The Debacle - Emile Zola [145]
Ever since first thing that morning Prosper had done nothing but urge his horse on in continual marches and counter-marches from end to end of the plateau of Illy. They had been awakened at dawn man by man, without any bugle calls, and to brew some coffee they had managed to put a coat round each fire so as not to give their presence away to the Prussians. Since then they had known nothing of what was going on, they had heard gunfire and seen smoke and distant movements of infantry but, in the complete inactivity in which the generals left them, they knew nothing of the progress of the battle. Prosper was falling about with sleep. This was their great trouble: after bad nights and accumulated fatigue an overpowering drowsiness overcame them as they were gently rocked by the movement of their horses. Prosper had hallucinations, saw himself on the ground and snoring on a mattress of pebbles, dreamed that he was in a nice bed with white sheets. For minutes on end he really dozed off in the saddle and was merely a parcel on the move, borne along wherever his trotting mount liked to take him. Sometimes mates of his had fallen off their horses like that. They were all so dead beat that bugles no longer roused them and they had to be kicked out of oblivion and on to their feet.
‘But what the hell are they up to with us, what are they up to?’ Prosper went on repeating to keep this irresistible torpor at bay.
The guns had been roaring for six hours. As they went up a hill he had had two comrades killed at his side by a shell, and a bit further on three others were left on the ground riddled with bullets coming from nobody knew where. It was exasperating to be out on this useless and dangerous military parade across the battlefield. Finally at about one he realized that they had at any rate made up their minds to have them killed decently. The whole Margueritte division, three regiments of Chasseurs d’Afrique, one of French and one of hussars, had been asembled in a dip of the land slightly below the Calvary, to the left of the road. The trumpets had sounded dismount. And the officers’ command rang out:
‘Tighten girths, secure packs.’
Prosper dismounted, stretched himself and stroked Zephir. Poor Zephir! He was as woebegone as his master, worn out with the silly job he was being made to do. Added to that, he was being made to carry a whole world of stuff: clothing in the saddlebags and rolled coat on top, shirt, trousers, knapsack with medical supplies behind the saddle, and slung across him the bag with provisions, to say nothing of the water-bottle, can and messtin. The rider’s heart was filled with pity and affection as he tightened the straps and made sure everything was secure.
It was a nasty moment. Prosper was no more a coward than the next man, but he lit a cigarette because his mouth was so dry. When you are about to charge, every man can really tell himself: ‘This time I shall stay there!’ This lasted a good five or six minutes, and it was being said that General Margueritte had gone ahead to reconnoitre. They waited. The five regiments were drawn up in three columns, each column seven squadrons deep – plenty of cannon-fodder.
Suddenly the trumpets sounded ‘To horse!’ and almost immediately another call: ‘Draw swords!’
The colonel of each regiment had already galloped forward to his battle position twenty-five metres ahead of the main body. The captains were in their positions