The great conqueror’s race was run. He had made a good bid for heavy stakes, and had lost all, through Old England’s determined constancy. She was the instrument in the hands of God in successfully combating infidelity. Yet another terrible battle was fought at Kutczback. Marshals McDonald and Ney commanded, against the redoubtable Blücher. Napoleon’s pets again came off second best. Vast numbers, amounting to thousands, were charged with the bayonet into a raging mountain torrent, and drowned; the continued loud hurrahs telling the triumph of Germany. In trying to escape the infuriated cavalry, thousands more were engulfed, and swept away. In the morning, it was but about up to their knees, fordable at all points; but the flood-gates of heaven appeared to have opened to the destruction of the despisers of Christianity. The French were in overwhelming strength on the field. Things looked black for the struggling Germans; but, owing to the heavy rains, the enemy were divided, and nearly all those who had crossed the (to all appearance) diminutive rivulet, but now a raging torrent, were destroyed in presence of Marshal Ney—one that was second to none for intrepidity. The enemy lost in killed or drowned 28,000 men; 18,000 prisoners, and 103 guns fell into the hands of Blücher. The torrent receded as fast as it had risen, and the fire-eating old Blücher followed the retiring enemy up all night, capturing prisoners and guns at every stride. Altogether, the enemy were weakened by 58,000 officers and men, with 165 guns, and no end of ammunition waggons and standards. This was the most glorious triumph the Germans had yet had. It had a wonderful effect upon the hitherto victorious legions of Napoleon. It spoke volumes. It told them plainly that a terrible day of retribution had dawned. And it aroused the Allies to the highest pitch of excitement. Thousands and tens of thousands who had left their fatherland after the crush at Jena, and came to England, now solicited our Government to send them back to fight in the ranks of their fatherland. The Government nobly responded, and shipped them off in thousands, armed to the teeth. They cheered heartily for Old England and England’s King, as they sailed out of Harwich. Hundreds of them cried for joy, to think that the day of vengeance had dawned—that they would be able to wipe out the stain of insulted mothers and ruined sisters. Hundreds shouted out with all their might, “God bless Old England!” and shaking their swords and guns above their heads, they swore to conquer or die. It was no longer an army that Napoleon had to confront, but nations in arms. Princes, counts, dukes, poets, tinkers, and tailors, were all animated with the same determined resolution “to conquer or die.” And, reader, when a nation is unanimously determined to have their freedom, it is better to build a bridge of gold for them to pass over than to try and keep them in subjection. The following lines were composed and written by the German poet, Theodore Korwen, on the morning of his death, on the bloody field of Dresden:—
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“Thou sword upon my thigh, Those beaming glances, why? Thou look’st so pleased on me: I’ve all my joy in thee. Hurrah! “In the belt of a gallant knight My glance is ever bright; A freeman is my lord, And this makes glad the sword. Hurrah! “Yes, trusty sword, I’m free, And fondly cherish thee; Dear as a bride, thou art The treasure of my heart. Hurrah! “The trumpet-blast at dawn Ushers in our wedding morn; When the hollow cannon roar, We’ll meet to part no more. Hurrah! “Oh, sumptuous wedding cheer, What goodly guests are here! Ay, now the steed will gleam, Like a bride on the morning beam. Hurrah! “Up, up, ye warriors stout, Out, German riders, out; Do ye feel your hearts’ glow warm? Take the loved one to thine arm. Hurrah! “Haste, give her lips the pledge, A kiss to the iron edge; Tide good, or evil tide, Curst he who fails his bride. Hurrah! “Now bid the charmer sing, While sparkling sword-blades ring; ’Tis our marriage matins’ peal: Hurrah! thou bride of steel! Hurrah!” |
Fight followed fight in rapid succession. The great conqueror had not taught his marshals how to win fields; they were all beaten in detail. They were splendid leaders of divisions, so long as their great captain was at the helm. He could not give them brains. Marshal Soult was his right-hand man, but he had to go and try to stem the tide of Wellington, who was just one too many for him upon field after field. Defeat after defeat now began to tell upon the French, and from the great conqueror down to the drummer crept a secret feeling of distrust. It is true, Napoleon himself had not yet been beaten, but news was coming in almost daily that gave him a lot of disquietude. The news of Wellington’s triumph at Vittoria flew through Germany like wild-fire. The whole French army on that field were routed. They lost all their guns (151), 10,000 prisoners fell into our hands, and one million pounds sterling. King Joseph’s coach and all his State papers were part of the booty of this field. It caused the Spanish crown to fall from Joseph’s head, and swept the troops of the tyrant out of Spain.[50]
“Rule, Britannia,” and “God save the King,” were struck up all through the allied camp, which, re-echoing through the Bohemian mountains, told Napoleon plainly that Europe was united against him, and that the detested Albions had turned the tables upon him. Our forefathers had made up their minds to conquer or die; their strength, their shield, their stronghold, was in a Triune God. Europe was shaken to its foundations; duty, based on religion, was arrayed against talent destitute of God. Combat followed combat; but at Gross Beeren—another awkward field—Napoleon’s invincibles were again beaten. The field was covered with the slain, 10,000 of the enemy lying in ghastly piles. Thirteen guns, and 1,500 prisoners, fell into the hands of the Allies. Every German heart began to throb with emotion. The Saxons, who had hitherto fought in the ranks of the French, came over in a body from the ranks of the common enemy to fight in the ranks of the fatherland; and with bands playing and colours flying, at once turned about and slipped into their former comrades. But my readers must remember their comradeship was of a forced nature. Yet another terrible defeat was sustained by the heroic Ney, on the field of Dennewitz. The enemy here lost 13,000 officers and men, and 43 guns. Six thousand stand of arms were thrown away in order to accelerate their flight. The Allies lost 6,000—5,000 of whom were Prussians. Napoleon now began to see that his Marshals could not cope with the allied Generals. They were all beaten in detail; so he called them all in, with their armies, and retired on the memorable field of Leipsic, and there put the now united allied armies at defiance. As soon as it suited the plans and time of the allied Commander-in-Chief, this terrible battle commenced. It lasted for three days of unparalleled fighting. The stakes were heavy; freedom on one side, and despotic military slavery on the other. With ringing shouts, on the third day of this butchery, the allied armies advanced in massive columns to storm Napoleon’s last position. Under the eye of their beloved chief, the Old Guard fought with desperation, but it was all to no purpose; the great conqueror was defeated. A deep and rapid stream (the Elster) was behind him, with but one bridge. The Allies, who had carried the ramparts of Leipsic with a frightful slaughter, were now pell-mell after the foe. No quarter was given or taken. Thousands on both sides succumbed to the deadly thrust of the bayonet. The Allies, we must remember, were flushed with victory after victory. They had twenty years of cruel bondage to avenge. During this dreadful fight, the bridge—the only line of retreat open—was blown up. A terrible shriek of despair burst from thousands. All who had not crossed must die or surrender. Retribution had overtaken guilty, haughty, insulting France; she was being humbled to the dust.
“The path of glory leads but to the grave.”
It was on this field that the last representative of the royal line of Poland perished. “Gentlemen,” said that undaunted prince to the officers around him (drawing his sword), “it now behoves us to die with honour;” and plunging into the midst of a Russian column, he terminated a life of honour. It was one of the last scenes of this bloody drama, which was frightful on both sides. The brunt of the fighting, as will be noticed, fell upon the Russians:—
| Other | Non-Commissioned | |||||
| Generals. | Officers. | Officers & Privates. | ||||
| The Russians | lost | 18 | 864 | 21,740 | ||
| The Prussians | 〃 | 2 | 520 | 14,950 | ||
| The Austrians | 〃 | 1 | 399 | 9,793 | ||
| The Swedes | 〃 | — | 10 | 321 | ||
| —— | ——— | ———— | ||||
| Total loss of Allies | 21 | 1793 | 46,804 | |||
The enemy’s loss was terrible: 28 generals, 2,540 officers, and 60,000 men fell. Prisoners: 1 king (of Saxony), 24 generals, 4,000 officers, 68,000 men; 350 guns, 900 ammunition waggons, eagles and standards by wholesale. The blowing up of the bridge saved the wreck of Napoleon’s army; thousands were taken prisoners through it. But its destruction prevented the victorious allied cavalry from following up a beaten foe. The first-fruits of the victory was the sweeping of the French out of Germany, except those that were in the strong fortress. They all, to a man—now over 120,000 men—had to surrender in due course or die. The multitude of mouths soon ate up all their stores. Napoleon was now retiring with his half-famished, beaten, dejected army; three-fourths of those that had fought so bravely, then in life’s morning march, had perished or were captives. The army was more like a huge funeral procession than a warlike army—pressing on, pensive and silent. Many of them envied the lot of those who had fallen, for then they would not have witnessed the degradation of France. The Allies were in close pursuit of Napoleon, who did not attempt to stop until he had put the Rhine between him and his enemies. At the same time, Wellington was nailing victory after victory to our standard in the south of France. There was a lot of humble pie for Napoleon to eat. Mrs. Bull was the cook, with Pat for an assistant, whose conduct had often been the admiration of all, when our old flag was in danger.
As we have said, the Allied armies were in close pursuit of Napoleon’s legions, dejected and forlorn. 300,000 more men were demanded (food for powder) by Napoleon, but he was rolled up before the quarter of them could be brought up. The campaign of the great conqueror in France, in 1814, was sublime. With about 60,000 men, he kept at bay the huge armies of the Allies for months. Combat followed combat in rapid succession. If he could not strike out with that power he had done on former fields, on which his fame was built as an all-conquering general, he stung their huge armies terribly. The loss of the Allies was greater in this short campaign than Napoleon’s whole strength. But the Allies, in majestic strength, were now fast approaching Paris. The conqueror’s generalship was of no avail now. Guilty Paris was soon surrounded with an iron girdle, and tens of thousands, in their excitement, called upon their artillery to fire on Paris. But, no! the Emperor Alexander avenged mother Moscow by saving father Paris: and thus guilty, haughty Paris was saved from destruction in a true spirit of Christianity, which any thinking man must admire. But, in order to keep the Allies together, Mr. Bull had again to shell out with the nice little round sum of £12,000,000 sterling. That was the last stroke that pulled the usurper from the throne and sent him to the Isle of Elba, with the empty title of Empereur. Peace was now made with France. The tyrant was stricken down; but no indemnity had France to pay. Revolutionary France was humbled in the dust: her capital had been in the hands of her enemies, and her sons defeated on field after field; but their wives and daughters were respected. Infidelity had been conquered by Christianity. The whole of the Allied sovereigns, with their princes, marshals, and chief generals—some of the bravest of the brave—came to England after the peace of 1814, before returning to their own country, to do homage to our king, and to thank a free people, with a warm heart, personally, for their energy and indomitable perseverance: who had saved themselves by their firmness, and Europe by their example and generosity. But there were then, as now, thousands in Old England who knew well it was not our arm that saved us from bondage. She had an open Bible, and our forefathers were not at all ashamed to call God their Father: “O Lord, save Thy people, and bless Thine inheritance,” went straight up to the throne of grace from thousands of honest hearts daily. They acknowledged then, as now, that they were His people, His “chosen people,” His “inheritance.” They acknowledged before a wicked world that they were His “servants,” and that “none other fighteth for us but Thou, O God!”[51] And how could they say they had won the victory, now the time had come the tyrant was struck down? To give God all the praise, all denominations openly thanked an All-wise God fervently for His powerful aid. It belongs to our historians to recount the festivities of that joyous period. The Emperor Alexander, on visiting the Arsenal at Woolwich, with its acres of cannon, shot, shell, and all kinds of warlike implements ready, exclaimed: “Why, this resembles the preparation of a great nation for the commencement of a war, rather than stores still remaining at the termination of a struggle for very existence for twenty-two years.”
The following table will help my readers to see a little into the cost of war in blood, in France alone. Thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of once happy homes were made miserable. No tongue can tell the amount of misery this terrible war had brought about. Mothers refused to be comforted, their darling boys being torn from their homes. Wives refused to be comforted for loved husbands torn from their bosoms. Thousands, and hundreds of thousands of orphans were left upon a cold world, all to gratify one man’s ambition for power.