‘But they had time enough since to have resumed their old position,’ said I, half doubting the accuracy of the surmise.
‘Time enough, parbleu! I should think so too! but when the white-coats manoeuvre, they write to Vienna to ask, “What’s to be done next?”’
This passing remark, in which, with all its exaggeration, there lay a germ of truth, was the universal judgment of our soldiers on those of the Imperial army; and to the prevalence of the notion may be ascribed much of that fearless indifference with which small divisions of ours attacked whole army corps of the enemy. Bonaparte was the first to point out this slowness, and to turn it to the best advantage.
‘If our general ever intended a sortie, this would be the night for it, sir,’ resumed he; ‘the noise of those mountain streams would mask the sounds of a march, and even cavalry, if led with caution, might be in upon them before they were aware.’
This speech pleased me, not only for the judgment it conveyed, but as an assurance that our expedition was still a secret in the garrison.
On questioning the sergeant further, I was struck to find that he had abandoned utterly all hope of ever seeing France again; such, he told me, was the universal feeling of the soldiery. ‘We know well, sir, that Massena is not the man to capitulate, and we cannot expect to be relieved’ And yet with this stern, comfortless conviction on their minds—with hunger, and famine, and pestilence on every side—they never uttered one word of complaint, not even a murmur of remonstrance. What would Moreau’s fellows say of us? What would the army of the Meuse think? These were the ever-present arguments against surrender; and the judgment of their comrades was far more terrible to them than the grapeshot of the enemy.
‘But do you not think, when Bonaparte crosses the Alps, he will hasten to our relief?’
‘Not he, sir! I know him well. I was in the same troop with him, a bombardier at the same gun. Bonaparte will never go after small game where there’s a nobler prey before him. If he does cross the Alps, he’ll be for a great battle under Milan; or, mayhap, march on Venice. He’s not thinking of our starved battalions here; he’s planning some great campaign, depend on it. He never faced the Alps to succour Genoa.’
How true was this appreciation of the great general’s ambition, I need scarcely repeat; but so it was at the time; many were able to guess the bold aspirings of one who, to the nation, seemed merely one among the numerous candidates for fame and honours.
It was about an hour after my conversation with the sergeant, that an orderly came to summon me to Colonel de Barres quarters; and with all my haste to obey, I only arrived as the column was formed. The plan of attack was simple enough. Three Voltigeur companies were to attempt the assault of the Monte Facoio, under De Barre; while, to engage attention, and draw off the enemy’s force, a strong body of infantry and cavalry was to debouch on the Chiavari road, as though to force a passage in that direction. In all that regarded secrecy and despatch our expedition was perfect; and as we moved silently through the streets, the sleeping citizens never knew of our march. Arrived at the gate, the column halted, to give us time to pass along the walls and descend the glen, an operation which, it was estimated, would take forty-five minutes; at the expiration of this they were to issue forth to the feint attack.