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THE UNEXPECTED
There were three thousand five hundred of them.
They formed a front a quarter of a league in extent.
They were giant men, on colossal horses.
There were six and twenty squadrons of them; and they had
behind them to support them Lefebvre-Desnouettes's division,--the
one hundred and six picked gendarmes, the light cavalry of the
Guard, eleven hundred and ninety-seven men, and the lancers of
the guard of eight hundred and eighty lances. They wore casques
without horse-tails, and cuirasses of beaten iron, with horse-pistols
in their holsters, and long sabre-swords. That morning the whole
army had admired them, when, at nine o'clock, with braying of
trumpets and all the music playing "Let us watch o'er the
Safety of the Empire," they had come in a solid column, with
one of their batteries on their flank, another in their centre,
and deployed in two ranks between the roads to Genappe and Frischemont,
and taken up their position for battle in that powerful second
line, so cleverly arranged by Napoleon, which, having on its extreme
left Kellermann's cuirassiers and on its extreme right Milhaud's
cuirassiers, had, so to speak, two wings of iron.
Aide-de-camp Bernard carried them the Emperor's orders.
Ney drew his sword and placed himself at their head.
The enormous squadrons were set in motion.
Then a formidable spectacle was seen.
All their cavalry, with upraised swords, standards and trumpets
flung to the breeze, formed in columns by divisions, descended,
by a simultaneous movement and like one man, with the precision
of a brazen battering-ram which is effecting a breach, the hill
of La Belle Alliance, plunged into the terrible depths in which
so many men had already fallen, disappeared there in the smoke,
then emerging from that shadow, reappeared on the other side of
the valley, still compact and in close ranks, mounting at a full
trot, through a storm of grape-shot which burst upon them, the
terrible muddy slope of the table-land of Mont-Saint-Jean. They
ascended, grave, threatening, imperturbable; in the intervals
between the musketry and the artillery, their colossal trampling
was audible. Being two divisions, there were two columns of them;
Wathier's division held the right, Delort's division was on the
left.
It seemed as though two immense adders of steel were to be
seen crawling towards the crest of the table-land. It traversed
the battle like a prodigy.
Nothing like it had been seen since the taking of the great
redoubt of the Muskowa by the heavy cavalry; Murat was lacking
here, but Ney was again present.
It seemed as though that mass had become a monster and had
but one soul.
Each column undulated and swelled like the ring of a polyp.
They could be seen through a vast cloud of smoke which was
rent here and there.
A confusion of helmets, of cries, of sabres, a stormy heaving
of the cruppers of horses amid the cannons and the flourish of
trumpets, a terrible and disciplined tumult; over all, the cuirasses
like the scales on the hydra.
These narrations seemed to belong to another age.
Something parallel to this vision appeared, no doubt, in the
ancient Orphic epics, which told of the centaurs, the old hippanthropes,
those Titans with human heads and equestrian chests who scaled
Olympus at a gallop, horrible, invulnerable, sublime--gods and
beasts.
Odd numerical coincidence,--twenty-six battalions rode to
meet twenty-six battalions.
Behind the crest of the plateau, in the shadow of the masked
battery, the English infantry, formed into thirteen squares, two
battalions to the square, in two lines, with seven in the first
line, six in the second, the stocks of their guns to their shoulders,
taking aim at that which was on the point of appearing, waited,
calm, mute, motionless.
They did not see the cuirassiers, and the cuirassiers did
not see them. They listened to the rise of this flood of men.
They heard the swelling noise of three thousand horse, the
alternate and symmetrical tramp of their hoofs at full trot, the
jingling of the cuirasses, the clang of the sabres and a sort
of grand and savage breathing. There ensued a most terrible silence;
then, all at once, a long file of uplifted arms, brandishing sabres,
appeared above the crest, and casques, trumpets, and standards,
and three thousand heads with gray mustaches, shouting, "Vive
l'Empereur!" All this cavalry debouched on the plateau, and
it was like the appearance of an earthquake.
All at once, a tragic incident; on the English left, on our
right, the head of the column of cuirassiers reared up with a
frightful clamor. On arriving at the culminating point of the
crest, ungovernable, utterly given over to fury and their course
of extermination of the squares and cannon, the cuirassiers had
just caught sight of a trench,-- a trench between them and the
English.
It was the hollow road of Ohain.
It was a terrible moment.
The ravine was there, unexpected, yawning, directly under
the horses' feet, two fathoms deep between its double slopes;
the second file pushed the first into it, and the third pushed
on the second; the horses reared and fell backward, landed on
their haunches, slid down, all four feet in the air, crushing
and overwhelming the riders; and there being no means of retreat,--
the whole column being no longer anything more than a projectile,--
the force which had been acquired to crush the English crushed
the French; the inexorable ravine could only yield when filled;
horses and riders rolled there pell-mell, grinding each other,
forming but one mass of flesh in this gulf:
when this trench was full of living men, the rest marched
over them and passed on. Almost a third of Dubois's brigade fell
into that abyss.
This began the loss of the battle.
A local tradition, which evidently exaggerates matters, says
that two thousand horses and fifteen hundred men were buried in
the hollow road of Ohain.
This figure probably comprises all the other corpses which
were flung into this ravine the day after the combat.
Let us note in passing that it was Dubois's sorely tried brigade
which, an hour previously, making a charge to one side, had captured
the flag of the Lunenburg battalion.
Napoleon, before giving the order for this charge of Milhaud's
cuirassiers, had scrutinized the ground, but had not been able
to see that hollow road, which did not even form a wrinkle on
the surface of the plateau.
Warned, nevertheless, and put on the alert by the little white
chapel which marks its angle of junction with the Nivelles highway,
he had probably put a question as to the possibility of an obstacle,
to the guide Lacoste.
The guide had answered No. We might almost affirm that Napoleon's
catastrophe originated in that sign of a peasant's head.
Other fatalities were destined to arise.
Was it possible that Napoleon should have won that battle?
We answer No. Why?
Because of Wellington?
Because of Blucher? No. Because of God.
Bonaparte victor at Waterloo; that does not come within the
law of the nineteenth century.
Another series of facts was in preparation, in which there
was no longer any room for Napoleon.
The ill will of events had declared itself long before.
It was time that this vast man should fall.
The excessive weight of this man in human destiny disturbed
the balance. This individual alone counted for more than a universal
group. These plethoras of all human vitality concentrated in a
single head; the world mounting to the brain of one man,--this
would be mortal to civilization were it to last.
The moment had arrived for the incorruptible and supreme equity
to alter its plan.
Probably the principles and the elements, on which the regular
gravitations of the moral, as of the material, world depend, had
complained. Smoking blood, over-filled cemeteries, mothers in
tears,-- these are formidable pleaders.
When the earth is suffering from too heavy a burden, there
are mysterious groanings of the shades, to which the abyss lends
an ear.
Napoleon had been denounced in the infinite and his fall had
been decided on.
He embarrassed God.
Waterloo is not a battle; it is a change of front on the part
of the Universe.
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