Free Far Flies the Eagle by Evelyn Anthony Page B

anxiously.
    â€œThey’ve seen you, Sire! For God’s sake ride back!”
    Bonaparte turned his horse’s head; his sallow face was flushed, and for a moment the aide remembered the young General of the Revolution whom he had loved and followed, and who was often unrecognizable in the Emperor of France.
    â€œRide to the commander of the Polish Light Horse. Tell him the Emperor orders him to put those cannon out of action! Ride!”
    And then he turned again to watch the battlefield. Within minutes of his order, he saw the lines of Polish cavalry moving forward, pennants fluttering, the sun striking light off their breastplates; very faintly the jingling of their harness came to him, and he remembered that the inconsequential sound was the most striking feature of every charge, the tinkling accompaniment of death, more terrible than the roar of cannon which broke out as the first line of horsemen rode up the slope. They were riding recklessly now, their ranks broken by scores of casualties as the shot scorched down on them, men and horses stumbling, slipping on the rocky surface, dead and maimed animals in a hideous confusion while the survivors still rode on, urging forward and up.
    The leaders swept down on the first gun emplacements, sabres swinging in the sunshine; the gunners were cut down and trampled before the second wave of Polish cavalry descended on them yelling and slashing.
    The Emperor sat very still, till the slackening fire from the mountain ceased altogether and the mass of French infantry heaved forward through the pass like a tide overflowing; he could hear the men cheering, cheering the Poles who were riding slowly back, trying to re-form their scattered survivors into two lines. As they passed him they saluted, and he saw one wounded trooper sway and fall forward over the neck of his horse.
    The colour had died out of his face, leaving it sallow and puffed with tiredness; he was feeling the pain in his belly again, the gnawing, indigestible pain that attacked him whatever he ate, and somehow the pain was superimposed on the knowledge that the battle was won. He saluted the remnants of the light cavalry and then turned his horse and rode slowly forward.
    On the 10th of December he entered Madrid. He was so used to the pattern of victory that the refusal of the Spaniards to accept his brother as their King astonished him; after the battle the defeated agreed meekly to his terms and resigned themselves to whatever form of government he chose for them; no nation had ever dared to do otherwise, but neither threats nor bribes could move the Spanish people. They refused allegiance to Joseph Bonaparte and gathered their forces to continue the war. Napoleon left Madrid and marched out to crush the British expeditionary force of 26,000 men who had ventured into the heart of Leon under the command of Sir John Moore. Moore retreated steadily, drawing the French after him, until the two armies met at Corunna. In the ensuing battle, Sir John Moore was mortally wounded in the moment of victory.
    Meanwhile news reached Napoleon that Austria was about to declare war on him while he and his armies were engaged in Spain, and abandoning the campaign, which he believed to be practically over, he set sail for France to confront this new danger.
    On board ship he was more morose and irritable than usual, and spent hours shut up in his cabin, or walking the quarter-deck alone.
    So Austria was hoping to revenge herself for the defeat of Austerlitz, thinking that the rebellion in Spain and the continuous war with the English in Portugal were portents that the power of Bonaparte was weakening.… The feeble Hapsburgs, patching the rags of their past glory, were actually going to make war on him! He laughed aloud in anger and contempt. War. They should have war and learn the lesson of defeat as they had never learnt it. He thought of Russia and his mood changed. Russia had promised him men, and she must keep that