The supreme effort of the dynasties to outlaw Napoleon, and restore France to the Bourbons, was made by what was nominally an alliance of eight members—Austria, Great Britain, Prussia, Russia, France, Spain, Portugal, and Sweden. The last was, however, absorbed in her struggle with Norway, and, though Spain and Portugal were signatories, the real strength of the coalition arranged at Vienna lay in a virtual renewal of the treaty of Chaumont: Austria, Prussia, and Russia were each to put 180 thousand men in the field, and Great Britain was to continue her subsidies.
On April fourth, the sovereigns of Europe were notified that the Empire meant peace; they retorted by the mobilization of their forces, and by denouncing in a joint protocol the treaty of Paris. In his extremity Napoleon appealed to Talleyrand, but that minister knew too well the temper of the Congress at Vienna, and refused to cooperate. The versatile Fouche thereupon initiated a new plot, this time against Napoleon, and sounded Metternich; but Metternich was dumb. The other diplomats asseverated that they did not wish to interfere with the domestic affairs of France; but they prevaricated, intending nothing less than the complete restoration of the Bourbons.
Under the shadow of this storm-cloud Napoleon regulated his domestic affairs of state with intrepid calmness. He had no easy task. It was the revived hatred of the masses for priests and nobles to which he had appealed on his progress from Grenoble, and, observing the wild outbursts of the populace at Lyons, he had whispered, “This is madness.” It was with studied deliberation, therefore, that in Paris he cast himself completely upon the moderate liberals. This alienated the Jacobin elements throughout the country, and they, in turn, stirred up the royalists. When it became clear that neither Maria Louisa nor the King of Rome was to be crowned, and that there was no help in Austria, even the imperialists displayed a dangerous temper. Such was the general uneasiness about war that the first measures of army reorganization were taken almost stealthily.
It was easy enough to establish the skeleton of formation, and not very difficult to find trustworthy officers, commissioned and non-commissioned; but to summon recruits was to announce the coming war. Of the 300 thousand veterans now returned home, less than one fifth responded to the call for volunteers; the Emperor had reckoned on four fifths at least. The National Guard was so surly that many felt it would be bravado for Napoleon to review them. But he was determined to do so, and on April sixteenth the hazardous ceremony took place. Until at least half the companies had been reviewed not a cheer was heard; then there were a few scattering shouts here and there in the ranks; finally there was some genuine enthusiasm.
By the middle of May the national deputies summoned at Lyons began to arrive. They were to meet, after the fashion of Charles the Great’s assemblies, in the open field. Their task was to be the making of a new constitution. It was not reassuring news that they brought from their various homes, and their accounts disturbed public opinion in Paris sadly. Before long it was known that civil war had again broken out in Vendee; the consequences would have been most disastrous had not La Rochejacquelein, the insurgent leader, been killed on June 4th. As it was, the ignoble slaughter of one of their order intensified the bitterness of the nobles. Worse still, it had been found that of the 629 deputies five hundred were ardent constitutionalists indifferent to Napoleon, and that only 50 were his devoted personal friends; there were even between 30-40 who were Jacobins, and at Fouche’s command.
Under these circumstances the Emperor dared not hold the promised national congress. What could be substituted for it? The great dramatic artist was not long at a loss. He determined to summon the electoral deputies to a gorgeous open-air ceremony on June first, and have them stamp with their approval the Additional Act. A truly impressive spectacle would pass muster for the promised ‘field of May,’ and profoundly affect the minds of all present. But, unfortunately, though Segur made the plan, and though every detail was carefully studied by Napoleon, the affair was not impressive.
About 18 thousand persons assembled on the benches, and there was a vast crowd in the field. The cannon roared their welcome, and the people cheered the imperial carriage, the marshals, the body-guard, and the procession. But when Napoleon and his brothers stepped forth, clad like actors in theatrical costumes of white velvet, wearing Spanish cloaks embroidered with the imperial device of golden bees, and with great plumed hats on their heads, there was a hush of disappointment. The populace had expected a soldier in a soldier’s uniform; many had felt sure ‘he’ would wear that of the National Guard.
There was, however, no sign of disrespect while the ministers and the reconstituted corps of marshals filed to their places. Among the latter were familiar faces—Ney, Moncey, Kellermann, Serurier, Lefebvre, Grouchy, Oudinot, Jourdan, Soult, and Massena. A committee of the deputies then stood forth, and their chairman read an address declaring that France desired a ruler of her own selection, and promising loyalty in the coming war. Napoleon arose, and in spite of his absurd clothes commanded attention while he set forth his reasons for offering a ready-made constitution instead of risking interminable debate. Although he declared that what was offered could, of course, be amended, there was no applause, except from a few soldiers. When the chambers met, a week later, Lanjuinais, one of Napoleon’s lifelong opponents, was chosen president of the House of Deputies.
The speech from the throne was clever and conciliatory, and in spite of evident distrust both houses promised all the strength of France for defence—but for defence only. The peers declared that under her new institutions France could never be swept away by the temptations of victory; the deputies asserted that nothing could carry the nation beyond the bounds of its own defence, not even the will of a victorious prince.
The anxieties and exertions of two months were manifest in Napoleon’s appearance. His features, though impressive, were drawn, and his long jaw grew prominent. He lost flesh everywhere except around the waist, so that his belly, hitherto inconspicuous, looked almost pendulous. When standing, he folded his hands sometimes in front, sometimes behind, but separated them frequently to take snuff or rub his nose. Sometimes he heaved a mechanical sigh, swallowing as if to calm inward agitation.
Often he scowled, and looked out through half-closed lids as if growing far-sighted; the twitching of his eye and ear on the left side grew more frequent. With thickening difficulties and increasing annoyance, serious urinary and stomach troubles set in; there was also a persistent hacking cough. Recourse was again had to protracted warm baths in order to alleviate the accompanying nervousness; but as the ailments were refractory, a mystery soon attached to the malady, and his enemies said it was a loathsome disease. In spite of the statements both of the Prussian commissioner at Fontainebleau, Count Truchsess-Waldburg, and of Sir Hudson Lowe, it is highly improbable that Napoleon’s health was undermined by sexual infection. He was surrounded all his life by malignant attendants, and among the sweepings of their minds, which in recent years have been scattered before the public, there would be some proof of the fact.
In the utter absence of any reliable information, some have guessed that the trouble was the preliminary stage in the disease of which he died; and others, again, in view of his quick changes of mood, his depressions, exaltations, sharpened sensibilities, and abrupt rudeness, have explained all his peculiarities in disease and health by attributing them to a recondite form of epilepsy. Exhausted and nervous, the sufferer might well, as was the case, be found in tears before the portrait of his son; he might well lift up his voice, as he was heard to do, against the destiny which had played him false. But he was quite shrewd enough to see that during his absence no regency could be trusted, and he arranged to conduct affairs by special messengers. Joseph was to preside and give the casting-vote in the council of state; to Lucien was given a seat in the same body; but the supreme power rested in Napoleon.
When Wellington replaced Castlereagh at the Congress of Vienna, it was quickly apparent that he was greater in the field than at the council-board. Both he and Blucher desired to assume the offensive quickly; but inasmuch as Alexander was determined to retain his ascendancy in the coalition, and as each power insisted on its due share in the struggle, it was arranged to begin hostilities on June 27th, the earliest date at which the Russian troops could reach the confines of France. There were to be three armies. Schwarzenberg, with 250 thousand men, comprising the Austrian, Russian, and Bavarian contingents, was to attack across the upper Rhine; Blucher, with 150 thousand Prussians, was to advance across the lower Rhine; and Wellington in the Netherlands was to collect an army of 150 thousand, compounded of Dutch, Belgians, Hanoverians, and some 38 thousand British, who could be there assembled. The two latter armies were in existence by the 1st of June, but Wellington was dissatisfied with the quality of his motley force; even the English contingent was not the best possible, for his Peninsular veterans had been sent to find their match in Jackson’s riflemen at the battle of New Orleans.
On the eve of hostilities Napoleon had 124 thousand effective men, and 3500 more in his camp train; Wellington had 106 thousand, but of these four thousand Hanoverians were left in garrison; Blucher had about 117 thousand. Neither of the two allied generals dreamed that Napoleon would choose the daring form of attack upon which he decided—that of a wedge driven into the broken line nearly a hundred miles in length upon which his enemy lay—for to do so he must pass the Ardennes. But he did choose it, and selected for the purpose the valleys of the Sambre and the Meuse.
Allowing for the differences in topography, the idea was identical with that which, 19 years before, he had executed splendidly in Piedmont and repeated in Germany. The twin enemy seemed unaware that its long and straggling line must, in case of activity, either be broken to maintain the respective bases or else abandon one base for concentration and be cut off from supplies. Wellington’s base was westward at Antwerp, Blucher’s eastward through Liege toward the Rhine. Vacillation would ensue, Napoleon felt, on a central attack, and in that vacillation he intended to repeat with Blucher what he had done with Brunswick at Jena.
The opening of the campaign was sufficiently auspicious. By a superb march during the night of June thirteenth, Napoleon’s army had gained a most advantageous position. The first corps under d’Erlon was at Solre on the Sambre, the second under Reille was at Leers. The guard, the sixth corps under Lobau, the line cavalry and the third corps under Vandamme, stood in that order on a line northeasterly from Beaumont, and due east of that place were four cavalry corps; the fourth corps under the young and dashing Gerard had marched from Metz and were at Philippeville; to the south lay the guard cavalry and the reserve artillery under Grouchy. In front was Charleroi, whence a broad turnpike led almost direct to Brussels, 34 miles due north; another turned eastward toward Liege. 13 miles distant on this was Sombreffe; somewhat farther on that, Quatre Bras, both on the highway running east and west between Namur and Nivelles.
To have accomplished such marches as it did, the French army must have been fine; to have secured such a brilliant strategic position its general must have been almost inspired. He commanded the operating lines of both Wellington and Blucher, while they were far distant from each other, separated by serious obstacles, both alike instinct with centrifugal rather than centripetal tendency. The same high qualities which shone in their general distinguished the subordinate French commanders.
Though many of the famous names are absent from the list—Mortier, for instance, having fallen ill on the frontier—yet Soult was present as chief of staff, and Ney was coming up to take command of the left wing. Reille, d’Erlon, and Foy were veterans of the Peninsular war; what twenty-two years of service had done for the ‘wild Hun, Vandamme, is known. Kellermann was made famous by Marengo, Lobau was noted for daring, Gerard had earned distinction in Russia, and though Grouchy’s merit has been the theme of much discussion, yet he had been famous under Jourdan and Moreau, and nothing had occurred in the long interval to tarnish his reputation.
Nearly half of Blucher’s troops were irregular reserves, and many of the regulars were recruits, but all were thoroughly drilled and well equipped. The passion of hatred which animated them was comparable only to the ‘French fury’ with which Napoleon’s army would fight for national existence. Such was the reverence for routine among the Prussian officers, and so bitter were the jealousies of the petty aristocracy from which they sprang, that the King dared not promote on any basis except that of seniority. In order to make Gneisenau second in command, York, Kleist, and Tauenzien were stationed elsewhere, and Bulow was put in command of a reserve to hold Belgium when Blucher should advance to Paris. The aged but fiery marshal had not mended his health by the self-indulgence of a year; the three division generals, Ziethen, Pirch, and Thielemann were capable men of local renown.
Gneisenau and Bulow were the only first-rate men among the Prussian commanders, but for rousing enthusiasm Blucher’s name was a word to conjure with. Wellington was felt by his officers and soldiers to be a man of real power; his British recruits were well drilled, and his veterans were good. His associate generals were no more famous than those of Gneisenau, but they were, for the most part, English gentlemen with a high sense of duty and much executive ability. One of his corps was commanded by the Prince of Orange, a respectable soldier, whose name, however, was more valuable than the experience he had gained in the Peninsula as aide-de-camp; the other corps was under Lord Hill, an admirable subordinate and an excellent commander. The only English general whose name is a familiar one abroad was Picton, who died on the field. As to the quality of the respective armies, it has become the fashion of each nation to decry that of its own and overrate that of the other two.
Thus they condone their own blunders, and yet heighten the renown of victory. Napoleon was superior in organization, in cavalry, and in artillery to either Wellington or Blucher, but he was inferior to both in infantry. He was in wretched health, and he had a desperate cause. Taking fully into account his consummate ability and personal prestige, it yet remains true that the odds against him were high, certainly eight to five.
Ziethen’s posts before Charleroi saw the French camp-fires in the early hours of June fourteenth; that evening they began to withdraw toward Fleurus, whither the remainder of the Prussian army was gradually set in motion. It seems incredible that this should have been the first move of the allies toward concentrating their widely scattered forces, for neither Wellington nor Blucher was completely surprised. Both commanders had for two days been aware, in a general way, of Napoleon’s movements, but they were awaiting developments. It was Wellington’s opinion, carefully set forth in his old age, that it would have been better strategy for the French to advance so as to turn his right, seize his munitions, and cut off his base; but as this would have rolled up the entire allied force, ready to deliver battle with odds of two to one, the statement may perhaps be accepted as an explanation, but certainly not as a justification.
In the dawn of the 15th a ringing, rousing proclamation, like those of the olden time, and written the day before on the anniversary of Marengo, was read to the French soldiers. It was in high spirits that the army, in three columns, began to march. The left, under Reille, dislodged the Prussian outposts from Thuin, and, forcing them back through Marchiennes, seized the bridge at that place, and crossed to the left bank of the Sambre. The movement was complete by 10 in the morning.
The center under Napoleon comprised the mass of the army: Pajol, Vandamme, Lobau, the Guard, Exelmans, Kellermann, and Milhaud. Soult despatched his orders by a solitary aide, who broke his leg by a fall from his horse, and failed to deliver them. Though at equally critical moments before both Eylau and Wagram, Berthier had done as Soult did, with identical results, yet the latter was justly and severely blamed. Had Vandamme been found, the movements of the center would have been greatly accelerated, the speedy capture of Charleroi would have enabled the third corps to reach Fleurus in time to intercept Ziethen, and thus the whole course of events would have been changed. The marshal’s ill success was, therefore, as Napoleon called it, a “deplorable mischance,” and it was high noon before Pajol, with the van, reached Charleroi and, after a smart engagement, drove out the Prussians.
The right wing, under Gerard, was in motion at five in the morning, but it also was detained by a serious disaster. Shortly after starting it was found that Bourmont, the commander of its best division, a man who had been Chouan, imperialist, and royalist by turns, had deserted with his chief of staff and eight soldiers. Having been at the council of war, he had the latest information of Napoleon’s secret plans, and his treason demoralized the troops he so basely abandoned. It was long before confidence could be restored; the crossing at Charleroi had been delayed too long, and it was nightfall when Gerard at last reached Chatelet, four miles below, secured the bridge, and crossed with only half his men. The campaign opened, if not in disaster, at least with only partial success.
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