The Dynasts: An Epic-Drama of the War with Napoleon Part 190

[The few aides that are left unhurt dart hither and thither with this message, and the whole English host and it allies advance in an ordered ma.s.s down the hill except some of the artillery, who cannot get their wheels over the bank of corpses in front.

Trumpets, drums, and bugles resound with the advance.

The streams of French fugitives as they run are cut down and shot by their pursuers, whose clothes and contracted features are blackened by smoke and cartridge-biting, and soiled with loam and blood. Some French blow out their own brains as they fly.

The sun drops below the horizon while the slaughter goes on.]

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Is this the last Esdraelon of a moil For mortal man's effacement?

SPIRIT IRONIC

Warfare, mere, Plied by the Managed for the Managers; To wit: by frenzied folks who profit nought For those who profit all!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Between the jars Of these who live, I hear uplift and move The bones of those who placidly have lain Within the sacred garths of yon grey fanes-- Nivelles, and Plancenoit, and Braine l'Alleud-- Beneath the unmemoried mounds through deedless years Their dry jaws quake: "What Sabaoath is this, That shakes us in our un.o.btrusive shrouds, As though our tissues did not yet abhor The fevered feats of life?"

SPIRIT IRONIC

Mere fancy's feints!

How know the coffined what comes after them, Even though it whirl them to the Pleiades?-- Turn to the real.

SPIRIT OF RUMOUR

That hatless, smoke-smirched shape There in the vale, is still the living Ney, His sabre broken in his hand, his clothes Slitten with ploughing ball and bayonet, One epaulette shorn away. He calls out "Follow!"

And a devoted handful follow him Once more into the carnage. Hear his voice.

NEY [calling afar]

My friends, see how a Marshal of France can die!

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Alas, not here in battle, something hints, But elsewhere!... Who's the sworded brother-chief Swept past him in the tumult?

SPIRIT OF RUMOUR

D'Erlon he.

Ney cries to him:

NEY

Be sure of this, my friend, If we don't perish here at English hands, Nothing is left us but the halter-noose The Bourbons will provide!

SPIRIT IRONIC

A caustic wit, And apt, to those who deal in adumbrations!

[The brave remnant of the Imperial Guard repulses for a time the English cavalry under Vivian, in which MAJOR HOWARD and LIEUTENANT GUNNING of the Tenth Hussars are shot. But the war-weary French cannot cope with the pursuing infantry, helped by grape-shot from the batteries.

NAPOLEON endeavours to rally them. It is his last effort as a warrior; and the rally ends feebly.]

NAPOLEON

They are crushed! So it has ever been since Crecy!

[He is thrown violently off his horse, and bids his page bring another, which he mounts, and is lost to sight.]

SPIRIT OF RUMOUR

He loses his last chance of dying well!

[The three or four heroic battalions of the Old and Middle Guard fall back step by step, halting to reform in square when they get badly broken and shrunk. At last they are surrounded by the English Guards and other foot, who keep firing on them and smiting them to smaller and smaller numbers. GENERAL CAMBRONNE is inside the square.]

COLONEL HUGH HALKETT [shouting]

Surrender! And preserve those heroes' lives!

CAMBRONNE [with exasperation]

Mer-r-rde!... You've to deal with desperates, man, today: Life is a byword here!

[Hollow laughter, as from people in h.e.l.l, comes approvingly from the remains of the Old Guard. The English proceed with their ma.s.sacre, the devoted band thins and thins, and a ball strikes CAMBRONNE, who falls, and is trampled over.]

SPIRIT OF THE YEARS

Observe that all wide sight and self-command Desert these throngs now driven to demonry By the Immanent Unrecking. Nought remains But vindictiveness here amid the strong, And there amid the weak an impotent rage.

SPIRIT OF THE PITIES

Why prompts the Will so senseless-shaped a doing?