Austerlitz, the crowning triumph of the First War of the Grand Army, set its cachet to the fame of the Eagles.

Napoleon there lured the enemy on into attacking him at apparent disadvantage on ground of his own choosing. Then, availing himself to the fullest extent of the flagrant blundering of his assailants, he struck at them with a smashing, knock-down blow from the shoulder.

By making believe that his army was separated in detachments, out of touch, and beyond possibility of early concentration, and causing it to appear further that he had become alarmed for his own safety and was on the point of commencing a retreat, he decoyed them into a false move. He tempted the Czar Alexander, whose main force had arrived within a few miles of Vienna, and was confronting him, into making a rash manœuvre designed to cut his line of communications and defeat him before the second Austrian army in the field, under the Archduke Charles, hastening from the Italian frontier to join hands with the Russians, could reach the scene. In the confident belief that by themselves they outnumbered Napoleon at the critical point by two to one, with nearly 90,000 men to 40,000, the Russians made a risky flank march to interpose between Napoleon and his base, and drive him in rout into the wilds of Bohemia. They began their advance suddenly, on Thursday, November 2, but immediately afterwards wasted two days through faulty leadership. Before they could get within striking distance of Napoleon he had called in his detached corps and had massed 70,000 men at the point of danger. Foreseeing the possibility of the enemy’s move, his apparent disposal of the various corps had been elaborately arranged so as to ensure concentration at short notice in case of emergency.

From hour to hour during Sunday, December 1, the Russian army in dense columns streamed past within six miles of the French position in full view of Napoleon, all marching forward in stolid silence, intent only on getting between Napoleon and Vienna. No counter-move meanwhile was made from the French side. Strict orders were sent to the outposts that not a shot was to be fired. But by the early afternoon all was ready for action. Completely seeing through the enemy’s plans, Napoleon exclaimed in a tone of absolute confidence: “Before to-morrow night that army is mine!”

On Napoleon’s right flank, in a strong defensive position, stood Marshal Davout’s corps, thrown back at an angle to the main front of the army, so as to induce the enemy to extend themselves widely on that side before opening their attack. Marshal Soult’s corps, the most powerful in the Grand Army, formed the centre; supported by the Imperial Guard, Oudinot’s Grenadier Division, and two divisions of Mortier’s corps. Marshal Lannes’ corps, with Bernadotte’s, was on the left, as well as Murat’s cavalry. Napoleon proposed to allow the Russian leading columns to circle round his right flank and get into action with Davout. Then, as soon as they were committed to their attack in that quarter, Soult’s immense force would hurl itself on the Russian centre and break through it by sheer weight of numbers. Thus the Allied Army would be cleft in two, after which Napoleon would only have to fling his weight to either side for the enemy to be destroyed in detail. During Soult’s move, Lannes on the left flank was to hold in check by a brisk attack the Russian right wing and reserves, which would prevent assistance reaching the centre until too late to save the day. So the battle was planned; so it was fought and won.

The Allied columns were seen during Sunday afternoon to be steadily moving southward over a high ridge opposite the French camp, crowned near the centre by the lofty plateau of Pratzen, the key of the position on the Russian side. They streamed along from the direction of the village of Austerlitz, a short distance away to the north-east, from which the battle took its name. A tract of low marshy country, the valley of the little river Goldbach, four miles across, with two or three hamlets dotting it here and there, connected by narrow cart-roads, divided the two armies. The French position, facing eastwards, was on a range of tableland along the west side of the valley of the Goldbach.

Monday morning came, and the “Sun of Austerlitz”—so often apostrophised by Napoleon in after days—rose in a cloudless sky above the early mists lying dense over the marshy ground of the low-lying valley between the armies. The dominating crest of the Pratzen plateau showed above the mist almost bare of troops. On the evening before it had bristled with Russian bayonets, glistening in the rays of the setting sun. Pratzen, the master-key of the battlefield, had been left unoccupied. The enemy’s corps had taken no measures to hold it in their haste to get forward to attack the French right wing, and cut Napoleon off.

Soult’s corps—the entire French army had been under arms since four o’clock—was ordered to descend into the valley before the morning mist dissipated as the sun rose. Under cover of the mist Soult was to get as close as possible to the foot of the Pratzen Hill, so as to be on the spot ready to seize the height immediately the battle opened on the right.

Napoleon waited, standing among the marshals on foot near the centre of the position, until between seven and eight o’clock. Then sharp firing suddenly broke out from the direction of Davout’s corps, and a few minutes later an aide de camp came galloping up with the news that the enemy were attacking the right wing in great force. “Now,” said Napoleon, “is the moment.” The marshals sprang on their horses and spurred off to head their corps.

So Austerlitz opened.

Its first brunt, as Napoleon had foreseen, fell hard and heavily on the French right wing; but Davout’s men there proved well able to maintain their ground. The sturdy linesmen on that side disputed every foot of the position at the point of the bayonet against four times their numbers.

Right gallantly, time and again, did the Eagles on that part of the field fulfil their rôle and take their part; now heading charges, now rallying round them the men who had sworn to die in their defence.

The 15th Light Infantry—a corps in the ranks of which were many young soldiers, now under fire for the first time in their lives—stormed the village of Tellnitz, which the Russians had carried in their first rush on the French outposts. The leading battalion of the 15th drove the Russians out; and, dashing on beyond the village, met a reinforcing Russian column hastening to the spot. They charged it without hesitation, but could not break through, and then they began to recoil before superior numbers. The Eagle-bearer was shot down, and fell badly wounded. He had to leave hold of his Eagle, and amid the surging throng of soldiers in disorder it was in great danger of being trampled under foot and lost. Fortunately the officer in command, Chef de Bataillon Dulong, saw what had happened, and sprang from his horse and seized the Eagle. Holding it on high with one hand, he shouted to his men to stand fast. “Soldiers, I stay here!” he called. “Let me see if you will abandon your Eagle and your commander.” The act and words checked the disorder. The battalion rallied at once, re-formed ranks, and made head against the enemy until help arrived, when the Russians were driven back.

The Eagle of another battalion in the same division of Davout’s army corps, General Friant’s, the 111th of the Line, a little time later had its part. The 111th had suffered heavily in the earlier fighting, but towards eleven o’clock were called on to lead a counter-attack beyond the line of fortified hedgerow that the regiment was holding, against a fresh Russian column which was advancing with loud shouts and bayonets at the charge to storm their position. Immediately in front was a wide, open stretch of ground, across which a Russian battery, to cover the attack, was pouring a tremendous fire of shell, the bursting projectiles tearing up the ground as if it were being ploughed. Just as the order to advance was given, the Porte-Aigle fell dead. An old sergeant, Courbet by name, took his place. He seized the Eagle and looked round, for several of the men were wavering. They were unwilling to leave cover for certain death, as it looked, on the shell-swept space of open ground before them. Courbet climbed over the hedge, and, waving the Eagle and flag with both hands, stood by himself amid the bursting shells, some twenty yards in front. “Come on, comrades!” he shouted—“come on!” Then with the words, “A moi, soldats du 111me!” brandishing the Eagle, he ran straight at the fast-nearing Russians. “The effect,” says one who saw the brave deed done, “was electric.” The men streamed over the hedge instantly, re-formed line in spite of the cannon-balls, and, led by the grenadiers of the battalion, charged the approaching enemy, broke them, drove them before them, and seized the village in front, whence the Russians had made their advance.

The Eagle of the 48th, another of Friant’s regiments, in like manner was rallied in the moment of supreme crisis by the daring of its Eagle-bearer.

The Eagle of the 108th, which regiment was fighting near by, all but fell into the enemy’s hands through a blunder. It was early in the morning, at the very beginning of the fight, in crossing a marshy strip under cover of the mist, to take in flank the Russian attack. In the uncertain light another French regiment, the 26th Light Infantry, one of Soult’s regiments, moving about a hundred yards on the left of Davout’s men, mistook the 108th for the enemy, and fired heavily into it. The Eagle-bearer was among those shot down, and fell with the Eagle. This sudden blow from an unexpected quarter staggered the 108th. They fell back hastily to re-form in rear, leaving their Eagle, whose fall had been unobserved in the mist, lying beside its dead bearer on the ground. The loss was discovered just as another force of Russians, who came up in front, reached the place; but before they could carry off the trophy a charge forward by some hastily rallied men of the 108th recovered the Eagle and bore it back to safety.

So far then with Davout’s corps.

Soult, meanwhile, in the centre, was striking hard. His attack, in its effect on the Allied Army, was a complete surprise. Soult’s advance began the instant that the marshal, riding at full gallop from the presence of Napoleon, could reach his men. At that moment the third of the Russian columns in the order of march, pressing ahead to overtake the first and second, and join in the attack on Davout, had not long descended the southern slope at the foot of the Pratzen heights; while the fourth Russian column, a mile or more in rear, was just about to ascend the northern slope to cross the Pratzen Hill and follow.

Up the steep western hillside face of the Pratzen clambered Soult’s regiments. Unseen by the enemy at any point, without a shot being fired at them, or by them, until just as they were nearing the crest-line of the ridge, they emerged from the mists of the valley and seized the high ground.

They moved on a front of three divisions. Legrand’s was on the right, echeloned in the direction of Davout’s left flank so as to keep touch with that marshal. St. Hilaire’s was in the centre, advancing in a long line of battalions in attack formation. Vandamme’s division was on the left.

The Allied fourth column caught a glimpse of Vandamme’s men as they were climbing the last ascent, and raced forward to form up and bar their way. There were 14,000 troops in the column, half Austrians, half Russians; and the Czar Alexander with the Emperor of Austria rode with them.

Attacking at once, the French broke through the Allied front line, and, after a hard fight—for the Austro-Russian regiments, fighting under the two Sovereigns’ eyes, resisted with desperate valour—forced it back on the second line with the loss of several guns.

Again there the Eagles took their part. On the right of St. Hilaire’s attack, the brigade of General Thiébault became separated in the fighting with the Russian foremost line. Its three regiments—the 10th Light Infantry, the 14th, and the 36th—became separated, and one of them, the 36th, was for a time in danger of being overpowered by part of the Russian third column, which had faced about on hearing the firing in rear and was hastening back up the hill. Two Russian regiments raced up towards them on that side. Some Austrian infantry of the fourth column, extending in their direction, were at the same time coming at them on the left. In front the 36th was faced by two Russian batteries, which dashed up, unlimbered, and blazed away, firing grape and case shot at barely thirty paces; as well as by some Russian dragoons, who made as if about to charge. To keep the dragoons off, the leading battalion attempted to form square; but the men, breathless after their rush uphill, were in some disorder and for the moment out of hand. The square, while yet half formed, was then nearly torn to pieces by a staggering discharge of grape, and several of the men began to get unsteady. It looked bad for the 36th, when, of a sudden, Adjutant Labadie, of the First Battalion, snatched the Eagle from its bearer and ran out in front. He stopped short and held the Eagle-staff with both hands planted firmly on the ground. Then he called to the men, in a momentary pause while the Russian gunners were reloading: “Soldiers of the 36th, rally to the front! Here is your line of battle!” The men saw him, and obeyed. The disorder ceased. Quickly deploying to right and left, they dashed at the Russian guns. At the same moment the other two regiments of the brigade, led by St. Hilaire and the brigadier, sword in hand, came up at the pas de charge, bayonets levelled. The 10th Light Infantry brilliantly repulsed the Austrians on one side: the 14th on the other side drove Kamenskoi’s Russians back down the hill.

Supporting the 10th Light Infantry was the 59th of the Line, one of Mortier’s corps, of Dupont’s division, which had been sent forward to help in holding the Pratzen heights. Some of the Russian dragoons dashed in among them as they deployed to follow the 10th. A Russian officer cut down the Eagle-bearer and seized the Eagle. Sergeant-Major Gamier, the “Porte-Aigle,” struggled to his feet in spite of his wounds, wrested the Eagle back, and with his free hand fought with his sword and killed the Russian, saving the Eagle.

On St. Hilaire’s left, during this time, Vandamme’s division had had to fight its way forward against the Russians and Austrians of the fourth column, several battalions of which, with artillery, had rapidly taken post along a range of knolls towards the northern edge of the Pratzen plateau. Driving back at the outset six Russian battalions, which charged forward to meet them, springing up from the shelter of a dip in the ground, Vandamme’s men, “without firing a shot, with the bayonet only, advanced on the main enemy with shouldered arms, not replying to the Russian musketry.” When within forty yards, they halted, fired a volley, and dashed in with bayonets lowered. The attack was successful beyond expectation. The enemy before them were routed, and all their guns taken, with many prisoners. Then Vandamme received orders to wheel his division to the right and take in flank the enemy, at that moment in hot fight with St. Hilaire.

Vandamme was in the middle of the move when one of his brigades met with a sudden and unexpected disaster. Two battalions belonging to the 24th Light Infantry and the 4th of the Line, who fought side by side on the extreme left of Vandamme’s command, were all but annihilated. As they were wheeling round, the Russian Imperial Guard came up, hurrying forward from the Reserve, and set on them fiercely. It was just to the left of the village of Pratzen, as approached from the French side, on the farther side of the plateau. The Russian Foot Guards forced the 4th and the 24th Light Infantry back into some vineyards adjoining the village in disorder. The last to retire was the First Battalion of the 4th. They had hardly gained the edge of the tract of vineyards, when, without the least warning of their approach, coming up on their flank and unseen in the smoke and turmoil of the contest, a more formidable enemy still assailed them. The Russian Cuirassiers of the Guard, 2,000 horsemen, troopers of the finest cavalry in the world, came down on them, and charged them at a gallop on the flank. The Grand Duke Constantine, brother of the Czar, in person led the Cuirassiers. Disaster, hideous, overwhelming, crushing, for the two hapless battalions—that of the 24th Light Infantry was, in like manner, caught just beyond cover exposed in the open—was the instant result. They tried to form square at the last moment, but the Cuirassiers were on them before they could begin the evolution. Both battalions were practically hurled out of existence within three minutes.

They were ridden down, trampled on by the huge Russian horses, and slashed to pieces mercilessly by the giant Russian troopers with their long straight swords. Both battalions lost their Eagles. That of the 24th Light Infantry was picked up later on the field and restored to what was left of the ill-fated corps. The Eagle of the 4th was carried off by the Russians, and is now in the Kazan Cathedral at St. Petersburg. Yet it was lost with honour; bravely defended to the last. The Eagle-bearer was cut down. A lieutenant tried to get hold of the Eagle and save it; he, too, was cut down. A private then snatched it from the dead officer’s hands, and was in the act of waving it on high when he in turn was sabred and fell. The Russians made prize of the trophy at once, and it was carried direct to the Czar Alexander on the battlefield.

Napoleon, who had moved up near the fighting in the centre, witnessed the disaster with his own eyes.

The corps, as it happened, too, was one he had taken an interest in. The 4th of the Line had been in favour with him, and he had appointed his brother Joseph as its colonel when the 4th was at the Camp of Boulogne as part of the “Army of England.” He had, indeed, specially chosen that particular corps for its steadiness. He announced Joseph’s appointment to it in a message to the Senate on April 18, 1804, “in order that he should be allowed to contribute to the vengeance which the French people propose to take for the violation of the Treaty [of Amiens] and be afforded an opportunity of acquiring a fresh title to the esteem of the nation.”

In wild panic the survivors of the disaster fled to the rear, tearing by close past where Napoleon and the Staff were. “They almost rushed over us and the Emperor himself,” describes De Ségur, who as an aide de camp was close to the Emperor at the moment. “Our effort to arrest the rout was in vain. The unfortunate fellows were quite distracted with fear and would listen to nothing. In reply to our reproaches for so deserting the field of battle and their Emperor, they shouted mechanically ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ and they fled away faster than ever.

“Napoleon smiled pitifully. With a scornful gesture, he said to us: ‘Let them go!’ Retaining all his calmness in the midst of the confusion he despatched Rapp to bring up the Cavalry of the Guard.”

Rapp, another of the Imperial aides de camp, was also Colonel of the Mamelukes of the Guard. He was at the moment riding close behind the Emperor. Rapp darted off, and, after taking Napoleon’s order to charge the Russian Cuirassiers to Marshal Bessières, in command of the Cavalry of the Guard, he himself led their headmost squadrons forward; his own swarthy Mamelukes with two squadrons of Chasseurs and one of Horse Grenadiers. Waving his sabre and calling at the top of his voice, “Vengeons les! Vengeons nos drapeaux!” “Avenge them! Avenge our standards!” he led them forward at full gallop. “We dashed at full speed on the artillery and took them,” described Rapp in a letter. The guns were those of a Russian battery which had just come into action close by where the Guard Cuirassiers had charged. “The enemy’s horse awaited our attack at the halt. They were overthrown by the charge and fled in confusion, galloping like us over the wrecks of our squares.”

But the Russians rallied quickly. Reinforced by the superb regiment of the Chevalier Guards, a corps in which all the troopers were men of birth, they came on to meet the French again. Just at that moment Bessières, with at his back the magnificent cavalry of Napoleon’s Guard, came up at full speed. Rapp’s squadrons rejoined, and both Imperial Guards met in full career. “Again we charged,” says Rapp, “and this charge was terrible. It was one of the most desperate cavalry combats ever fought, and lasted several minutes. The brave Morland, Colonel of the mounted Chasseurs of the Guard, fell by my side. We fought man to man, and so mingled together that the infantry on neither side dared fire, lest they should kill their own men.” They fought it out until the Russians gave back and broke and fled—in full sight of the Czar and the Austrian Emperor, who from some rising ground near by had been spectators of the desperate affray.

The survivors of the hapless First Battalion of the 4th of the Line had meanwhile recovered themselves. Rallied by their officers, they had been brought back into the battle. They returned with their nerve restored, now only anxious to make amends for the disgrace they had brought on the Grand Army. They were in time to join in the final advance beyond the Pratzen heights and cross bayonets with an Austrian regiment, from which they took its two standards. That feat, as will be seen, was to serve them in good stead later on.

The charge of the Cavalry of the Guard practically decided the fate of the day at Austerlitz. Napoleon at once brought up Oudinot’s Grenadiers, Bernadotte’s battalions, and the regiments of the Old Guard to further reinforce Soult’s divisions. The Allied centre was shattered and driven in at all points, and forced back for a mile-and-a-half beyond the field of battle. It resisted desperately to the last, and several fierce counter-attacks were made; but in vain.

In one of these the Eagle of the Chasseurs à Pied of the Imperial Guard had a narrow escape. According to the story it was saved by a dog—“Moustache,” a mongrel poodle that had attached himself to the corps and become a regimental pet. The Eagle-bearer of the First Battalion, to whom the dog was much attached, and whom he was following, was shot, and the Eagle dropped to the ground beneath the man’s body. An Austrian regiment was making a counter-attack at that point, and before the Eagle could be picked up, three Austrian soldiers ran forward to seize it. Two of them attacked the two men of the Eagle escort. The third was faced by “Moustache,” who kept him off, growling savagely and snapping at the Austrian from behind the dead body of the Eagle-bearer. The man dropped his musket, drew his hanger, and cut at “Moustache,” slicing off a paw. But in spite of that the dog managed to keep him off until assistance came. Then the three Austrians were bayoneted and the Eagle was saved. Marshal Lannes, on hearing the story, had a silver collar made for “Moustache,” with a medal to hang from it, inscribed on one side, “Il perdit une jambe à la bataille d’Austerlitz, et sauva le Drapeau de son régiment”; and on the other, “Moustache, chien Français; qu’il soit partout respecté et cheri comme un Brave.” “Moustache,” in the end, it may be said, died a soldier’s death. He was killed by an English cannon-ball at Badajoz, and was buried on the ramparts there, with a stone over him, inscribed: “Cy git le brave Moustache.”

The Allied centre broken through, the end came on swiftly all over the field of battle.

On Napoleon’s left wing, Lannes and Murat had engaged the Russian rear column (or right wing as they fronted to fight) immediately after Soult opened the main attack. They had done their part by holding in play the enemy in front, thus preventing the Allied troops on that side from moving up to reinforce the centre. There, too, as elsewhere, the Eagles of Napoleon’s battalions fulfilled their rôle; one Eagle in particular, that of the 13me Légère, achieving special distinction. When the Allied centre gave way, Lannes and Murat pressed forward impetuously, forcing their antagonists back, and driving them off the field to the north-east, past the village of Austerlitz.

Davout, on Napoleon’s right, finished his task at the same time; in no less workmanship fashion. As Soult swung round his victorious divisions to the right to take the Russian left wing in rear, Davout’s moment came and he gave the order to advance. Surging forward with exultant shouts the stout-hearted defenders of that fiercely contested side of the field swept down on the assailants they had kept at bay for five long hours. The Russians did their best to make a brave resistance, but the day was lost. Formed in close-packed columns they fell back, losing guns and colours, and hundreds of prisoners.9

As darkness closed in, the last shots were fired at Austerlitz. Crushing and complete had been the overthrow. The Allied army fled in wild panic. It left on the field 30,000 men, dead, wounded, or prisoners, 100 guns, and 400 ammunition caissons. Forty-five standards were in the hands of the victors. Twelve thousand men in killed and wounded was the price Napoleon paid. It was a big price; but the victory to him was worth the sacrifice. At five next morning an aide de camp from the Austrian Emperor presented himself before Napoleon to beg for an immediate suspension of hostilities. The Emperor Francis himself had an interview with Napoleon during that afternoon, and, as the result, terms of peace—to include the Austrian Emperor’s Russian allies—were mutually agreed on; to be formally settled between the diplomatists as soon as possible, Pressburg in Hungary being named for the meeting-place.

We come now to the dramatic sequel to Austerlitz which awaited the ill-fated First Battalion of the 4th of the Line. They had to face Napoleon and render account to him personally for the loss of their Eagle. The dreaded interview came some three weeks later; at a grand parade of Soult’s corps before the Emperor at Schönbrunn—as it befell, on Christmas Day.

Napoleon, attended by the Imperial Staff, most of the marshals, half a hundred other officers of rank, and nearly as many aides de camp, passed down the long line of troops, congratulating most of the regiments on the parts they had individually taken on the different battlefields. In due course the Emperor came to the regiments of Vandamme’s division, ranged in their allotted place, the 4th of the Line among them. Its First Battalion, reduced by the disaster to a quarter of the normal strength, stood at the head of the regiment, looking gloomy and disconsolate, the only corps on parade without its Eagle.

Napoleon approached the place with a frown on his face and a look as black as thunder. He reined up opposite the battalion and addressed it in a loud angry tone.

“Soldiers,” he began hoarsely. “What have you done with the Eagle which I entrusted to you?”

The colonel of the regiment replied that the Eagle-bearer had been killed at Austerlitz in the mêlée when the Russian cuirassiers charged the regiment, and the Eagle had been lost in the tumult and confusion of the moment. There was no survivor of those who had seen the Eagle-bearer fall. The battalion, indeed, did not know of its loss until some time later. One and all deeply deplored what had happened, but they desired to inform His Majesty most respectfully that they, single-handed, had captured two Austrian standards, and implored his consideration on that account, begging that he would allow them to receive a new Eagle in exchange.

The whole regiment supported the colonel’s request with loud shouts, “réclama à grands cris.” But Napoleon’s countenance remained unchanged.

He replied coldly and contemptuously: “These two foreign flags do not return me my Eagle!” Then, after a pause, he launched out into words of the severest censure and rebuke, telling the men that he had seen them with his own eyes in flight at Austerlitz. He poured bitter scorn on their conduct, “in phrases, stinging, burning, corrosive, which those present remembered long afterwards—to the end of their lives.”

Again the unhappy colonel pleaded his hardest for his men. He entreated the Emperor’s clemency, once more beseeching Napoleon to allow that they had wiped out the slur on their good name, and to grant the battalion a new Eagle.

Napoleon said nothing for a moment. Then he again addressed them in an abrupt tone:

“Officers, sub-officers, and soldiers, swear to me here that not one of you saw your Eagle fall. Assure me that if you had done so you would have flung yourselves into the midst of the enemy to recover it, or have died in the attempt. The soldier who loses his Eagle on the field of battle loses his honour and his all.”

“We swear it!” came the reply at once.

At that there seemed to come a change in the Emperor’s mood. He paused once more for a few moments, during which there was dead silence. Then he raised his voice: “I will grant that you have not been cowards; but you have been imprudent! Again I tell you that these Austrian standards—even, indeed, were they six—would not compensate me for my Eagle.”

He stopped short. He seemed to be musing for a moment, looking straight into the eyes of the men. After that, with a curt “Well, I will restore you yet another Eagle!” Napoleon turned his horse and rode on down the line of troops.

It was quite true, as the colonel told Napoleon, that the regiment was unaware at the time that their Eagle had been lost. As a fact, search-parties—practically all the survivors of the First Battalion—were out on the day after Austerlitz hunting over the battlefield among the dead for their lost Eagle. By the irony of fate it was they who picked up and restored the Eagle of the 24th Light Infantry to their fellows in adversity; the Russians, it would seem, had not marked its fall in the confusion of the fighting. At any rate it was left where it fell and where it was found.

There was, as it curiously happened, no reference in the Austerlitz Bulletin published in France—the 30th “Bulletin of the Grand Army”—to the loss of its Eagle by the 4th of the Line, although the disaster to the battalion is reported. “Un bataillon du 4me de Ligne fut chargé par la Garde Impériale Russe à Cheval et culbuté.” That was all that was said on the subject. Yet, on other occasions later, when Eagles were lost, mention was made of the misfortune in one or other of the Bulletins, with, generally also, some remark by way of explaining away the unpleasant fact, and now and then a caustic comment by Napoleon. A picture connected with the incident was, however, painted—at whose request is unknown. It is now in the national collection of military pictures of the campaigns of Napoleon at Versailles. It shows the First Battalion of the 4th of the Line at the Schönbrunn review “presenting Napoleon with two Austrian standards taken by them from the enemy, and claiming in exchange a new Eagle for themselves.”10

This closing word may be said of the spoils of the Eagles at Austerlitz.

The forty-five flags captured in the battle, with five others selected from those taken at Ulm, making fifty in all, were presented by Napoleon to the Cathedral of Notre Dame. With the trophies he sent this message: “Our intention is that every year on the 2nd of December a Solemn Office shall be sung in the Cathedral in memory of the brave men who fell on the great day.” The flags were borne in triumph, together with the trophies of the Ulm campaign,—120 captured standards and colours in all—through the streets of Paris on January 15, 1806, amid a tremendous demonstration of popular enthusiasm. “The behaviour of the people,” wrote Cambacérès, “resembled intoxication.” Four days later the Austerlitz flags were received at Notre Dame by the assembled Cathedral clergy, Cardinal du Belloy at their head, with elaborate religious ceremonial.

Said the Cardinal-Archbishop of Paris in his address from the Altar-steps: “These banners, suspended from the roof of our Cathedral, will attest to posterity the efforts of Europe in arms against us; the great achievements of our soldiers; the protection of Heaven over France; the prodigious successes of our invincible Emperor; and the homage which he pays to God for his victories.” Not one of the flags exists now. They disappeared mysteriously, in circumstances to be described later, in the early hours of March 31, 1814, the day on which the victorious Allies entered Paris, and Napoleon withdrew to Fontainebleau.

Fifty-four of the other trophies paraded through Paris, flags taken in the Ulm campaign, were presented by Napoleon, as has been said, to the Senate. In return a picture of the scene at the reception of the trophy-flags was ordered to be painted for presentation to the Emperor. It is now at Versailles.

The remaining sixteen trophies were divided by order of the Emperor. Eight were sent to the Assembly Hall of the Tribunate; eight to the Hôtel de Ville as a gift to the city of Paris.

Thus did France receive the first spoils of the Eagles.

“Soldiers,” said Napoleon to the Grand Army, in his Austerlitz Proclamation; “I am satisfied with you. You have justified my fullest expectations of your intrepidity. You have decorated your Eagles with immortal glory!”