Adventure stories, English; France -- History -- Consulate and First Empire, 1799-1815 -- Fiction; Soldiers of fortune -- Fiction
This rebuke seeming to have engaged the suffrages of the company, he
went on: ‘The boat division consisted of four battalions of infantry,
two batteries of light artillery, and a voltigeur company of the
“Régiment de Marboeuf”--to which I was then, for the time, attached as
_tambour en chef_. What fellows they were--the greatest devils in
the whole army! They came from the Faubourg St. Antoine, and were as
reckless and undisciplined as when they strutted the streets of Paris.
When they were thrown out to skirmish, they used to play as many tricks
as schoolboys: sometimes they ‘d run up to the roof of a cabin or a
hut--and they could climb like cats--and, sitting down on the chimney,
begin firing away at the enemy as coolly as if from a battery; sometimes
they’d capture half-a-dozen asses, and ride forward as if to charge, and
then, affecting to tumble off, the fellows would pick down any of the
enemy’s officers that were fools enough to come near--scampering back to
the cover of the line, laughing and joking as if the whole were sport.
I saw one when his wrist was shattered by a shot, and he couldn’t fire,
take a comrade on his back and caper away like a horse, just to tempt
the Germans to come out of their lines. It was with these blessed youths
I was now to serve, for the _tambour_ of the “Marboeuf” was drowned in
crossing the Sambre a few days before. Well, we passed the river safely,
and, unperceived by the enemy, gained the pine wood, where we formed
in two columns, one of attack, and the other of support--the voltigeurs
about five hundred paces in advance of the leading files. The morning
was dull and hazy, for a heavy rain had fallen during the night; and
the country is flat, and so much intersected with drains, and dikes, and
ditches, that, after rain, the vapour is too thick to see twenty yards
on any side. Our business was to make a counter-march to the right,
and, guided by the noise of the cannonade, to come down upon the enemy’s
flank in the thickest of the engagement. As we advanced, we found
ourselves in a kind of marshy plain, planted with willows, and so
thick that it was often difficult for three men to march abreast. This
extended for a considerable distance; and on escaping from it we saw
that we were not above a mile from the enemy’s left, which rested on a
little village.’
‘I know it well,’ broke in the cannonier; ‘it’s called Huyningen.’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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