The Camp-fires of Napoleon

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Henry Clay Watson. The Camp-fires of Napoleon

PREFACE

THE CAMP-FIRE AT TOULON

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONTE NOTTE

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONDOVI

THE CAMP-FIRE AT THE BRIDGES OF LODI

THE CAMP-FIRE AT CASTIGLIONE

THE CAMP-FIRE AT ARCOLA

THE CAMP-FIRE AT RIVOLI

THE CAMP-FIRE ON THE ALPS

THE CAMP-FIRE ON THE NILE

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MOUNT TABOR

THE CAMP-FIRE AT ABOUKIR

CAMP-FIRE IN THE VALLEY OF AOSTA

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MARENGO

THE CAMP-FIRE AT ULM

THE CAMP-FIRE AT AUSTERLITZ

THE CAMP-FIRE AT PALENY

THE CAMP-FIRE AT JENA

THE CAMP-FIRE ON THE NAREW

CAMP-FIRE AT EYLAU

THE CAMP-FIRE AT FRIEDLAND

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MADRID

THE CAMP-FIRE AT RATISBON

CAMP-FIRES AT ASPERN AND ESSLING

THE CAMP-FIRE AT WAGRAM

THE CAMP-FIRE ON THE NIEMEN

THE CAMP-FIRE AT WITESPSK

THE CAMP-FIRE AT SMOLENSKO

THE CAMP-FIRE AT WIAZMA

THE CAMP-FIRE OF BORODINO

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MOSCOW

CAMP-FIRE AT MALO-YAROSLAVETZ

THE CAMP-FIRE IN THE SNOW

THE CAMP-FIRE AT KRASNOE

THE CAMP-FIRE AT BORYSTHENES

THE LAST CAMP-FIRES IN RUSSIA

THE CAMP-FIRE AT LUTZEN

THE CAMP-FIRE AT BAUTZEN

THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONTEREAU

THE CAMP-FIRE AT ARCIS

THE CAMP-FIRE AT WATERLOO

Отрывок из книги

It was the night of the 19th of December, 1793. A sky of darkness, unbroken by the twinkling of a single star, arched over the town and harbor of Toulon. But on the rugged heights of Balagrier and L’Equillette, where the English had vainly constructed their “Little Gibraltar,” the watch-fires of the French beseigers were redly burning; sending up showers of sparks, which looked like rising stars against the intense blackness of the heavens. It was the 19th of December, and the fate of Toulon, which for four months had lingered in the balance, was decided. Britons, Spaniards, Neapolitans and French—a garrison of the enemies of the republic—had fought in vain. The “Little Gibraltar,” which commanded the town and harbor was in the hands of the French; their troops were even forcing their way into the town, and consternation had seized those who dared to oppose the decrees of the Committee of Safety, as well as those who had so promptly tendered them aid. The evacuation of Toulon had been hurriedly resolved; and now, as the red gleam of the watch-fires and the blaze of the thundering artillery shone upon the dark waters of the bay, crowds of trembling people could be seen embarking in vessels of all kinds, glad to avail themselves of the protection of the English fleet, to escape the bloody revenge of the triumphant republicans.

The batteries of the “Little Gibraltar,” were already sending a shower of death upon the hostile fleet in the roadstead. On a rock, by a small blazing fire, and just above a battery, a form could be dimly seen through the smoke of the guns, which was destined to rise as a terrible image before the eyes of Europe, as it stood now, the conqueror of the foes of France, at Toulon. It was a slender form, on which the costume of a commandant of artillery hung loosely. But the inexorable resolution of the pale face, and the keen, quick flashes of the eagle eyes, caused those who gazed to forget all but awe and wonder before this genius of war. Occasionally, between the reports of the heavy guns, could be heard the shrill voice of command, which none refused to obey—it would be obeyed. Those eyes had seen where to strike, and that voice had commanded, the blow which brought Toulon to the feet of the republic. The commander was Napoleon Bonaparte, the young Corsican—the pet of Paoli—the child cradled amid the civil wars of his native island—who had made the cannon his toy—and who had been educated to war at the military school of Brienne. A subordinate, he had compelled his superior officers to bow before the oracles of his genius. One after another they had yielded, till the last, General Dugommier, a brave old warrior, acknowledged his artillery officer as the conqueror of Toulon.

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“My friends,” said he, “it is all clear enough to me. To-morrow will be a great day for France. Old Beaulieu will begin to know his enemy. The plain before us shall be the scene of more Austrian astonishment and dismay than has been known in Italy for many years. Beaulieu supposes that I intended to file off along the coast to Genoa; whereas, here I am, ready to overwhelm his centre. Following up this victory, it will be easy to cut him off from communication with the Piedmontese.”

The officers gazed with wonder and admiration upon the stripling who was thus summarily disposing of the fate of armies and countries, and while they listened to his words of conscious power, an awe crept over them, they felt themselves in the presence of a superior being; and yet among them were several men of splendid qualities,—born to command.

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