University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

Campbell.

It was the morning of June 18th, 1815, eight years after the
close of our last chapter. The star of Napoleon had set, meantime;
— he had spent at Elba a night turbulent with fearful
dreams, and now it seemed to be once more ascending to its
zenith; once more the “man of destiny” was at the head of a
French army, and the broad field of Waterloo resounded to the
wild, triumphant cry, “Vive l' Empereur!”

O, what a grand mental panorama passes before our eyes,
conjured, as by a spell, by that one word, Waterloo! We seem
once more to hear the shrieks which caused old men's hair to
stiffen years afterwards in their dreams at night; to live over
those terrible moments when the enemy was hidden by fire and

smoke, and, seeing nothing, you could only track his presence by
a dull, heavy, rumbling sound, the echo of his tread in the solid
earth, jarring both men and horses; the silence, after a heavy
charge of artillery, broken only by the groans of the dying.

And yet men call war glorious, and speak of battles as a
splendid pastime. Ah! it may seem so, when the fight is raging,
the horses prancing, the bugles sounding; but to die in
battle, — to be left for hostile feet to spurn, hostile cavalry to
trample, and the vulture to swoop upon at last!

It makes one's blood run cold to think of it. It is not the
mere dying; many seek that, and the brave man fears it nowhere;
but it is to die with no fond hand to brush back the
heavy locks from the fevered brow, no gentle voice to murmur
words of strength and love; to have no grave nor any to weep
for us; no prayer, no farewell, nor any blessing! O, may God
save all I love from a fate like this!

But the battle of Waterloo was a glorious battle, as battles
go; and ever before our mind's eye, when its name is called,
rises one figure, tall and stately. Connected as imperishably
with this great battle as that of Napoleon himself, is the name
of the “Bravest of the Brave.”

How he looked, that morning! The white plumes on his helmet
nodded with the heavy dew; his gorgeous uniform glittered
in the light of the morning sun, and he himself, reining up his
proud steed, seemed, with his Herculean stature and bold mien,
as some warlike presence, that had risen out of the earth for
the defence of his country's rights, and the green fields of his
fathers.

The day was nearly ended when was made the last memorable

charge of the Old Guard, — such a charge as time never before
witnessed. Ney had five horses shot beneath him, and then,
chafing like a lion, fought on foot, at the head of his advancing
legions. But now, for the first time in his life, he, the Invincible,
was borne down by superior numbers. France and the
empire were in his hands, and he struggled mightily to wrest
them from the grasp of destiny; but in vain. The “Bravest of
the Brave” had fought his last battle!

In a lowly prison-cell we next find him. He had been condemned
to be shot as a traitor, and was awaiting his doom with
the calmness of a hero. A single lamp burned dimly in his cell,
as he sat there alone, with his head bowed on his hands.

Suddenly a key turned in the rusty lock, the door swung open
on its hinges, and Julie stood before him, with her three fair children.
He was so intensely absorbed in thought, that he did not
even look up until he felt his wife's arms about his neck, her
tears warm upon his face.

“Julie!” he exclaimed; “Heaven be thanked for so much
mercy! I die to-morrow at ten, and I had not thought to see
you here.”

“Die! No, dearest, I am come to tell you you shall not die
I will go to the king to-morrow, and pray him, on my bended
knees, to spare your life. We will go anywhere, — into any
island or desert, so he but leave that; and he will not, he dare
not, refuse it to your wife!”

Ney turned his large blue eyes on her with a mournful smile,

for he knew the Bourbons; but he would not deprive her of this
last, faint hope; so he said, quietly,

“Well, Julie, call my children to me; it will do no harm to
bid them farewell, and I can unsay it when you shall have won
me my life to-morrow.” Then, turning to his children, he added,
solemnly, “Ernest, Julie, Michael, your father blesses you! Be
good children; be faithful to God, to your mother and to France.
Your father has loved France, — do you love her; never remember
how I died, but love your country, and do not disgrace my
memory. You, Ernest and Michael, be good to your mother and
sister, — so only will the good God prosper you.”

Then he clasped them each separately in his arms, and blessed
them; and, turning to his wife, he gave her many words of earnest
and tender counsel. In the midst of his discourse, the
turnkey came to the door, and the hour for their interview was
ended.

“God bless you, Julie!” whispered the hero, amid his choking
sobs; “bear it like a soldier's wife, my poor child, and teach our
children to love their father's memory.”

Already had the jailer led the children from the apartment,
and now, with his key in his hand, he stood impatiently waiting
for the mother.

“Go, Julie, — go, darling!” whispered the Marshal, as he
strained her to his heart in a last embrace. At length she
glided from his arms; but she turned, ere she reached the door,
and whispered,

“Do not fear, dearest; I shall see the king, and you will be
free to-morrow.”

“Yes, free!” cried the hero, as the door rolled together on

its hinges, and shut out Julie from his sight forever; “yes, free;
and I, too, shall see the King to-morrow; but it will be Him
before whom the power of the Bourbons is as dust!” And
then a sense of utter, overpowering desolation came upon him,
and he sank back on his pallet, more exhausted by this last interview
with his wife and children than he had been by five hundred
battles.

At five minutes before ten the next morning, the rosy glow of
the sunshine flooded the king's drawing-room, and fell upon the
pale, deathly face of a woman crouching at his feet, with three
small children clinging to her robe.

O, how the rich glow of the sunlight mocked her as she knelt
there, in her anguish, pleading for life, but for life! O, how
she cursed, in her aching heart, the cold, freezing French politeness,
that could keep her there in her sorrow and answer nothing!

Ah! there is a cup of trouble for thee to drain, Julie, — sharp,
bitter trouble; but rest will come after it, — sunny days, when
the past will be but a half-forgotten memory of sorrow; when
thou shalt be again a bride, when other lips than his shall press
on thine their homage to thy beauty, — and what of him?

A proud, stern man stood alone among his foes. Long,
glittering lines of soldiery were drawn up on either side of
him, muskets were flashing in the sunlight, and in the distance
rolled the surging tide of human beings hungry for death.

Noble, free, unshackled, he stood there, and spoke, with

his hand upon his manly heart, those few, bold words, which
shall be remembered as long as tales are read, or gallant deeds
are told:

“I declare, before God and man, that I have never betrayed
my country; — may my death render her happy! Vive la
France!”

Then, gazing around over the assembled throng, his eye fell
on a carriage, drawn up at a little distance, where, in mourning
robes, with her long veil thrown back, sat Aline Wentworth.
It was the first time he had gazed on that face, with
its strangely-glorious eyes, since their last parting at New
York.

Who shall say whether it seemed to him a ministering angel,
or an avenging spirit? Who shall say how much of the old
love awoke in the hero's heart, in that long, thrilling gaze?
He said nothing — nothing save that one word, “her,” hissed
through his clenched teeth. Then, turning to the soldiers, he
calmly bared his noble breast, and cried, “My comrades, fire
on me!”

Words worthy a hero, — whose reply was the flash of muskets,
and that brave heart was still!

At that moment, a shriek, a woman's shriek, wild, terrible,
unearthly, swelled upon the air, and Aline Wentworth's proud
soul passed before its Judge!

Who shall say whether his spirit called not to hers, as it
winged its flight toward heaven? Who shall say that they, in
this life so strangely parted, met not above? Her woman's
heart, strong in its anguish, strong in its hopeless love, could
beat no longer when its idol ceased to live.

His wife could live on, his children could look calmly upon
the murderers of their father, his comrades who had stood by
his side in so many battles could aim coolly at his heart;
but Aline Wentworth, the strong-minded, proud, high-souled
American woman, lived but in his life, and was faithful to the
“Bravest of the Brave” in death.

Note. — Recent discoveries have induced a belief that Marshal Ney
was, in reality, an American, though it suited his designs to appear of
French parentage. In thus grouping together a few scenes from his
private life, I have but performed a labor of love; and I offer its result
as a humble tribute to a great man's memory.