The Bronze Eagle (41 page)

And upon this mass of desperate men, the small body of raw Dutch and
Belgian and German troops now hurled themselves with wild huzzas and
blind impetuousness. Against this mass of heroes and of conquerors in a
dozen victorious campaigns—men who had no longer anything to lose but
life, and to whom life meant less than nothing now—against them a
handful of half-trained recruits, drunk with the cry of "Victory" which
drowned the roar of the cannon and the clash of sabres, drunk with the
vision of glory which awaited them if that defiant eagle were brought to
earth by them!

And as Bobby staggered to his feet he already saw the impending
catastrophe—one of the many on this day of cumulative disasters. He saw
the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers rush wildly to the
charge—young men—enthusiasts—brave—but men whose ranks had twice
been broken to-day—who twice had rallied to their colours and then had
broken again—men who were exhausted—men who were none too ably
led—men in fact—and there were many French royalists among their
officers—who had
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not the physical power of endurance which had enabled
the British to astonish the world to-day.

Bobby could see amongst them the Brunswickers and their black coats—he
would have known them amongst millions of men. The full brilliance of
the evening glow was upon them—on their black coats and the silver
galoons and tassels; two of their officers had made a brave show in
Brussels three days—or was it a hundred years?—ago at the Duchess of
Richmond's ball. Bobby remembered them so well, for one of these two
officers was Maurice de St. Genis.

Oh! how Crystal would love to see him now—even though her dear heart
would be torn with anxiety for him—for he was fighting bravely, bravely
and desperately as every one had fought to-day, as these chasseurs of
the Old Guard—just the few of them that remained—were fighting still
even at this hour round that tattered flag and that bronze eagle, and
with the cry of "Vive l'Empereur!" dying upon their lips.

Despair indeed on both sides—even at this hour when the merest incident
might yet turn the issue of this world-conflict one way or the other.
Bobby, as he steadied himself on his feet, had seen that the attack was
already turning into a rout. Not only had Pelet's chasseurs held the
Dutch and Brunswickers at bay, not only had their tirailleurs made
deadly havoc among their assailants, but the latter now were threatened
with absolute annihilation even whilst all around them their
allies—British and Prussian—were crying "Victory!"

Bobby could see them quite clearly—for he saw with that subtle and
delicate sense which only a great and pure passion can give!—he saw the
danger at the very moment when it was born—at the precise instant when
it threatened that handful of black-coated men, one of whose officers
was named St. Genis. He saw the first sign of wavering, of stupefaction,
that followed the impetuous charge:
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he saw the gaps in the ranks after
that initial deadly volley from the tirailleurs. It almost seemed as if
he could hear those shouts of "Vive l'Empereur!" and the rallying cry of
commanding officers—it was all so near—not more than three hundred
yards away, and the clear, stormy atmosphere carried sights and sounds
upon its wing.

Another volley from the tirailleurs and the Dutch and Brunswickers
turned to fly: in vain did their officers call, they wanted to get away!
They tried to fly—to run, for now the chasseurs were at them with
bayonets—they tried to run, but the ground was littered with their own
wounded and dead—with the wounded and the dead of a long day of
carnage: they stumbled at every step—fell over the dying and the
wounded—over dead and wounded horses—over piles of guns and swords and
bayonets, and sabretaches, over forsaken guns and broken carriages,
litter that impeded them in front even as they were driven with the
bayonet from the rear.

Bobby saw it all, for they were coming now—pursued and pursuers—as
fast as ever they could; they were coming, these flying, black-coated
men, casting away their gay trappings as well as their arms, trying to
run—to get away—but stumbling, falling all the time—picking
themselves up, falling and running again.

And in that one short moment while the whole brief tragedy was enacted
before his eyes, Bobby also saw, in a vision that was equally swift and
fleeting, the blue eyes of Crystal drowned in tears. He saw her with
fair head drooping like a lily, he saw the quiver of her lips, heard the
moan of pain that would come to her lips when the man she loved was
brought home to her—dead. And in that same second—so full of
portent—Bobby understood why it was that her sweet image had called to
him for help just now. Again she called, again she beckoned—her blue
eyes looked on him with an appeal that was all-compelling:
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her two dear
hands were clasped and she begged of him that he should be her friend.

Such visions come from God! no man sees them save he whose soul is great
and whose heart is pure. Poor Bobby Clyffurde—lonely, heart-broken,
desolate—saw the exquisite face that he would have loved to kiss—he
saw it with the golden glow of evening upon the delicate cheeks, and
with the lurid light of fire and battle upon the soft, fair hair.

And the greatness of his love helped him to understand what life still
held for him—the happiness of supreme sacrifice.

All around him was death, but there was some life too: one or two poor,
abandoned riderless horses were quietly picking bits of corn from
between the piles of dead and dying men, or were standing, sniffing the
air with dilated nostrils, and snorting with terror at the deafening
noise. Bobby had steadied himself, neither his head nor his limbs were
aching now—at any rate he had forgotten them—all that he remembered
was what he saw, those black-coated Brunswickers who longed to fly and
could not and who were being slaughtered like insects even as they
stumbled and fled.

And Bobby caught the bridle of one of these poor, terror-stricken beasts
that stood snorting and sniffing not far away: he crawled up into the
saddle, for his thigh was numb and one of his arms helpless. But once on
horseback he could get along—over trampled corn and over the dead—on
toward that hideous corner behind the farm of La Haye Sainte where
desperate men were butchering others that were more desperate than
they—in among that seething crowd of black coats and fur bonnets, of
silver tassels and of brass eagles, into a whirlpool of swords and
bayonets and gun-fire from the tirailleurs—for there he had seen the
man whom Crystal loved—for whose sake she would eat out her heart with
mourning and regret.

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In the deafening noise of shrieking and sighs and whizzing bullets and
cries of agony he heard Crystal's voice telling him what to do. Already
he had seen St. Genis struggling on his knees not fifty mètres away from
the first line of tirailleurs, not a hundred from the advancing steel
wall of fixed bayonets. Maurice had thrown back his head, in the
hopelessness of his despair; the evening sun fell full upon his haggard,
blood-stained face, upon his wide-open eyes filled with the terror of
death. The next moment Bobby Clyffurde was by his side; all around him
bullets were whizzing—all around him men sighed their last sigh of
agony. He stooped over his saddle: "Can you pull yourself up?" he
called. And with his one sound arm he caught Maurice by the elbow and
helped him to struggle to his feet. The horse, dazed with terror,
snorted at the smell of blood, but he did not move. Maurice, equally
dazed, scrambled into the saddle—almost inert—a dead weight—a thing
that impeded progress and movement; but the thing that Crystal loved
above all things on earth and which Bobby knew he must wrest out of
these devouring jaws of Death and lay—safe and sound—within the
shelter of her arms.

After that it meant a struggle—not for his own life, for indeed he
cared little enough for that—but for the sake of the burden which he
was carrying—a burden of infinite preciousness since Crystal's heart
and happiness were bound up with it.

Maurice de St. Genis clung half inert to him with one hand gripping the
saddle-bow, the other clutching Bobby's belt with convulsive tenacity.
Bobby himself was only half conscious, dazed with the pain of wounds,
the exertion of hoisting that dead weight across his saddle, the
deafening noise of whizzing bullets round him, the boring of
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the
frightened horse against its bridle, as it tried to pick its way through
the tangled heaps upon the ground.

But every moment lessened the danger from stray bullets, and the chance
of the bayonet charge from behind. The cries of "Vive l'Empereur!" round
that still standing eagle were drowned in the medley and confusion of
hundreds of other sounds. Bobby was just able to guide his horse away
from the spots where the fighting was most hot and fierce, where
Vivian's hussars attacked those two battalions of cuirassiers, where
Adam's brigade of artillery turned the flank of the chasseurs and laid
the proud bronze eagle low, where Ney and the Old Guard were showing to
the rest of the Grand Army how grizzled veterans fought and died.

He rode straight up the plateau, however, but well to the right now,
picking his way carefully with that blind instinct which the tracked
beast possesses and which the hunted man sometimes receives from God.

The dead and the dying were less thick here upon the ground. It was here
that earlier in the day the Dutch and the Belgians and the Brunswickers
had supported the British left, during those terrific cavalry charges
which British endurance and tenacity had alone been able to withstand.
It was here that Hacke's Cumberland Hussars had broken their ranks and
fled, taking to Brussels and thence to Ghent the news of terrific
disaster. Bobby's lips were tight set and he snorted like a war-horse
when he thought of that—when he thought of the misery and sorrow that
must be reigning in Brussels now—and of the consternation at Ghent
where the poor old Bourbon King was probably mourning his dead hopes and
his vanished throne.

In Brussels women would be weeping; and Crystal—forlorn and
desolate—would perhaps be sitting at her window watching the stream of
fugitives that came in—wounded and exhausted—from the field of battle,
recounting tales of a catastrophe which had no parallel in modern times:
and
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Crystal, seeing and hearing this, would think of the man she loved,
and believing him to be dead would break her heart with sorrow.

And when Bobby thought of that he was spurred to fresh effort, and he
pulled himself together with a desperate tension of every nerve and
sinew, fighting exhaustion, ignoring pain, conjuring up the vision of
Crystal's blue eyes and her pleading look as she begged him to save her
from lifelong sorrow and the anguish of future loneliness. Then he no
longer heard the weird and incessant cannonade, he no longer saw the
desolation of this utter confusion around him, he no longer felt
exhausted, or the weight of that lifeless, impeding burden upon his
saddle-bow.

Stray bands of fugitives with pursuers hot on their heels passed him by,
stray bullets flew to right and left of him, whizzing by with their
eerie, whistling sound; he was now on the outskirts of the great
pursuit—anon he reached the crest of Mont Saint Jean at last, and
almost blindly struck back eastward in the direction of the forest of
Soigne.

It was blind instinct—and nothing more—that kept him on his horse: he
clung to his saddle with half-paralysed knees, just as a drowning man
will clutch a floating bit of wreckage that helps him to keep his head
above the water. The stately trees of Soigne were not far ahead now:
through the forest any track that bore to the left would strike the
Brussels road; only a little more strength—another effort or two—the
cool solitude of the wood would ease the weight of the burden and the
throbbing of nerves and brain. The setting sun shone full upon the leafy
edge of the wood; hazelnut and beech and oak and clumps of briar rose
quivered under the rough kiss of the wind that blew straight across the
lowland from the southwest, bringing with it still the confusion of
sounds—the weird cannonades and dismal bugle-calls—in such strange
contrast
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to the rustle of the leaves and the crackling of tiny twigs in
the tangled coppice.

How cool and delicious it must be under those trees—and there was a
narrow track which must lead straight to the Brussels road—the ground
looked soft and mossy and damp after the rain—oh! for the strength to
reach those leafy shadows, to plunge under that thicket and brush with
burning forehead against those soft green leaves heavy with moisture!
Oh! for the power to annihilate this distance of a few hundred yards
that lie between this immense graveyard open to wind and scorching sun,
and the green, cool moss and carpet of twigs and leaves and soft,
sweet-smelling earth, on which a weary body and desolate soul might find
eternal rest! . . .

On! on! through the forest of Soigne! There was no question as yet of
rest.

Maurice had not yet wakened from his trance. Bobby vaguely wondered if
he were not already dead. There was no stain of blood upon his fine
uniform, but it was just possible that in stumbling, running and falling
he had hit his head or received a blow which had deprived him of
consciousness directly after he had scrambled into the saddle.

Bobby remembered how pale and haggard he had looked and how his hand had
by the merest instinct clutched at the saddle-bow, and then had dropped
away from it—helpless and inert. Now he lay quite still with his head
resting against Bobby's shoulder.

Under the trees it was cool and the air was sweet and soothing: Bobby
with his left hand contrived to tear a handful of leaves from the
coppice as he passed: they were full of moisture and he pressed them
against Maurice's lips and against his own.