第八十二章 第十二章 近卫军
第十二章 近卫军
后续之事尽人皆知——第三支军队冲入战场；战线被撕成碎片；八十六门火炮同时轰鸣；皮尔希第一师协同比洛进攻；齐滕的骑兵由布吕歇尔亲自率领；法军节节败退；马尔科涅被逐出奥安高地；迪吕特被赶离帕佩洛特；东泽洛和基奥撤退；洛博侧翼遭袭；夜幕降临时分，新战役骤然扑向我方残破的兵团；英军全线反攻，步步紧逼；法军阵线豁开巨大缺口；英军的霰弹与普鲁士人的霰弹交相呼应；屠戮、前方溃败、侧翼溃败——近卫军便在这一切土崩瓦解的恐怖中投入战线。
明知必死，他们依然高呼"皇帝万岁！"史册中再无比这临终的呐喊更令人动容的篇章了。
天色终日阴沉。就在此刻——晚间八时——地平线上的云层突然裂开，让残阳惨烈而阴森的光辉穿过尼维尔路旁的榆树照射下来。他们在奥斯特里茨曾见过这轮朝阳。
每个近卫军步兵营都由一位将军率领这场最后的浩劫。弗里昂、米歇尔、罗盖、阿尔莱、马莱、波雷·德·莫尔旺悉数到场。当近卫军掷弹兵的高顶熊皮帽——饰有雄鹰徽章的巨大铜牌——整齐列阵、镇定自若地出现在混战之中时，敌军不禁对法兰西心生敬畏；他们仿佛看见二十场胜利正展开双翼飞临战场，那些原本的征服者竟以为自己败了，开始后退。但威灵顿高喊："近卫军，起立！瞄准射击！"埋伏在树篱后的英军近卫军红色军团骤然跃起，密集的霰弹撕裂三色旗，呼啸着掠过我们的雄鹰徽章；所有人向前冲去，最后的杀戮开始了。黑暗中，帝国近卫军感到大军正在周围节节败退，在溃败的巨浪中，他们听见绝望的逃亡取代了"皇帝万岁"的呼声——而身后便是逃兵，他们仍继续前进，每前进一步就更加支离破碎，损失更多战士。队列中无人犹豫，没有懦夫。这支队伍里的士兵与将军同样英勇。这场自杀式冲锋中，无人缺席。
内伊在惊惶中展现出接受死亡的全部壮烈气概，甘愿在风暴中承受一切打击。他的第五匹战马在此倒下。他浑身是汗，双目喷火，嘴角泛沫，军服敞开，一只肩章被御林军骑兵的刀锋劈下半截，饰有巨鹰的胸牌被子弹击凹；浑身浴血，满身泥泞，气吞山河，手持断剑高呼："来看看法兰西元帅如何战死沙场！"然而徒劳——他并未死去。他面色狰狞，怒火中烧。他向德鲁埃·德·埃尔隆吼道："你就不打算战死吗？"当所有炮火倾泻在这群军人身上时，他高喊："竟没有我的份！啊！我愿所有英国人的子弹都射进我的五脏六腑！"不幸的人啊，你终究是留给了法国人的子弹！
Every one knows the rest,—the irruption of a third army; the battle
broken to pieces; eighty-six mouths of fire thundering simultaneously;
Pirch the first coming up with Bülow; Zieten’s cavalry led by Blücher
in person, the French driven back; Marcognet swept from the plateau of
Ohain; Durutte dislodged from Papelotte; Donzelot and Quiot retreating;
Lobau caught on the flank; a fresh battle precipitating itself on our
dismantled regiments at nightfall; the whole English line resuming the
offensive and thrust forward; the gigantic breach made in the French
army; the English grape-shot and the Prussian grape-shot aiding each
other; the extermination; disaster in front; disaster on the flank; the
Guard entering the line in the midst of this terrible crumbling of all
things.
Conscious that they were about to die, they shouted, “Vive l’Empereur!”
History records nothing more touching than that agony bursting forth in
acclamations.
The sky had been overcast all day long. All of a sudden, at that very
moment,—it was eight o’clock in the evening—the clouds on the horizon
parted, and allowed the grand and sinister glow of the setting sun to
pass through, athwart the elms on the Nivelles road. They had seen it
rise at Austerlitz.
Each battalion of the Guard was commanded by a general for this final
catastrophe. Friant, Michel, Roguet, Harlet, Mallet, Poret de Morvan,
were there. When the tall caps of the grenadiers of the Guard, with
their large plaques bearing the eagle appeared, symmetrical, in line,
tranquil, in the midst of that combat, the enemy felt a respect for
France; they thought they beheld twenty victories entering the field of
battle, with wings outspread, and those who were the conquerors,
believing themselves to be vanquished, retreated; but Wellington
shouted, “Up, Guards, and aim straight!” The red regiment of English
guards, lying flat behind the hedges, sprang up, a cloud of grape-shot
riddled the tricolored flag and whistled round our eagles; all hurled
themselves forwards, and the final carnage began. In the darkness, the
Imperial Guard felt the army losing ground around it, and in the vast
shock of the rout it heard the desperate flight which had taken the
place of the “Vive l’Empereur!” and, with flight behind it, it
continued to advance, more crushed, losing more men at every step that
it took. There were none who hesitated, no timid men in its ranks. The
soldier in that troop was as much of a hero as the general. Not a man
was missing in that suicide.
Ney, bewildered, great with all the grandeur of accepted death, offered
himself to all blows in that tempest. He had his fifth horse killed
under him there. Perspiring, his eyes aflame, foaming at the mouth,
with uniform unbuttoned, one of his epaulets half cut off by a
sword-stroke from a horseguard, his plaque with the great eagle dented
by a bullet; bleeding, bemired, magnificent, a broken sword in his
hand, he said, “Come and see how a Marshal of France dies on the field
of battle!” But in vain; he did not die. He was haggard and angry. At
Drouet d’Erlon he hurled this question, “Are you not going to get
yourself killed?” In the midst of all that artillery engaged in
crushing a handful of men, he shouted: “So there is nothing for me! Oh!
I should like to have all these English bullets enter my bowels!”
Unhappy man, thou wert reserved for French bullets!
