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