Complete Works of Emile Zola (1179 page)

Rochas, who had remained on his feet, spoke up and said jocosely:

“Children, there is no objection to your ducking to the shells when you see them coming. As for the bullets, it is useless; they are too numerous!”

At that very instant a soldier in the front rank was struck on the head by a fragment of an exploding shell. There was no outcry; simply a spurt of blood and brain, and all was over.

“Poor devil!” tranquilly said Sergeant Sapin, who was quite cool and exceedingly pale. “Next!”

But the uproar had by this time become so deafening that the men could no longer hear one another’s voice; Maurice’s nerves, in particular, suffered from the infernal
charivari
. The neighboring battery was banging away as fast as the gunners could load the pieces; the continuous roar seemed to shake the ground, and the mitrailleuses were even more intolerable with their rasping, grating, grunting noise. Were they to remain forever reclining there among the cabbages? There was nothing to be seen, nothing to be learned; no one had any idea how the battle was going. And
was
it a battle, after all — a genuine affair? All that Maurice could make out, projecting his eyes along the level surface of the fields, was the rounded, wood-clad summit of Hattoy in the remote distance, and still unoccupied. Neither was there a Prussian to be seen anywhere on the horizon; the only evidence of life were the faint, blue smoke-wreaths that rose and floated an instant in the sunlight. Chancing to turn his head, he was greatly surprised to behold at the bottom of a deep, sheltered valley, surrounded by precipitous heights, a peasant calmly tilling his little field, driving the plow through the furrow with the assistance of a big white horse. Why should he lose a day? The corn would keep growing, let them fight as they would, and folks must live.

Unable longer to control his impatience, the young man jumped to his feet. He had a fleeting vision of the batteries of Saint-Menges, crowned with tawny vapors and spewing shot and shell upon them; he had also time to see, what he had seen before and had not forgotten, the road from Saint-Albert’s pass black with minute moving objects — the swarming hordes of the invader. Then Jean seized him by the legs and pulled him violently to his place again.

“Are you crazy? Do you want to leave your bones here?”

And Rochas chimed in:

“Lie down, will you! What am I to do with such d —— d rascals, who get themselves killed without orders!”

“But you don’t lie down, lieutenant,” said Maurice.

“That’s a different thing. I have to know what is going on.”

Captain Beaudoin, too, kept his legs like a man, but never opened his lips to say an encouraging word to his men, having nothing in common with them. He appeared nervous and unable to remain long in one place, striding up and down the field, impatiently awaiting orders.

No orders came, nothing occurred to relieve their suspense. Maurice’s knapsack was causing him horrible suffering; it seemed to be crushing his back and chest in that recumbent position, so painful when maintained for any length of time. The men had been cautioned against throwing away their sacks unless in case of actual necessity, and he kept turning over, first on his right side, then on the left, to ease himself a moment of his burden by resting it on the ground. The shells continued to fall around them, but the German gunners did not succeed in getting the exact range; no one was killed after the poor fellow who lay there on his stomach with his skull fractured.

“Say, is this thing to last all day?” Maurice finally asked Jean, in sheer desperation.

“Like enough. At Solferino they put us in a field of carrots, and there we stayed five mortal hours with our noses to the ground.” Then he added, like the sensible fellow he was: “Why do you grumble? we are not so badly off here. You will have an opportunity to distinguish yourself before the day is over. Let everyone have his chance, don’t you see; if we should all be killed at the beginning there would be none left for the end.”

“Look,” Maurice abruptly broke in, “look at that smoke over Hattoy. They have taken Hattoy; we shall have plenty of music to dance to now!”

For a moment his burning curiosity, which he was conscious was now for the first time beginning to be dashed with personal fear, had sufficient to occupy it; his gaze was riveted on the rounded summit of the
mamelon
, the only elevation that was within his range of vision, dominating the broad expanse of plain that lay level with his eye. Hattoy was too far distant to permit him to distinguish the gunners of the batteries that the Prussians had posted there; he could see nothing at all, in fact, save the smoke that at each discharge rose above a thin belt of woods that served to mask the guns. The enemy’s occupation of the position, of which General Douay had been forced to abandon the defense, was, as Maurice had instinctively felt, an event of the gravest importance and destined to result in the most disastrous consequences; its possessors would have entire command of all the surrounding plateau. This was quickly seen to be the case, for the batteries that opened on the second division of the 7th corps did fearful execution. They had now perfected their range, and the French battery, near which Beaudoin’s company was stationed, had two men killed in quick succession. A quartermaster’s man in the company had his left heel carried away by a splinter and began to howl most dismally, as if visited by a sudden attack of madness.

“Shut up, you great calf!” said Rochas. “What do you mean by yelling like that for a little scratch!”

The man suddenly ceased his outcries and subsided into a stupid silence, nursing his foot in his hand.

And still the tremendous artillery duel raged, and the death-dealing missiles went screaming over the recumbent ranks of the regiments that lay there on the sullen, sweltering plain, where no thing of life was to be seen beneath the blazing sun. The crashing thunder, the destroying hurricane, were masters in that solitude, and many long hours would pass before the end. But even thus early in the day the Germans had demonstrated the superiority of their artillery; their percussion shells had an enormous range, and exploded, with hardly an exception, on reaching their destination, while the French time-fuse shells, with a much shorter range, burst for the most part in the air and were wasted. And there was nothing left for the poor fellows exposed to that murderous fire save to hug the ground and make themselves as small as possible; they were even denied the privilege of firing in reply, which would have kept their mind occupied and given them a measure of relief; but upon whom or what were they to direct their rifles? since there was not a living soul to be seen upon the entire horizon!

“Are we never to have a shot at them? I would give a dollar for just one chance!” said Maurice, in a frenzy of impatience. “It is disgusting to have them blazing away at us like this and not be allowed to answer.”

“Be patient; the time will come,” Jean imperturbably replied.

Their attention was attracted by the sound of mounted men approaching on their left, and turning their heads they beheld General Douay, who, accompanied by his staff, had come galloping up to see how his troops were behaving under the terrible fire from Hattoy. He appeared well pleased with what he saw and was in the act of making some suggestions to the officers grouped around him, when, emerging from a sunken road, General Bourgain-Desfeuilles also rode up. This officer, though he owed his advancement to “influence” was wedded to the antiquated African routine and had learned nothing by experience, sat his horse with great composure under the storm of projectiles. He was shouting to the men and gesticulating wildly, after the manner of Rochas: “They are coming, they will be here right away, and then we’ll let them have the bayonet!” when he caught sight of General Douay and drew up to his side.

“Is it true that the marshal is wounded, general?” he asked.

“It is but too true, unfortunately. I received a note from Ducrot only a few minutes ago, in which he advises me of the fact, and also notifies me that, by the marshal’s appointment, he is in command of the army.”

“Ah! so it is Ducrot who is to have his place! And what are the orders now?”

The general shook his head sorrowfully. He had felt that the army was doomed, and for the last twenty-four hours had been strenuously recommending the occupation of Illy and Saint-Menges in order to keep a way of retreat open on Mezieres.

“Ducrot will carry out the plan we talked of yesterday: the whole army is to be concentrated on the plateau of Illy.”

And he repeated his previous gesture, as if to say it was too late.

His words were partly inaudible in the roar of the artillery, but Maurice caught their significance clearly enough, and it left him dumfounded by astonishment and alarm. What! Marshal MacMahon wounded since early that morning, General Ducrot commanding in his place for the last two hours, the entire army retreating to the northward of Sedan — and all these important events kept from the poor devils of soldiers who were squandering their life’s blood! and all their destinies, dependent on the life of a single man, were to be intrusted to the direction of fresh and untried hands! He had a distinct consciousness of the fate that was in reserve for the army of Chalons, deprived of its commander, destitute of any guiding principle of action, dragged purposelessly in this direction and in that, while the Germans went straight and swift to their preconcerted end with mechanical precision and directness.

Bourgain-Desfeuilles had wheeled his horse and was moving away, when General Douay, to whom a grimy, dust-stained hussar had galloped up with another dispatch, excitedly summoned him back.

“General! General!”

His voice rang out so loud and clear, with such an accent of surprise, that it drowned the uproar of the guns.

“General, Ducrot is no longer in command; de Wimpffen is chief. You know he reached here yesterday, just in the very thick of the disaster at Beaumont, to relieve de Failly at the head of the 5th corps — and he writes me that he has written instructions from the Minister of War assigning him to the command of the army in case the post should become vacant. And there is to be no more retreating; the orders now are to reoccupy our old positions, and defend them to the last.”

General Bourgain-Desfeuilles drank in the tidings, his eyes bulging with astonishment. “
Nom de Dieu!
” he at last succeeded in ejaculating, “one would like to know — But it is no business of mine, anyhow.” And off he galloped, not allowing himself to be greatly agitated by this unexpected turn of affairs, for he had gone into the war solely in the hope of seeing his name raised a grade higher in the army list, and it was his great desire to behold the end of the beastly campaign as soon as possible, since it was productive of so little satisfaction to anyone.

Then there was an explosion of derision and contempt among the men of Beaudoin’s company. Maurice said nothing, but he shared the opinion of Chouteau and Loubet, who chaffed and blackguarded everyone without mercy. “See-saw, up and down, move as I pull the string! A fine gang they were, those generals! they understood one another; they were not going to pull all the blankets off the bed! What was a poor devil of a soldier to do when he had such leaders put over him? Three commanders in two hours’ time, three great numskulls, none of whom knew what was the right thing to do, and all of them giving different orders! Demoralized, were they? Good Heavens, it was enough to demoralize God Almighty himself, and all His angels!” And the inevitable accusation of treason was again made to do duty; Ducrot and de Wimpffen wanted to get three millions apiece out of Bismarck, as MacMahon had done.

Alone in advance of his staff General Douay sat on his horse a long time, his gaze bent on the distant positions of the enemy and in his eyes an expression of infinite melancholy. He made a minute and protracted observation of Hattoy, the shells from which came tumbling almost at his very feet; then, giving a glance at the plateau of Illy, called up an officer to carry an order to the brigade of the 5th corps that he had borrowed the day previous from General de Wimpffen, and which served to connect his right with the left of General Ducrot. He was distinctly heard to say these words:

“If the Prussians should once get possession of the Calvary it would be impossible for us to hold this position an hour; we should be driven into Sedan.”

He rode off and was lost to view, together with his escort, at the entrance of the sunken road, and the German fire became hotter than before. They had doubtless observed the presence of the group of mounted officers; but now the shells, which hitherto had come from the front, began to fall upon them laterally, from the left; the batteries at Frenois, together with one which the enemy had carried across the river and posted on the peninsula of Iges, had established, in connection with the guns on Hattoy, an enfilading fire which swept the plateau de l’Algerie in its entire length and breadth. The position of the company now became most lamentable; the men, with death in front of them and on their flank, knew not which way to turn or which of the menacing perils to guard themselves against. In rapid succession three men were killed outright and two severely wounded.

It was then that Sergeant Sapin met the death that he had predicted for himself. He had turned his head, and caught sight of the approaching missile when it was too late for him to avoid it.

“Ah, here it is!” was all he said.

There was no terror in the thin face, with its big handsome eyes; it was only pale; very pale and inexpressibly mournful. The wound was in the abdomen.

“Oh! do not leave me here,” he pleaded; “take me to the ambulance, I beseech you. Take me to the rear.”

Rochas endeavored to silence him, and it was on his brutal lips to say that it was useless to imperil two comrades’ lives for one whose wound was so evidently mortal, when his better nature made its influence felt and he murmured:

“Be patient for a little, my poor boy, and the litter-bearers will come and get you.”

But the wretched man, whose tears were now flowing, kept crying, as one distraught that his dream of happiness was vanishing with his trickling life-blood: