The Memoirs of Baron Lejeune, Aide-de-Camp to Marshals Berthier, Davout and Oudinot. Vol. I

Général de Brigade, Baron Louis-François Lejeune, Mrs Arthur Bell

• Publisher: Wagram Press
• Year: 2010
• Print ISBN: 9781908692108
• eBook ISBN: 9781908692115
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: British History
• Index: History

Amongst the many memoirs of the Napoleonic period, there are a number that stand out not just for their historical value, but also for their actual written style; however, in this sense Lejeune stands alone. He was by nature an artist and is still famous as a noted painter of scenes of battles, most of which he witnessed. As such his scenes are like his paintings, filled with evocative detail.
The narrative in Vol. I runs from his earliest recollections of a chance encounter with Marie Antoinette to his joining the republican movement and a battalion of national volunteers. As the consulate dawns, we find him as an aide-de-camp with the army of reserve in 1800 and fought at the battle of Marengo. He was present at the battles of Austerlitz, Jena, Eylau, Friedland, Landshut, Eckmühl, Aspern-Essling and Wagram.
A substantial part of this volume revolves around the vicious and protracted second siege of Saragossa, which even in the Peninsular War stands out for the courage and fierceness of both sides. His treatment of the siege and the forces engaged is the best of its genre by some distance.
Lejeune was witness to some of the great events of the Napoleonic period, and moved with the grace of a courtier through them, his eye catches the human actors in his pen portraits beautifully.
Highly Recommended.
Author: Général de Brigade Baron Louis François Lejeune, (1775-1848)
Translator: Mrs Arthur Bell [D'Anvers, N.], (????-1933 )
Foreword: Major-General Maurice, John Frederick, Sir, 1841-1912
Annotations – PP-Publishing

 

CHAPTER I

EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS

My father and mother belonged to Versailles, but certain business affairs led to their settling for a time in Alsace, where I was born.

Shortly before the Revolution they returned to Versailles, and as I write I can vividly recall the belfry of the Cathedral of Strasburg, as well as the beautiful Royal Palace of Versailles, just as it appeared the day I arrived there.

I already had a taste for drawing, and one day, as I was about to begin a sketch in the park, a lady wearing a simple and elegant but somewhat négligé white costume approached me, followed by a hayduc or Hungarian hussar, who held a big sabre in one hand and in the other the lady's dainty parasol. I took off my hat respectfully without pausing in my work, replied to a few gracious questions addressed to me, and as the lady continued her walk I took no further notice of her.

At the same time the next day the lady, who I had noticed had a beautiful face and a fine figure, though she was as simply dressed as before, came up to me and asked my name. When she had heard it she said, “I know your father, and I am much attached to your uncle, who often comes to practise music with me.”

From her accent I guessed that she must be an Austrian, and I replied, with a laugh, in German that I was ashamed to confess I did not know to whom I was talking.

My cheerful manner seemed to please her, and she said, “Come with me, little friend, and we will become better acquainted. You shall see some prettier bits than the one you are sketching.” I accompanied her, and saw the big folding doors of the Trianon open to admit us. Attendants in the royal liveries saluted respectfully, and I caught the words, “Your majesty.”

As much astonished as the peasant who took Henri IV. up behind him, I said to myself, “This, then, must be the Queen, since neither the hussar nor I can claim to be the King.” It was in fact Marie Antoinette, the Archduchess of Austria, but her manner to me had been so gracious that I did not feel at all embarrassed, and went on chatting familiarly with her. The Queen offered me some fruit, and seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out to me the beauties of the Trianon, which was her own creation. Before dismissing me she presented me with a little purse embroidered in green and gold, and gave me permission to come to the Trianon again whenever I liked.

Alas! How little did we then foresee the tragic fate which was later to overwhelm her, and of which I was to be a witness!

I was still a student on the 10th of August, but I remember the massacre of the luckless Swiss soldiers, which went on for a whole week. At Passy I was struck by bullets intended for a Swiss, who knocked me over as he made his own escape, and at the Barrière Blanche another Swiss, driven perhaps by hunger from the quarries of Montmartre, where he had taken refuge, fell close to me beneath the blows of some twenty masons, who beat him to death with their plastering trowels. When the rage of the people of Paris began to subside, the triumphant singing of the “Marseillaise” was heard on every side, and at the sound of this inspiring war song battalions were formed in each quarter of the town, and many columns of troops started to join the army.

The popular excitement suddenly took a magnanimous turn, and the most timorous citizens enthusiastically enrolled themselves, eager to aid in driving back the foreign enemies who were everywhere menacing the frontier and threatening the independence of France.

The young students of literature, science, law, medicine, and art met in the Louvre in great numbers, and included Alexander Duval, Jean Baptiste Say, with many another young poet or philosopher, who now became mere common soldiers, with numerous beardless heroes who were later to rise to be generals, prefects, or senators. The band took the name of the Compagnie des Arts or the Art Corps, and the figure of Minerva was emblazoned on their banner.

Only seventeen years old then, I was, I believe, the youngest in the newly formed corps, but I managed somehow to carry the enormous amount of war material with which I was encumbered. A cardboard helmet with a horsehair crest, a cartridge box full of cartridges, a musket weighing fifteen pounds, a sabre big enough to cut off the head of Goliath, a saucepan for making and a platter to hold soup, a knapsack which my dear mother in her excess of affection had loaded to bursting and moistened with her tears, a sack to sleep in in camp or to go foraging with, bread and meat enough to last four days, a uniform of short breeches, long gaiters, and a pair of good shoes, such was what I had to carry, the weight of which I was able to ignore in the pride of the first start, but which made me realise before the very first halt that the trade of a hero is a very arduous one.

Nothing could have been gayer than our first night in the Louvre, if it had not been that in the midst of our fun a charming young fellow named Jourdain mistook a window for a door, and flinging himself against it fell into the grand court below and was killed.

One of us who had once served for a few months in a regiment of dragoons was chosen as our captain, another named Bertier became our lieutenant; and two days after our organisation and equipment were completed we defiled before the National Convention, which held its sittings in what is now the Chapel of the Tuileries.{1}

Hérault de Séchelles was then president. About twenty-five or thirty years old, belonging to a very distinguished family of senators, he gave us an address. He was a friend of my father's, and he singled me out in the front rank, where I was placed on account of my height, and said to me: “As for you, my young friend, your arms and those of your comrades will be the ramparts of your country, and your brushes will soon commemorate our victories.”

The parting with my mother was heartrending, and that with my father left a most melancholy impression.

      He pressed my hand as he drew me back once more, but his heart was so full he could neither weep nor speak. He embraced me without uttering a word, and never was silence more eloquent and touching. The sound of the drum and the joyful shouts of the people, who hurried to see us pass singing the Marseillaise, somewhat dissipated our grief, and we all shouted gleefully, “We are soldiers now.”

It was raining, and our first night was of a nature to disillusion the sons of well-to-do parents accustomed to comfortable beds. My billet was on a poor baker, who to make me a suitable resting-place brought out a few old flour sacks, rolling up one to serve as a bolster and giving me two others to put over me.

Tramping through the rain we arrived at Châlons-sur-Marne, where Lukner was organising an army of the reserve, and that general, as he said, to do us honour, placed us in the front of the camp.

The ploughed-up ground was very wet and the ruts were full of water. Before we could get any rest we had to cut down branches from the willow trees near to make couches on which to stretch ourselves. Fortunately the next day volunteers were asked for to escort a convoy, and the whole At Corps at once offered to go. Nearly one hundred wagons were loaded with provisions for Kellermann's army at the Camp de la Lune. That very day the Prussians attacked his position, and were beaten at Valmy{2} (September 20, 1792), but their light cavalry got behind our lines, and several squadrons reached us and attacked the convoy just as it had gained a part of the road with sufficient command enough to give us the advantage of the ground. We were obliged hastily to shelter ourselves under or on our wagons and fire. The enemy lost a few men and retreated. We repaired the mischief done in this skirmish, and after marching all night we arrived at the Camp de la Lune the day after the victory. Several hundred Prussians had just been buried where they had fallen; we had to pitch our tents above their graves, and it was with our heads lying on the bodies of the unlucky victims that we took our rest after this our first expedition.

During the remainder of the campaign we did nothing but march backwards and forwards in the rain, and through the deep mud of Champagne. We were often short of bread, we were always drenched to the skin, and yet we kept up our spirits, and, as Dumouriez once discovered, the least gleam of sunshine made us quite gay. This general was one day just beginning to review some twenty thousand men drawn up in several lines before him, when one of the hares which had hitherto been allowed to multiply and grow fat under the protection of the seignorial laws, terrified by the trampling of the horses of the staff, rushed in amongst the ranks of grenadiers. The soldiers, thinking more of the hare than of the general, at once gave chase, shouting, “To the hare! to the hare!” The confusion roused up ever so many more hares, and in a few minutes the entire army was rushing helter-skelter after them. The chase lasted the whole morning, and Dumouriez, at first a good deal annoyed, ended by laughing, and in the evening he did not disdain to take his share of the vanquished, which were roasted in camp, a good many at the fires of our own bivouac hanging from twisted string, which as it unwound served very well as a spit.

The heavy autumn rains and the half-ripe grapes eaten by the Prussians caused much illness amongst them. Our men also suffered greatly from excessive fatigue. It was necessary to maintain discipline, and we were ordered into cantonments for the winter, to be reorganised.

The Art Corps was stationed near Sedan. One day several of us went together to the Château de Bouillon, a few miles off. The picturesque appearance of the towers rising from the rocks led some of us to make sketches of them from the top of a neighbouring height. We were busy with our drawing, when we saw a dozen bayonets approaching us by way of a zigzag path. Our action was so perfectly innocent that we did not feel in the least alarmed when the guard surrounded and arrested us.

The orders were to take us to the château, and in crossing the town the enraged populace tried to drag us from the hands of the soldiers, shouting, “To the lamp post! to the gallows! death to the agents of Pitt and Coburg, who have come to make plans of our town and château!”

It was only with great difficulty that our guards saved our lives, but they did succeed in getting us safe and sound to the presence of the commander of the fort, who had ordered our arrest. He turned out to be M. de Pontbriant, captain of the Royal-Vaisseau Regiment, who had been on leave in Paris during the preceding winter, where he and I had gone through the same course. As soon as he recognised me and looked at our sketches, he overwhelmed us with excuses, and whilst we were sharing his meal he sent a messenger into the town to explain the position, so that we might go back without danger.

The time passed all too quickly, and we could hardly bring ourselves to consider the sad news which had arrived from Paris.

Captain Friant (who became Commander of the Old Guard) was ordered to join us on to other companies and form us into battalions. He had already expressed himself very well satisfied with our progress in the art of handling our weapons, when one morning, I could not imagine why, every one of us was saying to his neighbour, “We are disbanded, and we must all return to Paris!”

We at once began to run about in the streets, each with pen and paper, ready to sign certificates of citizenship and good conduct for each other. For want of a desk to write on, we used our comrades' shoulders as a table. Our knapsacks were quickly packed, and the very same day we all started independently for Paris. Those who had no money, however, joined themselves on to those who had still a little left, and five comrades went with me, each of whom possessed sixty francs in the notes then called corsets, and this small sum enabled us to reach the gates of Paris in good health. These companions of mine were my friends but also my debtors, and after we separated I never saw any of them again.

Paris was more gloomy than ever, for every one was in mourning and the greatest consternation prevailed. Every day tumbrils laden with the bodies of those who had been guillotined, passed beneath our windows on the way to the cemetery of La Madeleine. One day twenty-two victims were taken by, the eldest of whom was not more than thirty years old. These were the young and interesting Girondists and the brothers Fonfrède. Power was now in the hands of the dregs of the people, who, shouting “Fraternité, Egalité!” and “Down with tyrants!” called their ferocious exultation good citizenship. Every decently dressed man was to them a suspect, and was thrown into prison. One day, after making myself tidy, I was peacefully going to have my breakfast in the town, when a patrol stopped me, calling me a muscadin (dandy); this was the most fashionable term of opprobrium just then. I was marched off, dragged about all day long from one guard-room to another, and at last shut up with a number of others in the basement of the Church of St. Martin. It was not until ten o'clock at night that we were taken before Henriot, then in supreme authority in Paris. Our crime was the wearing of white linen and clean clothes. Our judges having heard who we were, still hesitated to release us, and it was midnight before we were set free and could get our breakfast.

Provisions, especially bread, were very dear, and life became beset with difficulties. Work served as a distraction from our many woes, and I had resumed my studies, when, one day on my way to one of the courses I was going through, I found myself involved in a huge crowd obstructing the Rue St. Honoré as it pressed on towards the Oratoire. Every window, every roof, was densely packed with spectators, and on every side the obscene song, “Madame veto promised,” &c., was being shouted out with fiendish and delirious glee.

Troops were already approaching, escorting a cart in which a woman was seated with a priest beside her and several executioners standing behind them. The procession was moving with slowness, so as to prolong the agony of the victim and pander to the eager curiosity of the hundred thousand spectators who had gathered to gloat on the terrible sight. I began to tremble violently, and my heart almost ceased to beat when I realised whom I was about to see again; but nearly crushed to death in the crowd retreat was impossible, and it was with grief indeed that I recognised the lady who had admitted me to the Trianon with such graceful kindness. It was the Queen, Marie Antoinette, in just such a white costume as she had worn on the day when I had the honour of accompanying her to the Trianon. She bore herself like a saint, and the priest who was exhorting her looked far more miserable than she did.

At this melancholy spectacle many eyes filled with tears, but, hemmed in by the menacing crowds, not one generous soul had the courage or the strength to give a single cry for mercy. With me, too, that cry died away upon my lips for fear of the populace, and I have never ceased to reproach myself for my cowardice ever since.

Under such melancholy circumstances as these, I heard without regret that all young men from eighteen to twenty-five years old were called out to join the army; it would be more cheerful in camp than in the streets of Paris. I was now eighteen years old, and I started once more.

 

CHAPTER II

THE CAMPAIGNS IN HOLLAND AND ON THE RHINE WITH THE BATTLE OF MARENGO

IT had been the custom to appoint as officers in the army only those of noble birth, but nearly all the nobles had emigrated, and the first thing to strike us was the ignorance of many of the generals who had taken their places. I was a sergeant of infantry, and one day, when I was serving at Péronne under General Calendini, a brave Italian soldier, he was studying a small scale map of Europe to find out how best to manoeuvre his troops in the Sambre, he asked me to show him his road and he seemed dreadfully worried because the minor roads were not marked on it!

A little...

Table of contents

• Title page
• INTRODUCTION
• CHAPTER I
• CHAPTER II
• CHAPTER III
• CHAPTER IV
• CHAPTER V
• CHAPTER VI
• CHAPTER VII
• CHAPTER VIII
• CHAPTER IX
• CHAPTER X