The first brigade of Guards was now desired to support the right flank, and the second directed to recover the ground that lay between it and the village of St. Etienne. Finding the attack confined to the centre of the British lines immediately in front of the citadel, the third battalion of the Guards was detached, under Colonel Stuart, to regain the hollow road, and drive the enemy from the fields in its rear.
These attempts were finally successful. The Coldstream and first Foot Guards rushed forward on opposite flanks, cheering loudly as they charged—and the French, alarmed lest they should be cut off from Bayonne, rapidly retired over the glacis of the citadel, suffering considerable loss[279] from the musketry of their pursuers.
The contest at St. Etienne had been maintained with great obstinacy. A company of the 38th, commanded by Captain Forster, occupied and held a house in that village, against every effort the enemy made to dispossess them. The little garrison were sadly reduced, when a brigade of Germans under General Hinuber, recovered the village, and saved the remnant of the gallant band.
A night attack is always attended by an awful grandeur that it is almost impossible to imagine or describe—and, in effect, nothing could exceed the sortie from the citadel of Bayonne. The deeper flashes of the cannon, the sparkling of the musketry, the sudden bursting of the shells, after describing curves of light in their transit,[280] and the brilliant illumination occasionally produced by the fire-balls thrown from the fortress to direct the range of its artillery, were singularly contrasted with the darkness of the night, which, after these brief and brilliant displays, appeared gloomier and denser than before. Presently, a fascine depôt became ignited by the bursting of a shell, and several houses at the same time caught fire and burned furiously, throwing a lurid glare over a field on which death was busy. To complete this fearful picture, the thunder of one hundred guns, and the bursting of shells, united with the cheering of the combatants and the cries of the wounded—all, in point of horror, rendering it, as a scene of slaughter, perfect.
On both sides the sortie of Bayonne entailed a deplorable loss of life.[281] Independent of prisoners, the British numbered fully five hundred killed and wounded, while the French loss was estimated at eight hundred and fifty. Several superior officers fell—and a great number of subordinate rank were reckoned among the killed and wounded.
“Towards the close of the action, the moon had risen, and as dawn broke over the scene of battle, a spectator could discern the dreadful havoc that had been made. The French and English soldiers and officers were lying on all sides, either killed or wounded; and so intermixed were they, that there appeared to have been no distinct line belonging to either party.”[282]
The command of the left wing devolved on Major-General Colville, and the rival armies continued to observe each other with the most jealous vigilance.
Lord Wellington never relaxed his active movements; and Soult having refused to acknowledge the provisional government, the allied commander advanced. The bold and decisive measures of the allied leader doubtless hastened the Duke of Dalmatia in making his decision—and, on the arrival of a second official communication, Soult notified his adherence, and hostilities ceased. Suchet had already shewn him the example—and Toulouse displayed the white flag. A line of demarcation was made by commissioners between the rival armies, and a regular convention signed by the respective commanders.[283] On the 27th, Thouvenot was instructed by Soult to surcease hostilities, and acknowledge the Bourbons—the lilies floated over the citadel—and saluted by three hundred rounds of artillery, Napoleon’s abdication, and the restoration of the Bourbons, were formally announced.[284]
In the north of France, Napoleon’s downfal had been hurrying rapidly to its close. The congress at Chatillon finally concluded its sittings on the 19th of March—and on the next day, Buonaparte was severely repulsed in a general engagement with the allies at Arcis. Even the repeated reverses he had latterly endured, could not extinguish that audacity of action for which the French emperor was so remarkable. With a ruined army, he threw himself behind the Marne on the 22nd, regardless of the enormous corps d’armée collected in his front, and whose numbers were quite adequate to crush a force like his, weakened by defeat, and disheartened by the defection of the southern provinces. Directing his march on St. Dizier, he declared “that he should reach Vienna before the allies entered Paris.” If this mad project were devised only to interrupt their advance on the French capital, it failed entirely,—the allied corps marched steadily on Paris—Marmont and Mortier were driven back upon that city—and the capital was regularly invested on the 29th.
Affairs had now reached a crisis. To defend that city with a corps not mustering twenty thousand men, would have been, with every assistance attainable from the inhabitants and gendarmerie, an act of madness. On the 30th, the allies carried the heights of Bellevue. The marshals retired—Joseph, the ex-King of Spain, quitted the capital—and the city, evacuated by the regular troops, capitulated.