Upon one of the coldest days of February 1853, I left Paris by the
Orleans Railway. The weather was extremely severe, the frozen snow lay
thick in the streets, the asphalt of the boulevards was slippery as
glass, sledges scoured the Champs Elysées and Bois de Boulogne. An icy
wind whistled round the train as we quitted the shelter of the station,
and I regretted, as I buttoned myself to the chin, and shrank into my
corner, that the carriage was not full, instead of having but one
occupant besides myself.
Opposite to me sat a hale man of about sixty-five, with a quick bright
eye, an intelligent, good-humoured countenance—somewhat
weather-beaten—and the red rosette of the Legion of Honour in his
button-hole. During the first half-hour he pored over a letter, whose
contents, judging from the animated expression of his physiognomy,
interested him strongly. He seemed scarcely aware of my presence. At
last he put up the letter, and then for the first time looked me in the
face. I had been but a few days out of a sick-bed, and was sensitive to
the cold, and doubtless my appearance was chilly and woebegone enough,
for I detected a slight approach to a smile at the corners of the
stranger’s mouth. To one or two commonplace remarks he replied
courteously but laconically, like a man who is neither unsociable nor
averse to conversation, but who prefers his own thoughts to that bald
talk with which travellers sometimes weary each other rather than sit
silent. So our dialogue soon dropped. The cold increased, my feet were
benumbed, and I stamped them on the floor of the carriage to revive the
circulation. My companion observed my proceedings with a comical look,
as if he thought me a very tender traveller.
“This carriage must be badly closed,” I remarked. “It is bitter cold to
the feet.”
“For that discomfort I have little pity,” replied the Frenchman. “A ride
on the railway is soon over, and a good fire or a brisk walk is a quick
and easy remedy. Mine is a different case. For forty years I have never
known warm feet.”
“For forty years?” I repeated, thinking I had misunderstood him.
“Yes, sir, forty years; since the winter of 1812—the winter of the
Russian campaign.”
“You were in that terrible campaign?” I inquired, in a tone of interest
and curiosity. My companion, previously taciturn, suddenly became
communicative.
“All through it, sir,” he replied; “from the Niemen to the Kremlin, and
back again. It was my first campaign, and was near being my last. I was
in others afterwards; in Germany in 1813, when the combined Germans and
Russians drove us before them, for want of the brave fellows we had left
in Muscovy’s snows; in France in 1814, when the Emperor made his gallant
struggle against overwhelming forces; and at the closing scene in
Flanders: but not all those three campaigns put together, nor, as I
believe, all that this century has witnessed, can match the horrors of
that dreadful winter in Russia.”
He paused, and, leaning back in his corner, seemed to revolve in his
mind events of powerful interest long gone by. I waited a while, in
hopes he would resume the subject. As he did not do so, I asked him to
what arm he belonged when in Russia.
“I was assistant-surgeon in a regiment of hussars,” he answered, “and in
my medical capacity I had abundant opportunity to make acquaintance with
the horrors of war. On the 7th of September, for instance, at the
Moskwa—Heavens! what a shambles that was! Ah, it was fine to see such
valour on both sides—for the Russians fought well—gallantly, sir, or
where would have been the glory of beating them? But Ney! Ney! Oh! he
was splendid that day! His whole countenance gleamed, as he again and
again led the bloody charge, exposing himself as freely as any corporal
in the ranks. And Eugene, the Viceroy, with what vigour he hurled his
masses against that terrible redoubt! When at last it was his, what a
sight was there! The ground was not strewn with dead; it was heaped,
piled with them. They had been shot down by whole ranks, and there they
lay, prostrate, in line as they had stood.”
The surgeon paused. I thought of Byron’s beautiful lines, beginning,
“Even as they fell, in files they lay;” but I said nothing, for I saw
that my companion was now fairly started, and needed no spurring.
“_Monsieur_,” he presently resumed, “all those things have been brought
strongly to my mind by the letter you saw me just now reading. It is
from an old friend, a captain in 1812, a general now, who went through
the campaign, and whom I was so fortunate as to save from a grave in
those infernal plains where most of our poor comrades perished. I will
tell you how it happened. We were talking of the battle of Borodino.
Seventy thousand men, it is said, were killed and wounded in that
murderous fight. We surgeons, as you may well think, had our hands full,
and still could not suffice for a tithe of the sufferers. It was a rough
breaking-in for a young hand, as I then was. Such frightful wounds as
were there, of every kind and description—from shot, shell, and bullet,
pike and sabre. Well, sir, all the misery and suffering I then saw, all
that vast amount of human agony and bloodshed, whose steam, ascending to
Heaven, might well have brought down God’s malediction on His creatures,
who could thus destroy and deface each other, was nothing compared with
the horrible misery we witnessed on our retreat. I have read everything
that has appeared in France concerning that campaign—Ségur, Labaume, and
other writers. Their narratives are shocking enough, but nothing to the
reality. They would have sickened their readers had they told all they
saw. If anybody, who went through the campaign, could remember and set
down all he witnessed, he would make the most heart-rending book that
ever yet was printed, and would be accused of gross exaggeration.
Exaggeration, indeed! there was no need to heighten the horrors of the
winter of 1812. All that frost and famine, lead and steel, could
inflict, was then endured; all the crimes that reckless despair and
ruthless cruelty could prompt were then perpetrated.”
“And how,” I asked, “did you escape, when so many, doubtless as strong
and courageous, and more inured to hardship, miserably perished?”
“Under Providence, I owed my preservation to the trustiest and most
faithful servant ever master had. Paul had been several years in the
hussars—was an old soldier, in fact, although still a young man; and at
a time when all discipline and subordination were at an end, when
soldiers heeded not their officers, officers avoided their generals, and
servants and masters were all alike and upon a level, Paul proved true
as steel. As if cold and the Cossacks were not enough, hunger was added
to our sufferings: there was no longer a commissariat or distribution of
rations;—rations, forsooth!—dead horse was a luxury I have seen men
fight for till death, lean meat though it was, for the poor brutes were
as starved as their riders. What little there was to eat in the villages
we passed through fell to the share of the first comers. Empty
larders—often smoking ruins—were all that remained for those who came
behind. Well, sir, when things were at the worst, and provender at the
scarcest, Paul always had something for me in his haversack. One day it
would be a bit of bread, on the morrow a handful of grain or some edible
roots, now and then a slice of horse-beef—and how delicious that seemed,
grilled over our smoky scanty fires! There was never enough to satisfy
my hunger, but there was always a _something_—enough to keep body and
soul together. Paul, as I afterwards discovered, husbanded his stores,
for he well knew that if he gave me all at once I should leave nothing,
and then I must have fasted for days, and perhaps have fallen from my
horse for weakness. But think of the courage and affection of the poor
fellow, himself half-starved, to carry food about him day after day, and
refrain from devouring the share secretly set aside for me! There were
not many men in the army, even of general’s rank, capable of such
devotion to the dearest friend they had, for extreme misery had induced
a ferocious selfishness, which made us more like hyenas than
Christians.”
“I should think the cold must have been even worse to endure than
hunger,” said I, screwing up my chilly extremities, which the interest
of the doctor’s conversation had almost made me forget.
“It was, sir, harder and more fatal—at least a greater number died of
it; although, to say the truth, frost and famine there worked hand in
hand, and with such unity of action, that it was often hard to say which
was the cause of death. But it was a shocking sight, of a morning, to
see the poor fellows lying dead round the bivouac fires. Unable to
resist fatigue and the drowsy influence of the cold, they yielded to
slumber, and passed from sleep into death. For, there, sleep _was_
death.”
“But how then,” I asked, “did any ever escape from Russia, for all must
have slept at times?”
“I do not believe that any who escaped _did_ sleep, at least not of a
night, at the bivouac. We used to rouse each other continually, to
prevent our giving way, and then get up and walk as briskly as we could,
to quicken the sluggish circulation. We slept upon the march, in our
saddles, and, strange as it may seem to you, even those on foot slept
when marching. They marched in groups or clusters, and those in the
centre slept, propped and supported by their companions, and moving
their legs mechanically. I do not say that it was a sound, deep sleep,
but rather a sort of feverish dozing. Such as it was, however, it was
better than nothing, and assuredly saved some who would otherwise have
sunk. Others, who would have given way to weariness upon the long
monotonous march, were kept from utter despair and self-abandonment only
by the repeated harassing attacks of the Cossacks. The excitement of the
skirmish warmed their blood, and gave them, as it seemed, fresh hold
upon life. In one of those skirmishes, or rather in a sharp combat, a
dear friend of mine, a captain in the same regiment, had his left arm
carried off by a cannon-shot. After the affair was over, I came suddenly
upon him, where he lay moaning by the roadside, his face ashy pale, his
arm still hanging by the sinews. His horse had either galloped away, or
been taken by the fugitives.
“‘_Ah, mon ami!_’ he cried, when he saw me, ‘all is over—I can go no
further. I shall never see France again!’
“I saw that, like the majority of those who received severe wounds in
that retreat, his moral courage was subdued, and had given way to
despair. I was terribly shocked, for I felt how slight was his chance of
escape. I need hardly tell you there was very little dressing of wounds
during that latter part of the retreat; most of the surgeons were dead,
the hospital-waggons with medicine and instruments had been left on the
road; transport for the sick was out of the question. I assumed as
cheerful a countenance as I could.
“‘Why, Préville,’ I cried, ‘this will not do; we must get you along
somehow. Come! courage, my friend! You _shall_ see France again, in
spite of all.’
“‘Ah! doctor,’ replied he, in piteous tones, ‘it is no use. Here I shall
die. All you can do for me is to blow my brains out, and save me from
the Cossack lances.’
“By this time I had dismounted and was at his side. The intense cold had
stopped the bleeding of his wound. I saw that there was no lack of
vitality in him, and that, but for this mishap, few would have got out
of the campaign in better plight. Even now, his despondency was perhaps
his greatest danger. I reminded him of his wife and child (he had been
married little more than a year, and news of the birth of a daughter had
reached him on our forward march), of his happy home, his old mother—of
all the ties, in short, that bound him to life. Whilst speaking, I
severed the sinews that still retained his shattered arm, and bound it
up as best I might. He still despaired and moaned, but suffered me to do
as I would. He was like an infant in my hands—that man who, in the hour
of battle, was a very lion for courage. But long suffering and the
sudden shock—occurring, too, when we seemed on the verge of safety—had
overcome his fortitude. With Paul’s help I got him upon my horse. The
poor brute was in no case to carry double, so I walked and led it,
although at that time I could hardly hobble.
“‘It is all useless, my dear doctor,’ Préville said; ‘this is my last
day; I feel that. Far better shoot me, or leave me by the roadside, than
risk your life for my sake.’
“I took no heed, but tried to cheer him. Those unclean beasts, the
Cossacks, were hovering around us as usual, and at times the bullets
fell pretty thick. Not a quarter of an hour had elapsed since I set
Préville on my horse, when a shot struck his right eye—not entering the
head, but glancing across the globe, and completely destroying the
sight. Well, sir, then there occurred a physiological phenomenon which I
have never been able satisfactorily to account for. This man, whom the
loss of an arm had reduced to despair, seemed to derive fresh courage
from the loss of an eye. At any rate, from that moment he complained no
more of his fate, resumed his usual manly tone, and bore up like a hero.
Paul was lucky enough to catch a riderless horse, which I mounted. The
worst was over, and we soon got a respite. Without troubling you with
details, and incredible though it may seem to you, my poor friend
escaped with life, although with a limb and an eye the less.”
“There must have been many extraordinary escapes from that campaign,” I
remarked.
“Innumerable. There was a sergeant of dragoons, a former comrade of my
servant’s, who, for many days, marched beside me and Paul. He received a
severe wound. There were some vehicles still with us at that time, and
we got him a place in one of them, and made him as comfortable as we
could. The following night we stopped at a town. In the morning, as we
were about to march, the Cossacks came down. There was great confusion;
several baggage-carts were captured in the street, and some of the
wounded were abandoned in the houses where they had passed the night.
Amongst these was Sergeant Fritz. Not many houses in the town were still
in good condition—most of them had been burned and knocked to pieces by
the soldiers. The house in which Fritz lay had still its doors and
windows, and was one of the most comfortable in the place, on which
account it had been converted into a temporary hospital. Well, the
Russians came in, brought their wounded, and turned out our poor fellows
to make room for them. Some, who could not move quickly enough, were
brutally pitched through a low window into a garden behind the house,
there to perish miserably. Fritz was one of these. Only just able to
crawl, he made his way round the garden, seeking egress. He reached a
gate communicating with another garden. It was locked, and pain and
weakness forbade his climbing over. He sat close to the gate, propped
against it, and looking wistfully through the bars at the windows of a
house, and at the cheerful glow of a fire, when he was perceived by a
young girl. She came out and opened the gate, and helped him into the
house. Her father was a German clockmaker, long settled in Russia, and
Fritz, a Swiss, spoke German well. The kind people put him to bed, hid
his uniform, and tended him like a son. When, in the following spring,
his health was restored, and he would have left them, the German
proposed to him to remain and assist him in his trade. He accepted the
offer, married the German’s daughter, and remained in Russia until his
father-in-law’s death, when he was taken with a longing to revisit his
native mountains, and returned to Switzerland with his wife and family.
I met him since at Paris, and he told me his story. But although his
escape was narrow, and romantic enough, there must have been others much
more remarkable. Most of the prisoners made by the Russians, and who
survived severe cold and harsh treatment, were sent to Moscow, to labour
at rebuilding the city. When the fine season came, some of them managed
to escape, and to make their way, in various disguises, and through
countless adventures, back to their own country.”
I have set down but the most striking portions of our conversation—or
rather, of the doctor’s narrative, since I did little but listen; and
occasionally, by a question or remark, direct his communicativeness into
the channel I wished it to take. We were now near Orleans.
“The letter I was reading when we started,” said my companion, “and
which has brought back to my memory all that I have told you—at risk,
perhaps, of wearying you,” he added with a slight bow and smile, “and a
host of other circumstances, to me of thrilling and everlasting
interest, is from General Préville, who lives in the south of France,
but has come unexpectedly to Orleans to pass a month with me. That is
his way. He lives happily with a married daughter; but now and then the
desire to see an old comrade, and to fight old battles over again, comes
so strongly upon him, that he has his valise packed at an hour’s notice,
and takes me by surprise. He knows well that ‘The General’s Room’ and an
affectionate reception always await him. I received his letter—full of
references to old times—yesterday evening, and am now hurrying back to
Orleans to see him. He may very likely be waiting for me at the station;
and you will see that, for a man who gave himself up for dead forty
years ago in the snows of Russia, and begged, as a favour, a bullet
through his brain, he looks tolerably hearty and satisfied to live.”
“There is one thing, _Monsieur le Docteur_,” I said, “which you have not
yet explained to me, and which I do not understand. Did you mean
literally what you said, that since the Russian campaign you have never
had your feet warm?”
“Literally and truly, sir. When we got to Orcha, where Jomini was in
command, and where the heroic Ney, who had been separated from the army,
rejoined us with the skeleton of his corps—having cut his way, by sheer
valour and soldiership, through clouds of Platoff’s Cossacks—we took a
day’s rest. It was the 20th of November, the last day of anything
approaching to comfort which we were to enjoy before crossing the
Russian frontier. True, we made one more halt, at Molodetschino, whence
Napoleon dated his bulletin of our terrible disasters, but then only a
portion of us could find lodging; we were sick, half-frozen, and numbers
died in the streets. At Orcha we found shelter and tranquillity; the
governor had provided provisions against our passage, the enemy left us
quiet, and we enjoyed a day of complete repose. My baggage had long
since been lost, and my only pair of boots were torn to shreds. I had
been riding with fragments of a soldier’s jacket tied round my feet,
which I usually kept out of the stirrups, the contact of the iron
increasing the cold. At Orcha, the invaluable Paul brought me a Jew (the
Jews were our chief purveyors on that retreat) with boots for sale. I
selected a pair and threw away my old ones, which for many days I had
not taken off. My feet were already in a bad state, sore and livid. I
bathed them, put on fresh stockings and my new boots, and contrived with
a pair of old trousers, a sort of leggings or overalls, closed at the
bottom, and to be worn over the boots. From that day till we got beyond
the Niemen, a distance of one hundred and ten leagues, which we took
three weeks to perform, I never took off any part of my dress. During
that time I suffered greatly from my feet; they swelled till my boots
were too tight for me, and at times I was in agony. When we at last were
comparatively in safety, and I found myself, for the first time since I
left Orcha, in a warm room, with a bed to lie upon and water to wash, I
called Paul to pull off my boots. Sir, with them came off my stockings,
and the entire skin of both feet. A flayer’s knife could hardly have
done the thing more completely. For a moment I gave myself up as lost. I
had seen enough of this kind of thing to know that my feet were on the
verge of mortification. There was scarcely time to amputate, had any
been at hand to do it, and had I been willing to preserve life at such a
price. Only one thing could save me, and I resolved to try it. I ordered
Paul to bring a bottle of brandy; I put a piece of silver between my
teeth, and bade him pour the spirits over my feet. I can give you no
idea of the excruciating torture I then endured. Whilst it lasted,
assuredly no martyr’s sufferings ever exceeded mine. It was agony—but it
was safety. I bit the florin nearly in two, and broke this tooth.” (Here
the doctor drew up his lip and exhibited a defective tooth, in company
with some very white and powerful grinders.) “The martyrdom saved me; I
recovered, but the new integuments, which in time covered my scarred
feet, seem chilled by the recollection of their predecessors’
sufferings, and from that day to this I have never had my feet otherwise
than cold. But here we are at Orleans, sir, and yonder as I expected
stands my old Préville.”
The train stopped as he concluded, and a fine-looking veteran, with
white hair, an empty sleeve, and a silken patch over one eye, peered
inquisitively into the carriages. Like most Englishmen, I have a
particular aversion to the Continental fashion of men kissing and
hugging each other, but I confess I beheld with interest and sympathy
the cordial embrace of these two old comrades, who then quickly
separated, and, with hands grasped, looked joyously and affectionately
into each other’s faces, whilst a thousand recollections of old kindness
and long comradeship were evidently swelling at their hearts. In his
joy, my travelling companion did not forget the attentive listener,
whose journey he had so agreeably shortened. Turning to me, he presented
me to the general, as an Englishman and a new acquaintance, and then
cordially invited me to pass the rest of the day at his house. But the
business that took me to Orleans was urgent, and my return to Paris must
be speedy. And had it been otherwise, I think I still should have
scrupled to restrain, by a stranger’s presence, the first flow of
intimate communion to which the two friends evidently looked forward
with such warm and pleasurable feelings. So I gratefully declined, but
pledged myself to take advantage of the doctor’s hospitality upon my
next visit to Orleans. When that occurs, I shall hope to glean another
Russian Reminiscence.