A Conspiracy of the Carbonari | Page 2

induced the soldiers to rush once more,
with eager shouts of joy, upon the foe.
More than ten times the village of Aspern was taken by the French,
more than ten times it was recaptured by the Austrians; every step
forward was marked by both sides with heaps of corpses, rivers of
blood. Every foot of ground, every position conquered, however small,
was the scene of furious strife. For the church in Aspern, the
churchyard, single houses, nay, even single trees, bore evidence of the
furious assault of the enemies upon each other; whole battalions went
with exulting shouts to death.
On account of this intense animosity on both sides, this mutual desire
for battle thus stimulated to the highest pitch, the victory on the first
day remained undecided and the gathering darkness found the foes
almost in the same position which they had occupied at the beginning
of the conflict. The Austrians were still in dense masses on the shore of
the Danube; the French still occupied the island of Lobau, and their
three bridges conveyed them across to the left bank of the Danube to
meet the enemy.
But the second day, after the most terrible butchery, the most desperate
struggle, was to see the victory determined.
It belonged to the Austrians, to the Archduke Charles. He had decided
it by a terrible expedient--the order to let burning vessels drift down the
Danube against the bridges which connected the island of Lobau with
the left shore. The wind and the foaming waves of the river seemed on

this day to be allies of the Austrians; the wind swept the ships directly
upon the bridges, densely crowded with dead bodies, wounded men,
soldiers, horses, and artillery; the quivering tongues of flame seized the
piles and blazed brightly up till everything upon them plunged in
terrible, inextricable confusion down to the surging watery grave
below.
At the awful spectacle the whole French army uttered cries of anguish,
the Austrians shouts of joy.
Vainly did Napoleon himself ride through the ranks, calling in the
beloved voice that usually kindled enthusiasm so promptly: "I myself
ordered the destruction of the bridges, that you might have no choice
between glorious victory or inevitable destruction."
For the first time his soldiers doubted the truth of his words and did not
answer with the exultant cheer, "_Vive l' Empereur_."
But they fought on bravely, furiously, desperately! And Napoleon, with
his pallid iron countenance, remained with his troops, to watch
everything, direct every movement, encourage his men, and give the
necessary orders. His generals and aids surrounded him, listening
respectfully though with gloomy faces to every word which fell,
weighty and momentous as a sentence of death, from the white,
compressed lips. But a higher power than Napoleon was sending its
decrees of death even into the group of generals gathered around the
master of the world; cannon balls had no reverence for the Cæsar's
presence; they tore from his side his dearest friend, his faithful follower,
Marshal Lannes; they killed Generals St. Hilaire, Albuquerque and
d'Espagne, the leaders of his brave troops, the curassiers, three
thousand of whom remained that day on the battlefield; they wounded
Marshal Massena, Marshal Bessières, and six other valiant generals.
When evening came the battle was decided. Archduke Charles was the
victor; the French army was forced back to the island of Lobau, whose
bridges had been severed by the burning ships; the triumphant
Austrians were encamped around Esslingen and Aspern, whose
unknown names have been illumined since that day with eternal

renown.
The island of Lobau presented a terrible chaos of troops, horses,
wounded men, artillery, corpses and luggage; the wounded and dying
wailed and moaned, the uninjured fairly shrieked and roared with fury.
And, as if Nature wished to add her bold alarum to the mournful dirge
of men, the storm-lashed waves of the Danube thundered around the
island, dashed their foam-crested surges on the shore, and, in many
places, created crimson lakes where, instead of boats, blood-stained
bodies floated with yawning wounds. It seemed as if the Styx had
flowed to Lobau to spare the ferryman Charon the arduous task of
conveying so many corpses to the nether world, and for the purpose
transformed itself into a single vast funeral barge.
Napoleon, the victor of so many battles, the man before whom all
Europe trembled, all the kings of the world bowed in reverence and
admiration; he who, with a wave of his hand, had overturned and
founded dynasties, was now forced to witness all this--compelled to
suffer and endure like any ordinary mortal!
He sat on a log near the shore, both elbows propped on his knees, and
his pale iron face supported by his small white hands, glittering with
diamonds, gazing at the roaring waves of the