company has received orders to remain
in Castiglione, also aid us.
But soon some of those voluntary nurses go away, not being able to bear
the sight of this suffering. The priest follows their example, but he
reappears, however, with delicate kindness to make us smell aromatic
herbs and bottles of salts. A tourist, oppressed at the sight of these
living debris, swooned from emotion. The merchant from Neuchatel
perseveres for two days, bandaging wounds and writing for the dying
letters of farewell to their families. We are obliged to quiet the
compassionate excitement of a Belgian, fearing that he will have an
attack of burning fever.
Some men of the detachment, left to garrison the city, try to help
their comrades, but cannot endure the sight which breaks down their
courage, striking too keenly upon their imagination. Nevertheless, a
corporal of the engineer corps, wounded at Magenta, almost restored to
health and about to return to his battalion, but whose orders leave him
a few days of liberty, aids us with courage and perseverance.
The French Commissary, remaining in Castiglione, finally grants, on my
insistence, authority to utilize for service in the hospitals, some
healthy prisoners, and three or four Austrian physicians who aid the
efforts of the few surgeons left in Castiglione.
A German physician remaining voluntarily on the battle-field to care
for the soldiers, dedicates himself to the injured of both armies.
After three days the Commissary sends him back to Mantua to rejoin his
compatriots.
"Do not leave me to die," exclaim some of these agonized men seizing my
hand in despair, but their death is not long delayed.
"Ah, sir, if you would write to my father, that he might console my
poor mother!" said to me, with tears in his eyes, a corporal named
Mazuet, scarcely twenty years old. I noted down the address of his
parents and a few minutes later he had ceased to live. The parents, who
dwelt on rue d'Alger, in Lyons, and of whom this young man, enlisted
as a volunteer, was the only son, received no other information about
their child than that which I sent to them. He very probably, like so
many others, has been enscribed, "disappeared."
An old sergeant, decorated with many chevrons, repeated with profound
melancholy and an air of conviction full of bitterness: "If someone had
cared for me sooner, I should have lived, whereas, this evening I will
die." That evening he died.
"I do not want to die! I do not want to die!" cries, with savage
energy, a grenadier of the guard, full of strength and health three
days before, but who, mortally wounded, and feeling sure that his
minutes are irrevocably numbered, fights against this dark certainty. I
talk to him, he listens to me, and this man, calmed, soothed, consoled,
finally resigns himself to die with the simplicity of a child.
In the back of the church, on the steps of an altar, a Chasseur
d'Afrique lies on straw. Three balls have struck him, one on the right
side, one on the left shoulder, the third remained in the right leg. It
is Sunday, and he asserts that he has eaten nothing since Friday. He is
covered with dried mud flecked with blood, his clothing is torn; his
shirt is in tatters. After I had washed his wounds, given him a little
bouillon and wrapped him in covers, he put my hand to his lips with an
expression of unspeakable gratitude. Later we were able to send him to
a better hospital.
At the entrance of the church is a Hungarian who cries unceasingly,
calling in heartrending tones for a physician. His back and his
shoulders, ploughed with grapeshot, appear as if torn by iron hooks and
are one mass of quivering, raw flesh. The rest of his body is swollen,
green and black--horrible. He can neither lie down nor sit up. I dip
some packages of lint in cool water and try to make a cushion for him,
but gangrene soon carries him off.
A little further on lies a dying Zouave who is weeping bitter tears,
and we console him as if he were a little child. The preceding fatigue,
the lack of food and repose, the intensity of the pain, the fear of
dying without help, excites even in these brave soldiers a nervous
sensibility which betrays itself by sobs. One of their chief thoughts,
when they are not suffering too cruelly, is the memory of their mother,
and the fear of the grief she will experience on learning of their
fate. On the corpse of a soldier we found, hanging from his neck, a
medallion containing the portrait of an aged woman, without doubt his
mother, which with his left hand he was pressing on his heart.
In the part nearest the great door of the church Maggiore lie, now, on
straw, enveloped in covers, about a hundred French non-commissioned
officers and soldiers. They are ranged in two nearly parallel ranks,
between which one can pass. Their wounds have been dressed. The
distribution of soup has taken place. They are quiet. They follow me
with their eyes; all heads turn to the left if I go to the left, to
the right when I go to the right. Sincere thanks are visible on their
astonished faces. "One can easily see that he is a Parisian," say some.
"No," retort others, "he seems to be a Southerner." "Truly, sir, are
you not from Bordeaux?" asks a third, and each wishes that I might
be from his city or province. I met afterwards some of these wounded
men, who had become crippled invalids. Recognizing me, they stopped
to express their gratitude because I had nursed them in Castiglione.
"We called you 'the gentleman in white,'" said one, in his picturesque
language, "for you were always dressed entirely in white. It is true
the weather did not fail to be hot."
The resignation of the poor soldiers was often touching; they suffered
without complaint, they died humbly and silently.
On the other side of the church, some wounded Austrian prisoners
fear to receive care which they distrust. They angrily tear off
their bandages, opening their bleeding wounds. Others remain silent,
dejected, impassive. But the greater number are far from being
insensible to kindness and their faces express their thanks. One of
them, about nineteen years of age, who with forty of his compatriots is
pushed into the deep recesses of the church, has been without food for
two days. He has lost one eye, he trembles with fever, he is scarcely
able to speak or to drink a little bouillon. Our nursing revives him;
twenty-four hours later when we are able to send him to Brescia, he
leaves us with sorrow, almost with despair, pressing to his lips the
hands of the good-hearted women of Castiglione, whom he entreats not to
abandon him.
Another prisoner, a prey to a burning fever, draws attention to
himself. He is not yet twenty years of age and his hair is already
perfectly white; it became white during the battle, as his wounded
comrades near whom he lies assure us.
The women of Castiglione, seeing that I make no distinction in
nationality, imitate my example, showing the same kindness to all these
men of such different origin and who are to them all equally strangers.
"Tutti Fratelli," they repeat with compassion. "All are brothers."
Honor to these compassionate women, to these young girls of
Castiglione! As devoted as they are modest, they give way neither
before fatigue, nor disgust, nor sacrifice; nothing repels, wearies or
disheartens them.
For the soldier recommencing the everyday life of the campaign, after
the fatigue and emotions of a battle like that of Solferino, the
memories of his family become more strong than ever. That mental state
is vividly described by the following lines from an officer writing
from Volta to his brother in France:
"You cannot imagine how the soldiers are moved when they catch sight
of the baggage-master who distributes the letters to the army; because
he brings to us, understand, news from France, from our native land,
from our parents, from our friends. Each one listens, watches, and
stretches to him eager hands. The happy men, who receive a letter--open
it hurriedly and devour it immediately; the rest, deprived of this
happiness, depart with heavy heart and isolate themselves in order to
think about those so far away.
"Sometimes a name is called to which there is no response. The men
glance at each other, they question among themselves, they wait.
'Dead,' murmurs a voice, and the baggage-master files the letter away
and returns it unopened to the writer. They had rejoiced when they sent
it, and had said to one another. 'He will be happy to receive it!' When
they see it returned, their poor hearts will break."
The streets of Castiglione are quieter; the deaths and the departures
have left vacancies.
In spite of the arrival of new wagons full of wounded, order, little by
little, is established and regular attendance commences.
The convoys from Castiglione to Brescia are more frequent. They consist
principally of hospital wagons and heavy carts which, constantly
carrying, to the French Commissary Department, gun supplies, and
provisions, go back empty to Brescia.
They are drawn by oxen, walking slowly under the fierce sun and through
the thick dust in which the pedestrian sinks to his ankles. These
uncomfortable wagons are covered with branches of trees which very
imperfectly protect from the rays of the coming sun. The wounded, piled
up, one may say, one upon another. It is difficult to imagine the
torments of this long ride.
In these wagons some groan, others call for their mother; there are the
ravings and delirium of fever, sometimes curses and blasphemies.
The least interest shown to these unhappy men, a kind salutation, gives
them pleasure and they return it at once with expressions of gratitude.
In all the villages along the road leading to Brescia, the women
sitting before their doors, silently prepare lint. The Communal
authorities have had prepared, drinks, bread and nourishment. When a
convoy arrives the women of the village go to the wagons, wash the
wounds, renew the lint compresses, which they moisten with fresh water.
They pour spoonfuls of bouillon, wine or lemonade in the mouths of
those who have not the strength to raise their heads or extend their
arms.
In Montechiaro, three small hospitals are under the care of the women
of the people, who nurse with as much wisdom as kindheartedness. In
Guidizzolo, about one thousand invalids are placed in a large castle.
In Volta, some hundreds of Austrians are received in an old monastery
which has been transformed into barracks. In Cavriana, they establish
in the church a number of Hungarians who had been forty-eight hours
without help. In the field-hospital of the headquarters, chloroform is
used in operating; this produces, in the Austrians, almost immediate
insensibility, and in the French nervous contractions, accompanied by
exaltation before unconsciousness results.
The people of Cavriana are entirely without provisions; the soldiers of
the guard feed them by sharing with them their rations and their mess;
the country has been laid waste, and almost everything edible, cattle,
garden produce, etc., has been sold to the Austrian troops. The French
army has campaign food in abundance, but only with difficulty can it
procure the butter, meat and vegetables necessary for the ordinary food
of soldiers.
The wounded of the Sardinian army, who have been transported to
Desenzano, Rivoltella, Lonato, and Pozzolenzo, are in conditions less
disadvantageous than the French and Austrians temporarily established
in Castiglione--Desenzano and Rivoltella not having been occupied
at a few days interval by two different armies. Food is still to be
found there; the hospitals are better kept and the inhabitants, less
troubled, actively support the nursing service. The sick are sent
to Brescia in good carts provided with thick beds of hay. They are
protected from the sun by arches of interlaced foliage which support a
strong linen cover.
The feeling that one has of his own insufficiency in such solemn
circumstances, is an inexpressible suffering. It is extremely painful
to feel that you cannot help all those who lie before you, because of
their great number, or aid those who appeal to you with supplications.
Long hours pass before you reach the most unfortunate. You are stopped
by one, petitioned by another, all equally worthy of pity. Embarrassed
at each step by the multitude of miserable sufferers who press about
you, who surround you, who beg support and help. Then, why turn to the
left, while on the right are so many men who will soon die without a
word of consolation, without even a single glass of water to appease
their burning thirst? The thought of the importance of one human life
that one might be able to save; the desire to alleviate the tortures
of so many unfortunate and to restore their courage, the forced and
unceasing activity which one imposes on himself in such moments,
gives a supreme energy, a thirst to carry help to the greatest number
possible. One becomes no longer moved by the thousand scenes of this
terrible tragedy, one passes, with indifference, before the most
hideously disfigured corpses and glances almost coldly at sights, so
much more horrible than those already described, that the pen refuses
absolutely to depict them; but it happens, sometimes, that the heart
suddenly breaks, struck all at once by a poignant sadness at the sight
of a single incident, an isolated fact, an unexpected detail, which
goes directly to the soul, draws out our sympathy, moves the most
impressionable cords of our being and brings a realization of the whole
horror of this tragedy.
Worn out with fatigue, but unable to sleep, I have my little carriage
harnessed on the afternoon of Monday, the twenty-seventh, and go away
about 6 o'clock to breathe in the open air the freshness of the evening
and to find a little repose by escaping, for a moment, from the dismal
sights which surround me on every side in Castiglione.
It was a favorable time, for no movement of the troops had been
ordered during the day.
Calm had succeeded the terrible agitation of the previous days.
Here and there are visible pools of dried blood which redden the
battle-field. One meets newly turned earth, white with freshly
strewn lime, indicating the place where repose the victims of the
twenty-fourth.
At Solferino, whose square tower has proudly dominated for some
centuries that country, where for the third time have just met two of
the greatest powers of modern days, one still picks up much debris
which covers, even in the cemeteries, the crosses and the bloody stones
of the tombs. The ground is strewn with swords, guns, haversacks,
cartridge boxes, tin boxes, shakos, helmets and belts. Almost
everything is twisted, torn and broken.