And he hastened down-hill in so rapid and impetuous a manner that the torch-bearers and marshals were scarcely able to follow him.
Like an apparition, with flashing eyes, with an angry, pale face, his form suddenly emerged from the darkness before the artillerists who vainly tried to move the field-pieces, the wheels of which sank deeply into the sand. The whole column of cannon and caissons behind them had been obliged to halt, and an inextricable confusion would have ensued unless immediate and energetic steps had been taken to open a passage.
This was to be done immediately, for Napoleon was there.
He called in a loud voice for the general commanding the artillery; he repeated this call three times, and every time his voice became more threatening, and his face turned paler.
But the officers he called for did not appear. The emperor did not say a word; his right shoulder was quivering, and his eyes flashed fire.
He commanded all the gunners in a loud voice to come to him, and ordered them to get their tools and light their large lanterns.
The emperor had himself seized the first lantern that was lighted.
“Now take your pick-axes and spades,” he shouted. “We must widen the gorge in order to get the field-pieces off again.”
It was hard and exhausting work. Large drops of perspiration ran down from the foreheads of the gunners, and their breath issued painfully from their breasts. But they worked on courageously and untiringly, for the emperor stood at their side, lantern in hand, and lighted them during their toilsome task.
At times the gunners would pause and lean on their spades—not, however, for the purpose of resting, but of looking with wondering eyes at this strange spectacle, this man with his pale marble face and flaming eyes, this emperor who had transformed himself into an artillery officer, and, lantern in hand, lighted his gunners. [“Memoires du Duc de Rovigo,” vol. ii., p. 278.]