wagoners, who, being considered not as soldiers, but as servants,
and sharing not in the glory of victory, were uninfluenced by any
sentiment of honor. At the first approach of danger, they were
ready to cut their traces and gallop from the field, leaving their
cannon in the hands of the enemy. Napoleon said, "The cannoneer
who brings his piece into action, performs as valuable a service as
the cannoneer who works it. He runs the same danger, and requires
the same moral stimulus, which is the sense of honor." He therefore
converted the artillery drivers into soldiers, and clothed them in
the uniform of their respective regiments. They constituted twelve
thousand horsemen who were animated with as much pride in carrying
their pieces into action, and in bringing them off with rapidity and
safety, as the gunners felt in loading, directing, and discharging
them. It was now the great glory of these men to take care of their
guns. They loved, tenderly, the merciless monsters. They lavished
caresses and terms of endearment upon the glittering, polished,
death-dealing brass. The heart of man is a strange enigma. Even
when most degraded it needs something to love. These blood-stained
soldiers, brutalized by vice, amidst all the honors of battle,
lovingly fondled the murderous machines of war, responding to the
appeal "call me pet names, dearest." The unrelenting gun was the
stern cannoneer's lady love. He kissed it with unwashed, mustached
lip. In rude and rough devotion he was ready to die rather than
abandon the only object of his idolatrous homage. Consistently he
baptized the life-devouring monster with blood. Affectionately he
named it Mary, Emma, Lizzie. In crossing he Alps, dark night came
on as some cannoneers were floundering through drifts of snow,
toiling at their gun. They would not leave the gun alone in the
cold storm to seek for themselves a dry bivouac; but, like brothers
guarding a sister, they threw themselves, for the night, upon the