faded to vapor, as the white light turned to a golden glow.
Then was heard the roll of the reveillé. With astonishing rapidity, the French were under arms and in motion. Bonaparte and his staff rode to an elevated knoll, commanding the whole plain, and then were ordered the movements which gave to the young commander-in-chief the victory of Monte Notte. D’Argenteau, the Austrian commander, found himself attacked upon one side by the divisions of La Harpe, Cervoni and Augereau, and upon the other by Massena. Then boomed the cannon, and the rattled musketry over the plain. The Austrian infantry sustained the conflict with admirable courage. But they were surrounded by superior forces and after several charges had been made by the French, in the full confidence of victory, the discomfited d’Argenteau was compelled to retreat towards Dego. In fact, the retreat was a disorderly flight. The French made two thousand prisoners, and several hundred Austrians were left dead on the field. The centre of the Austrian army had been completely overwhelmed. Bonaparte was the victor of Monte Notte. In after years, when the imperial crown adorned his brow, the conqueror showed his contempt for ancestral distinctions by saying that he dated his title to rule from this battle.
THE CAMP-FIRE AT MONDOVI
When the conflict is at an end, and the awful silence of night descends upon the field where stark and stiff lie the mangled dead, among the broken weapons and spoils of the fight, the scene is fearfully impressive. There lie the cold forms of those, who in life were furious foes; but in death, side by side, united in their doom of darkness, they are all clay together. The bugle and the drum, which were sounded to signal the contest, are broken beside the mutilated and bloody bodies of those who played them at the head of the marching regiments. The captain, whose gallant “forward!” roused the spirits of his men, lies where he perished, in the van. The standard-bearer still clasps a portion of that dear symbol of his country, which numbers cut from his hands, and seems to have yielded his breath, while hugging that remnant to his heart. The grim veteran of a hundred fights, to whom death has been a jeer and a mockery, and the youth, with blooming cheek and eager eye, who left his mother’s cottage high in the hope of a glorious renown, are found cold and stiff together; the one with a smile of scorn curling his lip, the other with the keen agony, kindled by the rushing remembrance of the dear home lost forever, pictured in his countenance. The meek moon and the sentinel stars shining on this field of death, with a pallid light, add to its horrors, increasing the ghastly hue in the faces of the slain.
Such a scene was presented on the night of the 22nd of April, 1796, after the desperate battle of Mondovi. Near the town of that name, the dispirited army of Colli had been overtaken by two divisions of Bonaparte’s army, commanded by Serrurier and Massena. Serrurier had been repulsed, but the onset of Massena was irresistible, and the enemy were attacked on both flanks at once. The cavalry of the Piedmontese over powered and drove back that of the French, but the wonderful valor of Murat, the most glorious of cavalry officers, renewed the fortune of the day, and, shortly afterwards, Colli’s army was put to flight. During the retreat, the Piedmontese suffered dreadfully, losing the best of their troops, their cannons, baggage and appointments.
Wearied with the desperate conflict, the greater portion of the victorious army encamped in and about the town of Mondovi, a body of cavalry, alone pursuing and harassing the enemy. The description of the field of battle given above, will apply to this one, with the addition of a view of the towers and spires of Mondovi, and of numerous blazing fires in the vicinity, around which the exhausted troops had sunk to repose. Bonaparte had arrived; and, now, having gathered his principal officers at a ruined building, just outside of the town, which seemed to have been an old chapel, talked over with them the achievements of the day, and what was contemplated for the morrow. The ruin consisted of four broken walls, and was entirely roofless. It was several yards square, and the floor was strewn with fragments of sculpture which had once adorned the edifice. In the centre of the floor a fire was kindled, and camp-stools were ranged around it. At some distance from the ruin, guards were placed, with orders to keep the inquisitive beyond ear-shot. This place had evidently been selected by Bonaparte, in preference to the best mansion of Mondovi, to be secure from the treachery of Italians, who might have overheard and communicated to the enemy important information.
As usual, Bonaparte had the paper containing the lines of his movements before him, and with pencil and compasses in hand, he devised and marked alterations even while he talked. Among the officers gathered around the fire, were Massena, Berthier, Serrurier, Murat and Duroc.
Next to the commander-in-chief himself, Massena had the most remarkable personal appearance of any of the group. His massive features had a somewhat Jewish cast and their general expression was extremely heavy, or rather drowsy. The eyes were half-closed, and they did not sparkle like those of the rest, when Bonaparte spoke. Yet it was well known that, when excited by the storm of battle, their flash was terrible. The expression of the mouth, was always that of an inexorable will. The whole aspect of Andrew Massena was that of a man of great powers, difficult to rouse. Napoleon himself remarked that it was only in danger that appalled most men, that Massena acquired clearness and force of thought. His want of activity was his great defect as a commander.
Serrurier was a large man, with rough, prominent features, in which strong passions and dogged determinations were plainly expressed. His dress was torn and dusty; for although repulsed by the Piedmontese, he had fought like a lion on that desperate day.
The face of Duroc was manly and prepossessing. The slightly receding forehead, prominent nose, clear, bright eyes, and firm mouth, were illumined by a bland, but determined expression, indicative of the truly heroic spirit of this faithful friend of Napoleon. By the side of Michael Duroc, could be seen the stalwart form and noble countenance of Joachim Murat, the great leader of the cavalry, whose desperate charge had decided the battle in favor of the French. His gaudy costume was arranged with scrupulous nicety, and it bore no traces of the conflict. He sat toying with his long, dark curls during the conference.
“To-morrow, we will occupy Cherasco, which is within ten leagues of the Piedmontese capital,” said Bonaparte. “It has been a month of glory. Within that time, we have gained complete possession of the mountain passes and thus opened the road for our armies into Italy. We have gained three battles over forces far superior to our own; inflicted upon the enemy a loss of about twenty-five thousand men in killed, wounded, and prisoners, taken eighty pieces of cannon and twenty-one stand of colors; and almost annihilated the army of Sardinia. We can dictate a treaty at Turin.”
“The fight to-day was desperate enough, however,” said Murat, ever vain of his services. “The cavalry was beaten back by the Piedmontese, and General Stengel was among the slain.”
“A brave man lost to France,” interrupted Bonaparte.
“But I soon taught them that the French cavalry was not so easily beaten,” continued Murat. “That charge decided the day.”
“I am told,” said Bonaparte, “that the charge was indeed brilliant. But we expect such from Murat, and we hope that, hereafter, he may have the best opportunities of displaying his valor and horsemanship at the head of the cavalry of France. You have won a high promotion. General Serrurier, you were repulsed; but you afterwards bravely sustained your reputation, and contributed much to the victory. As for you, General Massena, high as were my expectations from your valor and skill, you have astonished me. France will yet regard you as a child of victory.”
Massena opened his eyes somewhat wider and nodded his thanks. “The troops,” he remarked, “are sadly worn with their rapid marches, and four days’ fighting. Besides, since they have been so severely treated for seizing upon what food and clothes they found along the line of march, they have suffered much for want of the common necessaries of life.”
“I know—I know,” replied Bonaparte; “I pity them, and hope that their wants may soon be relieved. But they must not become Goths and Vandals. What did you say was the loss of the enemy, to-day, Berthier?”
“It is estimated at about three thousand men,” replied the officer addressed—an elegant looking soldier, with a frank, intelligent countenance.
“Colli is then effectually crippled,” said Bonaparte. “He will not dare to make a stand between us and Turin. I learn that Cherasco is an ill-defended place, but