“His Majesty saw your charge, Colonel,” said a general officer to Tascher as he rode back at the head of a squadron. “So gallant a thing as that never goes unrewarded.”
Tascher's cheek flushed as he bowed in acknowledgment of the praise; but I heard him mutter to himself the same instant, “Too late! too late!” Fatal words they were,—the presage of the mishap they threatened!
A great attack on La Rothière was now preparing. It was to be made by Napoleon's favorite manoeuvre of cavalry, artillery, and infantry combined, each supporting and sustaining the other. Eighteen guns, with three thousand sabres, and two columns of infantry numbering four thousand each, were drawn up in readiness for the moment to move. Ney received orders to lead them, and now they issued forth into the plain.
Our own impatience at not being of the number was quickly merged in intense anxiety for the result. It was a gorgeous thing, indeed, to see that mighty mass unravelling itself,—the guns galloping madly to the front, supported on either flank by cavalry; while, masked behind, marched the black columns of infantry, their tall shakos nodding like the tree-tops of a forest. The snow was now falling fast, and the figures grew fainter and fainter, and all that remained within our view was the tail of the columns, which were only disengaging themselves from the lines.
A deafening cannonade opened from the Allied artillery on the advance, unreplied to by our guns, which were ordered not to fire until within half range of the enemy. Suddenly a figure is seen emerging from the heavy snowdrift at the full speed of his horse; another, and another, follow him in quick succession. They make for the position of the Emperor. “What can it be?” cries each, in horrible suspense; “see, the columns have halted!”
Dreadful tidings! The guns are embedded in the soft ground,—the horses cannot stir them; one-half of the distance is scarcely won, and there they are beneath the withering cannonade of the Allied guns, powerless and immovable! Cavalry are dismounted, and the horses harnessed to the teams: all in vain! the wheels sink deeper in the miry earth. And now the enemy have found out the range, and their shot are sweeping through the dense mass with frightful slaughter. Again the aides-de-camp hasten to the rear for orders. But Ney can wait no longer; he launches his cavalry at the foe, and orders up the infantry to follow.
Meanwhile a great cloud of cavalry issues from the Allied lines, and directs its course towards the flank of the column: the Emperor sees the danger, and despatches one of his staff to prepare them to receive cavalry. Too late! too late!—the snowdrift has concealed the advance, and the wild horsemen of the desert ride down on the brave ranks. Disorder and confusion ensue; the column breaks and scatters. The lancers pursue the fugitives through the plain; and before the very eyes of the Emperor, the Guard—his Guard—are sabred and routed.
“What is to become of our cavalry?” is now the cry, for they have advanced unsupported against the village. Dreadful moment of suspense! None can see them; the guns lie deserted, alike by friend and foe. Who dares approach them now? “They are cheering yonder,” exclaimed an officer: “I hear them again.”
“Hussars, to the front!” calls out Damrémont,—“to your comrades' rescue! Men, yonder!” and he points in the direction of the village.
Like an eagle on the swoop, the swift squadrons skim the plain, and mount the slope beyond it. The drift clears, and what a spectacle is before us! The cavalry are dismounted; their horses, dead or dying, cumber the ground; the men, sabre in hand, have attacked the village by assault. Two of the enemy's guns are taken and turned against them, and the walls are won in many places. An opening in the enclosure of a farmyard admits our leading squadron, and in an instant we have taken them in flank and rear.