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When the conflict is at an end, and the awful silence of night descends
upon the field where stark and stiff lie the mangled dead, among the
broken weapons and spoils of the fight, the scene is fearfully
impressive. There lie the cold forms of those, who in life were furious
foes; but in death, side by side, united in their doom of darkness, they
are all clay together. The bugle and the drum, which were sounded to
signal the contest, are broken beside the mutilated and bloody bodies of
those who played them at the head of the marching regiments. The
captain, whose gallant “forward!” roused the spirits of his men, lies
where he perished, in the van. The standard-bearer still clasps a
portion of that dear symbol of his country, which numbers cut from his
hands, and seems to have yielded his breath, while hugging that remnant
to his heart. The grim veteran of a hundred fights, to whom death has
been a jeer and a mockery, and the youth, with blooming cheek and eager
eye, who left his mother’s cottage high in the hope of a glorious
renown, are found cold and stiff together; the one with a smile of scorn
curling his lip, the other with the keen agony, kindled by the rushing
remembrance of the dear home lost forever, pictured in his countenance.
The meek moon and the sentinel stars shining on this field of death,
with a pallid light, add to its horrors, increasing the ghastly hue in
the faces of the slain.
Such a scene was presented on the night of the 22nd of April, 1796,
after the desperate battle of Mondovi. Near the town of that name, the
dispirited army of Colli had been overtaken by two divisions of
Bonaparte’s army, commanded by Serrurier and Massena. Serrurier had been
repulsed, but the onset of Massena was irresistible, and the enemy were
attacked on both flanks at once. The cavalry of the Piedmontese over
powered and drove back that of the French, but the wonderful valor of
Murat, the most glorious of cavalry officers, renewed the fortune of the
day, and, shortly afterwards, Colli’s army was put to flight. During the
retreat, the Piedmontese suffered dreadfully, losing the best of their
troops, their cannons, baggage and appointments.
Wearied with the desperate conflict, the greater portion of the
victorious army encamped in and about the town of Mondovi, a body of
cavalry, alone pursuing and harassing the enemy. The description of the
field of battle given above, will apply to this one, with the addition
of a view of the towers and spires of Mondovi, and of numerous blazing
fires in the vicinity, around which the exhausted troops had sunk to
repose. Bonaparte had arrived; and, now, having gathered his principal
officers at a ruined building, just outside of the town, which seemed to
have been an old chapel, talked over with them the achievements of the
day, and what was contemplated for the morrow. The ruin consisted of
four broken walls, and was entirely roofless. It was several yards
square, and the floor was strewn with fragments of sculpture which had
once adorned the edifice. In the centre of the floor a fire was kindled,
and camp-stools were ranged around it. At some distance from the ruin,
guards were placed, with orders to keep the inquisitive beyond ear-shot.
This place had evidently been selected by Bonaparte, in preference to
the best mansion of Mondovi, to be secure from the treachery of
Italians, who might have overheard and communicated to the enemy
important information.
As usual, Bonaparte had the paper containing the lines of his movements
before him, and with pencil and compasses in hand, he devised and marked
alterations even while he talked. Among the officers gathered around the
fire, were Massena, Berthier, Serrurier, Murat and Duroc.
Next to the commander-in-chief himself, Massena had the most remarkable
personal appearance of any of the group. His massive features had a
somewhat Jewish cast and their general expression was extremely heavy,
or rather drowsy. The eyes were half-closed, and they did not sparkle
like those of the rest, when Bonaparte spoke. Yet it was well known
that, when excited by the storm of battle, their flash was terrible. The
expression of the mouth, was always that of an inexorable will. The
whole aspect of Andrew Massena was that of a man of great powers,
difficult to rouse. Napoleon himself remarked that it was only in danger
that appalled most men, that Massena acquired clearness and force of
thought. His want of activity was his great defect as a commander.
Serrurier was a large man, with rough, prominent features, in which
strong passions and dogged determinations were plainly expressed. His
dress was torn and dusty; for although repulsed by the Piedmontese, he
had fought like a lion on that desperate day.
The face of Duroc was manly and prepossessing. The slightly receding
forehead, prominent nose, clear, bright eyes, and firm mouth, were
illumined by a bland, but determined expression, indicative of the truly
heroic spirit of this faithful friend of Napoleon. By the side of
Michael Duroc, could be seen the stalwart form and noble countenance of
Joachim Murat, the great leader of the cavalry, whose desperate charge
had decided the battle in favor of the French. His gaudy costume was
arranged with scrupulous nicety, and it bore no traces of the conflict.
He sat toying with his long, dark curls during the conference.
“To-morrow, we will occupy Cherasco, which is within ten leagues of the
Piedmontese capital,” said Bonaparte. “It has been a month of glory.
Within that time, we have gained complete possession of the mountain
passes and thus opened the road for our armies into Italy. We have
gained three battles over forces far superior to our own; inflicted upon
the enemy a loss of about twenty-five thousand men in killed, wounded,
and prisoners, taken eighty pieces of cannon and twenty-one stand of
colors; and almost annihilated the army of Sardinia. We can dictate a
treaty at Turin.”
“The fight to-day was desperate enough, however,” said Murat, ever vain
of his services. “The cavalry was beaten back by the Piedmontese, and
General Stengel was among the slain.”
“A brave man lost to France,” interrupted Bonaparte.
“But I soon taught them that the French cavalry was not so easily
beaten,” continued Murat. “That charge decided the day.”
“I am told,” said Bonaparte, “that the charge was indeed brilliant. But
we expect such from Murat, and we hope that, hereafter, he may have the
best opportunities of displaying his valor and horsemanship at the head
of the cavalry of France. You have won a high promotion. General
Serrurier, you were repulsed; but you afterwards bravely sustained your
reputation, and contributed much to the victory. As for you, General
Massena, high as were my expectations from your valor and skill, you
have astonished me. France will yet regard you as a child of victory.”
Massena opened his eyes somewhat wider and nodded his thanks. “The
troops,” he remarked, “are sadly worn with their rapid marches, and four
days’ fighting. Besides, since they have been so severely treated for
seizing upon what food and clothes they found along the line of march,
they have suffered much for want of the common necessaries of life.”
“I know—I know,” replied Bonaparte; “I pity them, and hope that their
wants may soon be relieved. But they must not become Goths and Vandals.
What did you say was the loss of the enemy, to-day, Berthier?”
“It is estimated at about three thousand men,” replied the officer
addressed—an elegant looking soldier, with a frank, intelligent
countenance.
“Colli is then effectually crippled,” said Bonaparte. “He will not dare
to make a stand between us and Turin. I learn that Cherasco is an
ill-defended place, but it has an important position at the confluence
of the Stura and the Tanaro, and with the artillery taken from the
enemy, we can soon render it defensible, should that be necessary. But
at present, the prospect is that we shall in a few days conclude a peace
with the king of Sardinia, and then we must pursue the Austrians, whom
we shall drive beyond the Alps. But in the meantime, you, Murat, shall
take some of our trophies to Paris, and proclaim the triumphs of France.
A more fitting messenger of victory could not be found.” At this
intelligence Murat’s eyes sparkled, and a smile lit up his dark
features; for next to the storm of battle, this proud soldier loved to
boast of victory. Next to being a lion upon the field of battle, he
desired to be a lion in the saloons of Paris.
“General,” said Duroc, “you may remember that when we stood upon the
heights of Monte Lemoto, and beheld that glorious picture of the plains
of Piedmont and Italy, you exclaimed, ‘Hannibal crossed the Alps; as for
us, we have gone round them!’ It seems to me, with deference, that if
reinforcements are not speedily sent to our aid, you will find yourself
in a position more nearly resembling that of Hannibal, when, although
victorious in Italy, he was deserted by Carthage. The chief difference
will be, however, that Hannibal, by fortunate circumstances, was enabled
to maintain his army against all the forces of Rome. But we should soon
be overwhelmed by superior numbers.”
“The government of France has neglected its duty,” replied Bonaparte,
“but I cannot believe that it will desert us altogether. If so, however,
I have no doubt, that we can provide for ourselves.”
“For myself,” said Serrurier, “I love France, but despise the present
government. But for the bravery of the army, whose triumphs they have
taken to themselves, the members of that government would not now hold
their places.”
At these words, Bonaparte raised his head, and gave a steady, piercing
glance at the frank, out-spoken soldier’s countenance, probably with the
design of ascertaining the full depth of his meaning. But Serrurier
returned glance for glance, and Bonaparte returned to the contemplation
of his map. There was more in that young conqueror’s look than, perhaps,
any of that martial group, suspected.
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The chief incidents of the fight of the day having been communicated to
Bonaparte by the various officers engaged in its terrible scenes, he
proceeded to award commendation where it was due; and then gave the
generals orders in regard to the movements of the next day. Despatches,
hurriedly written, were sent to the generals of the divisions not
engaged at Mondovi, and then the conference terminated. Most of the
officers retired to their respective commands; but, accompanied by Duroc
and Murat, the sleepless commander-in-chief rode over the field, to gain
a more accurate knowledge of the terrible character of the battle—to
observe where the fight had been thickest, what corps had suffered the
greatest loss, and what had the been advantages and disadvantages of the
ground. In many places, it was difficult for the horses to proceed
without trampling upon the groups of ghastly dead; and the reckless
Murat occasionally rode directly over the corpses, while talking to the
commander-in-chief. A considerable number of women, from Mondovi, were
seen among the bodies, collecting many little articles of value attached
to the clothing of the dead warriors. At the approach of Bonaparte and
his officers they scampered away, like so many frightened vultures, upon
which Murat would give chase for a short distance to increase their
alarm. After a complete survey of the field, Bonaparte and his aids
returned to Mondavi. The only remark the young commander-in-chief was
heard to make, was, “It was a hard-won victory—Mondovi ought to be
decisive.” And it was decisive. At Cherasco, Sardinia submitted to the
victor’s terms; and thus one of the bravest of the foes of France was
crushed after a campaign of very brief duration, the glories of which
are thus touched upon by Bonaparte in an eloquent and powerful
proclamation to his soldiers.
“Soldiers! in a fortnight you have gained six victories, taken
twenty-one pair of colors, fifty-live pieces of cannon, several
fortresses, and conquered the richest part of Piedmont; you have made
fifteen thousand prisoners, and killed or wounded more than ten thousand
men; you had hitherto been fighting for barren rocks, rendered famous by
your courage, but of no service to the country; you this day compete by
your services with the army of Holland and of the Rhine. Destitute of
every thing, you have supplied all your wants. You have gained battles
without cannon, crossed rivers without bridges, made forced marches
without shoes, bivouacked without brandy, and often without bread.
Republican phalanxes, the soldiers of liberty alone, could have endured
what you have endured. Thanks be to you for it, soldiers!”
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