It was the night of the 19th of December, 1793. A sky of darkness, unbroken by the twinkling of a single star, arched over the town and harbor of Toulon. But on the rugged heights of Balagrier and L’Equillette, where the English had vainly constructed their “Little Gibraltar,” the watch-fires of the French beseigers were redly burning; sending up showers of sparks, which looked like rising stars against the intense blackness of the heavens. It was the 19th of December, and the fate of Toulon, which for four months had lingered in the balance, was decided. Britons, Spaniards, Neapolitans and French—a garrison of the enemies of the republic—had fought in vain. The “Little Gibraltar,” which commanded the town and harbor was in the hands of the French; their troops were even forcing their way into the town, and consternation had seized those who dared to oppose the decrees of the Committee of Safety, as well as those who had so promptly tendered them aid. The evacuation of Toulon had been hurriedly resolved; and now, as the red gleam of the watch-fires and the blaze of the thundering artillery shone upon the dark waters of the bay, crowds of trembling people could be seen embarking in vessels of all kinds, glad to avail themselves of the protection of the English fleet, to escape the bloody revenge of the triumphant republicans.

The batteries of the “Little Gibraltar,” were already sending a shower of death upon the hostile fleet in the roadstead. On a rock, by a small blazing fire, and just above a battery, a form could be dimly seen through the smoke of the guns, which was destined to rise as a terrible image before the eyes of Europe, as it stood now, the conqueror of the foes of France, at Toulon. It was a slender form, on which the costume of a commandant of artillery hung loosely. But the inexorable resolution of the pale face, and the keen, quick flashes of the eagle eyes, caused those who gazed to forget all but awe and wonder before this genius of war. Occasionally, between the reports of the heavy guns, could be heard the shrill voice of command, which none refused to obey—it would be obeyed. Those eyes had seen where to strike, and that voice had commanded, the blow which brought Toulon to the feet of the republic. The commander was Napoleon Bonaparte, the young Corsican—the pet of Paoli—the child cradled amid the civil wars of his native island—who had made the cannon his toy—and who had been educated to war at the military school of Brienne. A subordinate, he had compelled his superior officers to bow before the oracles of his genius. One after another they had yielded, till the last, General Dugommier, a brave old warrior, acknowledged his artillery officer as the conqueror of Toulon.

That was a proud moment for the young Napoleon. He knew that the triumph was secured, and that to him, alone, it was due; for his plan had prevailed against the ignorant and imbecile schemes of the republic’s generals, and his devices for rousing an irresistible enthusiasm in the troops,—such as naming a battery in a desperate position, the battery “des hommes sans peur” had rendered the execution of that plan complete. And now the enemy were preparing for flight—precipitate flight.

“A cooler aim—cut down a flag, brave Junot!” commands the shrill voice, amid the thunder of the guns, and the dusky, slovenly looking artillery man on the right of the battery, fronting Napoleon, steadily watches for a moment when the red glare shall show him a portion of the fleet in the roadstead. A glimpse of the cross of St. George! Loud thunders the gun, and at the next vivid glare, the flag falls; and amid the roar of the storm of death rises the cheer of the artillery men.

“Well done, Junot!” exclaimed the shrill voice. The slovenly man who brought down the cross of St. George was Andoche Junot, afterwards Marshal of France and Duke d’Abrantes, whose cool courage had more than once won the commendation of the commandant during this memorable siege.

But now occurred a scene which caused the fire of the “Little Gibraltar,” to slacken. Even as Napoleon spoke to Junot, he discovered a spreading flame in the harbor, and in a few moments, great tongues of fire licked the air in front of the town, and fit up the scene for miles around with a terrible brilliancy. The English and Spaniards, under the direction of Sir Sydney Smith, had set fire to the arsenal, the stores, and the French ships which they could not remove. The rising flames, growing redder and redder, seemed at length like the glowing crater of a volcano, amid which could be seen the masts and yards of the burning vessels, and the advance of the republican troops who were attempting to force their way into the town. The waters of the bay resembled streams of lava flowing from the mountains and hills around the town, which, themselves glowed like living coals. The Jacobins in the town now arose to take revenge upon the flying royalists. Horrid screams and yells, cries and entreaties rang upon the air like sounds from the infernal regions, while in the midst of all could be heard the swelling chorus of the Marseillais. The guns of Malbosquet were turned upon the town, and their thunder increased the uproar of this terrible scene. Suddenly, a tremendous explosion, as if a mountain had been shattered to its base by a bolt from heaven, shocked the air, and even caused the stern men under the eye of Napoleon to tremble. Hundreds of barrels of powder had exploded, and high above the harbor, the air was filled with the blazing fragments, which descended even among the batteries of the “Little Gibraltar,” causing the men to spring about to save themselves from the fire. Again that awful shock was given, a second magazine had exploded, and again the air seemed fairly alive with soaring fires, which threatened destruction when they fell. Fragments fell at the very feet of Napoleon, but he stood still, as a statue of resolution, a man without fear. His eyes were fixed upon the British fleet, which, by the red glare of earth and sky, could be seen slowly making sail, the decks of the vessels being crowded with fugitives. Once more he commanded the artillery to fire; and before the fleet got beyond the range of the guns, it received a shower of balls. The triumph was now complete.

Wearied officers and men now threw themselves upon the ground to rest, beside the fire. But to most of them, sleep could not come, with such a scene of terror, conflagration and tears before them. Napoleon, however, surveyed the harbor and town, for a few moments, and then, stretching himself upon the ground, commanded himself to slumber,—a faculty which he possessed through life—an evidence of his astonishing force of will.

The day dawned with a pale, ashen light. The roll of the drums, resounding among the hills, roused the triumphant soldiers of the republic; and as they gazed upon the smouldering ruins of the arsenal, and the bay strewn with the black fragments of the ships destroyed, they would have cursed their enemy; but they remembered their conquest, and pitied the destructive spite. Cheer after cheer rent the air. The artillery men crowded round their young chief, and with clamorous congratulations, gave him the first evidence of that enthusiastic affection, which, years afterwards, caused them to yearn to die in his service—to pave with their bodies his path to victory. What thoughts—what feelings burned within that young conqueror’s breast none could know; for his stern, bronze countenance expressed nothing but his concentred strength of resolution. The same day, General Dugommier sent intelligence of the capture of Toulon to the Committee of Public Safety, and in the despatch he particularly recommended Napoleon for promotion, in these remarkable words,—“Promote him, or he will promote himself.”