Hitherto I have described the grandeur of war--battles glorious to
France, notwithstanding our mistakes and misfortunes. When we were
fighting all Europe alone, always one against two, and often one to
three; when we finally succumbed, not through the courage of our foes,
but borne down by treason, and the weight of numbers, we had no reason
to blush for our defeat, and the victors have little reason to exult in
it. It is not numbers that makes the glory of a people or an army--it
is virtue and bravery. This is what I think in all sincerity, and I
believe that right feeling, sensible men in every country will think
the same.
But now I must relate the horrors of retreat, and this is the hardest
part of my task. It is said that confidence gives strength, and this
is especially true of the French. While they advanced in full hope of
victory, they were united; the will of their chiefs was their only law;
they knew that they could succeed only by strict observance of
discipline. But when driven back, no one had confidence save in
himself, and commands were forgotten. Then these men--once so brave
and so proud, who marched so gayly to the fight--scattered to right and
left; sometimes fleeing alone, sometimes in groups. Then those who, a
little while before, trembled at their approach, grew bold; they came
on, first timidly, but, meeting no resistance, became insolent. Then
they would swoop down and carry off three or four laggards at a time,
as I have seen crows in winter swoop upon a fallen horse, which they
did not dare approach while he could yet remain on his feet.
I have seen miserable Cossacks--very beggars, with nothing but old rags
hanging around them; an old cap of tattered skin over their ears;
unshorn beards, covered with vermin; mounted on old worn-out horses,
without saddles, and with only a piece of rope by way of stirrups, an
old rusty pistol all their fire-arms, and a nail at the end of a pole
for a lance; I have seen those wretches, who resembled sallow and
decrepit Jews more than soldiers, stop ten, fifteen, twenty of our men,
and lead them off like sheep.
And the tall, lank peasants, who, a few months before, trembled if we
only looked at them--I have seen them arrogantly repulse old
soldiers--cuirassiers, artillerymen, dragoons who had fought through
the Spanish war, men who could have crushed them with a blow of their
fist; I have seen these peasants insist that they had no bread to sell,
while the odor of the oven arose on all sides of us; that they had no
wine, no beer, when we heard glasses clinking to right and left. And
no one dared punish them; no one dared take what he wanted from the
wretches who laughed to see us in such straits, for each one was
retreating on his own account; we had no leaders, no discipline, and
they could easily out-number us.
And to hunger, misery, weariness, and fever, the horrors of an
approaching winter were added. The rain never ceased falling from the
gray sky, and the winds pierced us to the bones. How could poor
beardless conscripts, mere shadows, fleshless and worn out, endure all
this? They perished by thousands; their bodies covered the roads. The
terrible _typhus_ pursued us. Some said it was a plague, engendered by
the dead not being buried deep enough; others, that it was the
consequence of sufferings that required more than human strength to
bear. I know not how this may be, but the villages of Alsace and
Lorraine, to which we brought it, will long remember their sufferings;
of a hundred attacked by it, not more than ten or twelve, at the most,
recovered.
At length--since I must continue this sad story--on the evening of the
nineteenth, we bivouacked at Lutzen, where our regiments re-formed as
best they might. The next day early, as we marched on Weissenfels, we
had to skirmish with the Westphalians, who followed us as far as the
village of Eglaystadt. The twenty-second we bivouacked on the glacis
at Erfurt, where we received new shoes and uniforms. Five or six
disbanded companies joined our battalion--nearly all conscripts. Our
new coats and shoes were much too large for us; but they were warm; we
felt like new men.
We had to start again the twenty-second, and the following days passed
near Goetha, Teitlobe, Eisenach and Salminster. The Cossacks
reconnoitred us from a distance. Our hussars would drive them off; but
they returned the moment pursuit was relaxed. Many of our men went
pillaging in the night, and were absent at roll-call, and the sentries
received orders to shoot all who attempted to leave their bivouacs.
I had had the fever ever since we left Leipzig; it increased day by
day, and I became so weak that I could scarcely rise in the mornings to
follow the march. Zebede looked sadly at me, and sometimes said:
"Courage, Joseph! We will soon be at home!"
These words reanimated me; I felt my face flush.
"Yes, yes!" I said; "we will soon be home; I must see home once more!"
The tears forced themselves to my eyes. Zebede carried knapsack when I
was tired, and continued:
"Lean on my arm. We are getting nearer every day, now, Joseph. A few
dozen leagues are nothing."
My heart beat more bravely, but my strength was gone. I could no
longer carry my musket; it was heavy as lead. I could not eat; my
knees trembled beneath me; still I did not despair, but kept murmuring
to myself: "This is nothing. When you see the clock-tower of
Phalsbourg your fever will leave you. You will have good air, and
Catharine will nurse you. All will yet be well!"
Others, no worse than I, fell by the roadside, but still I toiled on;
when near Folde, we learned that fifty thousand Bavarians were posted
in the forests through which we were to pass, for the purpose of
cutting off our retreat. This was my finishing stroke, for I knew I
could no longer load, fire, or defend myself with the bayonet. I felt
that all my sufferings to get so far toward home were useless.
Nevertheless, I made an effort, when we were ordered to march, and
tried to rise.
"Come, come, Joseph!" said Zebede; "courage!"
But I could not move, and lay sobbing like a child.
"Come, stand up!" he said.
"I cannot. O God! I cannot!"
I clutched his arm. Tears streamed down his face. He tried to lift
me, but he was too weak; I held fast to him, crying:
"Zebede, do not abandon me!"
Captain Tidal approached, and gazed sadly on me.
"Cheer up, my lad," said he; "the ambulances will be along in half an
hour."
But I knew what that meant, and I drew Zebede closer to me. He
embraced me, and I whispered in his ear:
"Kiss Catharine for me--promise! Tell her that I died thinking of her,
and bear her my last farewell!"
"Yes, yes!" he sobbed. "My poor Joseph!"
I could cling to him no longer. He placed me on the ground, and ran
away without turning his head. The column departed, and I gazed at it
as one who sees his last hope fading from his eyes. The last of the
battalion disappeared over the ridge of a hill. I closed my eyes. An
hour passed, or perhaps a longer time, when the boom of cannon startled
me, and I saw a division of the guard pass at a quick step with
artillery and wagons. Seeing some sick in the wagons, I cried,
wistfully:
"Take me! Take me!"
But no one listened; still they kept on, while the thunder of artillery
grew louder and louder. More than ten thousand men, cavalry and
infantry, passed me, but I had no longer strength to call out to them.
At last the long line ended; I saw knapsacks and shakos disappear
behind the hill, and I lay down to sleep forever, when once more I was
aroused by the rolling of five or six pieces of artillery along the
road. The cannoneers sat sabre in hand, and behind came the caissons.
I hoped no more from these than from the others, when suddenly I
perceived a tall, lean, red-bearded veteran mounted beside one of the
pieces, and bearing the cross upon his breast. It was my old friend
Zimmer, my old comrade of Leipzig. He was passing without seeing me,
when I cried, with all the strength that remained to me:
"Christian! Christian!"
He heard me in spite of the noise of the guns; stopped, and turned
round.
"Christian!" I cried, "take pity on me!"
He saw me lying at the foot of a tree, and came to me with a pale face
and staring eyes:
"What! Is it you, my poor Joseph?" cried he, springing from his horse.
He lifted me in his arms as if I were an infant, and shouted to the men
who were driving the last wagon:
"Halt!"
[Illustration: "Halt! Stop!"]
Then embracing me, he placed me in it, my head upon a knapsack. I saw
too that he wrapped a great cavalry cloak around my feet, as he cried:
"Forward! Forward! It is growing warm yonder!"
I remember no more, but I have the faint impression of hearing the
sound of heavy guns and rattle of musketry, mingled with shouts and
commands. Branches of tall pines seemed to pass between me and the sky
through the night; but all this might have been a dream. But that day,
behind Solmunster, in the woods of Hanau, we had a battle with the
Bavarians, and routed them.