“Ay, ay,” said Monsieur Bonnard, as he saw my eye fixed on the spot, “it was one of your fellows did that; and the same cut clove poor Pierre from the neck to the seat.”
“I hope,” said I, laughing, “the saddle may not prove an unlucky one.”
“No, no,” said the Frenchman, seriously; “it has paid its debt to fate.”
As we pressed on our road, which, broken by the heavy guns, and ploughed up in many places by the artillery, was nearly impassable, we could distinctly hear from time to time the distant boom of the large guns, as the retiring and pursuing armies replied to each other; while behind us, but still a long way off, a dark mass appeared on the horizon: they were the advancing columns of Ney’s Division.
“Have the troops come in contact more than once this morning?”
“Not closely,” said the quartermaster; “the armies have kept a respectful distance; they were like nothing I can think of,” said the figurative Frenchman, “except two hideous serpents wallowing in mire, and vomiting at each other whole rivers of fire and flame.”
As we approached Planchenoit, we came up to the rear-guard of the French army; from them we learned that Ney’s Division, consisting of the Eighth Corps, had joined the Emperor; that the British were still in retreat, but that nothing of any importance had occurred between the rival armies, the French merely firing their heavy guns from time to time to ascertain by the reply the position of the retreating forces. The rain poured down in torrents; gusts of cold and stormy wind swept across the wide plains, or moaned sorrowfully through the dense forest. As I rode on by the side of my companion, I could not help remarking how little the effects of a fatiguing march and unfavorable weather were apparent on those around me. The spirit of excited gayety pervaded every rank; and unlike the stern features which the discipline of our service enforces, the French soldiers were talking, laughing and even singing, as they marched; the canteens passed freely from hand to hand, and jests and toasts flew from front to rear along the dark columns; many carried their loaves of dark rye-bread on the tops of their bayonets; and to look upon that noisy and tumultuous mass as they poured along, it would have needed a practised eye to believe them the most disciplined of European armies.
The sun was just setting, as mounting a ridge of high land beside the high road, my companion pointed with his finger to a small farm-house, which, standing alone in the plain, commands an extensive view on every side of it.
“There,” said he,—“there is the quartier général; the Emperor sleeps there to-night. The King of Holland will afford him a bed to-morrow night.”
The dark shadows of the coming night were rapidly falling as I strained my eyes to trace the British position. A hollow, rumbling sound announced the movement of artillery in our front.