the retreat

in the evening, in order to conceal its movements from the enemy as well as to avoid the heat of the day, the army began its retreat. the orders were to follow the mediterranean for the fresh air of the sea.

bonaparte called bourrienne and dictated an order to the effect that all who were able must go on foot, leaving the horses, mules and camels for the sick and wounded.

[pg 653]

an anecdote will at times convey the state of a man's mind better than any number of descriptions.

bonaparte had just finished his dictation when his personal attendant, vigogne senior, entered the tent, and asked: "general, which horse have you reserved for yourself?"

bonaparte looked him through and through, and then, striking him in the face with his riding-whip, he retorted: "did you not hear the order, imbecile? everybody is to go on foot, myself as well as the others. go!" and he went.

there were three men sick of the plague at mount carmel; they, too ill to be moved, were left to the generosity of the turks and the care of the carmelite brothers.

unfortunately, sidney smith was not there to save them and the turks put them to death. word of this was brought to bonaparte after he had gone six miles. then bonaparte gave full vent to the passion of which the blow which he struck vigogne was only the prelude. he stopped the artillery wagons and distributed torches to all the army. then he gave orders to light the torches and to set fire to all the small towns and villages, hamlets and houses on the road. the barley was ripe; they set fire to it. it was a terrible yet a magnificent sight. the whole coast was in flames for thirty miles around, and the sea reflected the tremendous ocean of flames like a gigantic mirror. the bridge, being bare sand, was the only thing which was not on fire, and seemed like a bridge thrown over the cocytus.

bonaparte became alarmed when, after breakfast, he again took the head of the column. a devouring thirst, the total want of water, excessive heat, and a fatiguing march through burning sand-dunes had completely demoralized the men, and caused the most cruel selfishness and the most heartrending indifference to supersede all generous sentiments.

and this continued day after day. they began by ridding themselves of those who were sick of the plague under pretext that it was dangerous to take them along. then came the turn of the wounded. the unfortunate men cried[pg 654] out: "we have not got the plague, we are only wounded." and they showed their old wounds, or inflicted new ones on themselves. but the soldiers did not even turn their heads. "your turn has come," they said. and they went on.

bonaparte shuddered with terror when he saw this. he ordered a halt. he forced all the able-bodied men who were on mules, horses, or dromedaries to give them up to the sick and wounded.

they reached tentoura on the 20th of may, in a stifling heat. they sought vainly for a bit of grass or a tree to give them shelter from the blazing sky. they lay down upon the sand, but it was fiery hot. men were continually falling to rise no more. a wounded man in a litter asked for water. bonaparte went up to him.

"who have you got there?" asked he.

"we do not know," replied the men. "all that we do know is that he wears double epaulets."

the moans and the prayer for water had ceased.

"who are you?" asked bonaparte.

the wounded man was silent. bonaparte raised the cloth which shaded the litter and recognized croisier.

"ah, my poor boy!" he exclaimed.

croisier began to sob bitterly.

"come," said bonaparte, "have a little courage."

"ah," said croisier, lifting himself up in his litter, "you think i am weeping because i am going to die? i am weeping because you called me a coward; and i tried to get myself killed just because you did call me that."

"but," said bonaparte, "i sent you a sword after that. didn't roland give it to you?"

"here it is," replied croisier, seizing the weapon which was at his side, and carrying it to his lips. "those who are carrying me know that i want to have it buried with me. tell them to do that, general."

and the wounded man clasped his hands imploringly.

bonaparte dropped the corner of the cloth which covered the litter, gave the necessary order, and walked away.

[pg 655]

when they left tentoura on the following day they came upon a quicksand of considerable extent. there was no other road, so the artillery was obliged to take it, and the guns sank deep in the sand. they laid all the sick and wounded on the edge for a time, while they harnessed all the horses to the gun-carriages and wagons. but it was useless; wagons and cannon sunk to their middle in the sand. the able-bodied soldiers asked to be allowed to make a last effort. they exhausted themselves uselessly.

they wept as they abandoned the brass which they had so often blessed, which had so often witnessed their triumphs, and which had made europe tremble.

they slept at cesarea on the 22d of may.

so many of the sick and wounded had died that horses were more plentiful. bonaparte, who was himself far from well, had nearly died from fatigue on the previous day. he was so strongly urged to do so that he finally consented to mount a horse. he had hardly gone three hundred paces beyond cesarea when, about daybreak, a man fired pointblank at him from behind some bushes, but missed him.

the soldiers who were near the commander-in-chief darted into the thicket and dragged out the man, a native of nablos, who was condemned to be shot on the spot. four men pushed him toward the sea with the butts of their carbines; there they pulled their triggers, but none of the guns went off. the night had been damp and the powder was wet.

the syrian, astonished at finding himself still alive, recovered his presence of mind immediately, and throwing himself into the sea, swam to a reef beyond the range of their muskets. the soldiers in their first stupefaction watched him go without thinking to fire off their muskets.

but bonaparte, who knew what a bad effect it would have upon the superstitious population if such an attempt were to go unpunished, ordered a platoon to fire upon him. they obeyed, but the man was out of range, and the balls fell hissing into the water wide of the reef. the man drew[pg 656] a dagger from his breast and made a threatening gesture with it. bonaparte ordered them to load again with a charge and a half, and fire once more.

"it is useless," said roland; "i will go." and he instantly threw off all his clothing, retaining only his drawers.

"stay here, roland," said bonaparte; "i do not wish you to risk your life for that of an assassin."

but whether he did not hear him, or whether he did not wish to hear, roland had already borrowed a dagger from the sheik of aher, who was retreating with the army, and, thrusting it between his teeth, he had thrown himself into the sea. the soldiers, who knew that the young captain was the most daring in the whole army, shouted "bravo!" bonaparte was forced to be a witness of the duel which was impending.

the syrian did not attempt further flight when he saw that it was only one man who was coming after him, but waited. he presented a fine spectacle there on his rock. with one hand clinched and his dagger in the other he looked like a statue of spartacus on a pedestal. roland swam toward him, his course as straight as that of an arrow. the syrian made no attempt to attack him until he had gained a footing; he even drew back courteously as far as the rock would afford him a footing. roland emerged from the water, young and handsome, and dripping like a sea-god.

they stood facing each other. the rock which was to serve as their arena resembled the shell of an immense tortoise protruding from the water. the spectators looked for a long scientific contest in which neither would give any advantage to the other. but this was not to be.

roland had no sooner gained his feet and shaken off the water which blinded him as it fell from his dripping hair, than, without taking any precaution to defend himself against his adversary's dagger, he sprang upon him, not as one man springs upon another, but as a jaguar springs upon the hunter. they saw the flash of the daggers, then the two men fell into the water.

[pg 657]

there was a tremendous splashing, then one head reappeared—the blond head of roland.

he clung to the sharp edges of the rock with one hand, then he rested his knee upon it, and finally stood upright, holding his adversary's head by its mass of long hair in the other hand. he resembled perseus after he had cut off the gorgon's head.

a tremendous shout went up among the spectators and reached roland. then putting his dagger between his teeth, he sprang into the sea and swam to the shore.

the army had halted. the men had forgotten both heat and thirst. the wounded forgot to think of their wounds. even the dying found strength to rise on their elbows.

roland paused ten feet from bonaparte.

"here," said he, "is the head of your would-be assassin."

bonaparte recoiled, in spite of himself. as for roland, he went straight to his clothes and began to put them on as calmly as if he had come from an ordinary bath, and with a degree of modesty which a woman might have envied him.