CHAPTER IV. THE FIELD AT MIDNIGHT.
We passed the night on the field of battle,—a night dark and starless. The heavens were, indeed, clothed with black, and a heavy atmosphere, lowering and gloomy, spread like a pall over the dead and the dying. Not a breath of air moved; and the groans of the wounded sighed through the stillness with a melancholy cadence no words can convey. Far away in the distance the moving lights marked where fatigue parties went in search of their comrades. The Emperor himself did not leave the saddle till nigh morning; he went, followed by an ambulance, hither and thither over the plain, recalling the names of the several regiments, enumerating their deeds of prowess, and even asking for many of the soldiers by name. He ordered large fires to be lighted throughout the field, and where medical assistance could not be procured, the officers of the staff might be seen covering the wounded with greatcoats and cloaks, and rendering them such aid as lay in their power.
Dreadful as the picture was,—fearful reverse to the gorgeous splendor of the vast army the morning sun had shone upon, and in the pride of strength and spirit,—yet even here was there much to make one feel that war is not bereft of its humanizing influences. How many a soldier did I see that night, blackened with powder, his clothes torn and ragged with shot, sitting beside a wounded comrade—now wetting his lips with a cool draught, now cheering his heart with words of comfort! Many, though wounded, were tending others less able to assist themselves. Acts of kindness and self-devotion—not less in number than those of heroism and courage—were met with at every step; while among the sufferers there lived a spirit of enthusiasm that seemed to lighten the worst pang of their agony. Many would cry out, as I passed, to know the fate of the day, and what became of this regiment or of that battalion. Others could but articulate a faint “Vive l'Empereur!” which in the intervals of pain they kept repeating, as though it were a charm against suffering; while one question met me every instant,—“What says the Petit Caporal? Is he content with us?” None were insensible to the glorious issue of that day; nor amid all the agony of death, dealt out in every shape of horror and misery, did I hear one word of anger or rebuke to him for whose ambition they had shed their heart's blood.
Having secured a fresh horse, I rode forward in the direction of Austerlitz, where our cavalry, met by the chevaliers of the Russian Imperial Guard, sustained the greatest check and the most considerable loss of the day. The old dragoon who accompanied me warned me I should find few, if any, of our comrades living there.
“Ventrebleu! lieutenant, you can't expect it. The first four squadrons went down like one man; for when our fellows fell wounded from their horses, they always sabred or shot them as they lay.”