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Updated: May 15, 2025
We perceive vast fluctuations in that fog, a dizzy mirage, paraphernalia of war almost unknown to-day, pendant colbacks, floating sabre-taches, cross-belts, cartridge-boxes for grenades, hussar dolmans, red boots with a thousand wrinkles, heavy shakos garlanded with torsades, the almost black infantry of Brunswick mingled with the scarlet infantry of England, the English soldiers with great, white circular pads on the slopes of their shoulders for epaulets, the Hanoverian light-horse with their oblong casques of leather, with brass hands and red horse-tails, the Scotch with their bare knees and plaids, the great white gaiters of our grenadiers; pictures, not strategic lines what Salvator Rosa requires, not what is suited to the needs of Gribeauval.
We thought the bushes ended at the top of the hill, and that we could sweep off the Prussians by dozens. But scarcely had we arrived, out of breath, upon the ridge, when old Pinto cried: "Hussars!" I looked up, and saw the Colbacks rushing down upon us like a tempest.
The veterans would say: "There are Milhaud's cuirassiers! Here are the chasseurs of Lefebvre-Desnoëttes! Yonder is Lobau's corps!" On every side, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing to be seen but cuirasses, helmets, colbacks, sabres, lances, and files of bayonets. Military caps of bear-skin. "What a battle," exclaimed Buche. "Woe to the English!"
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