ONE OF FIFTY MILLION.
“The might that slumbers in a peasant’s arm.”
A great battle, and a great victory--this was what Henri de Talmont,
in common with the six hundred thousand fighting men who crossed the
Niemen under Napoleon, fully expected to see. Young hearts kindled,
young blood grew hot at the thought; while the veterans of Lodi,
of Austerlitz, of Jena, saw their cherished laurels fade and pale
before the lustre of those with which they hoped soon to adorn their
victorious brows. And then how royally would the treasures of Moscow
and St. Petersburg recompense all their toils!
But there was no great battle. The Russians, under Barclay de Tolly,
retreated without fighting, skilfully drawing the enemy after them
into the immense and dreary plains of the interior. Then followed a
succession of marches, as wearisome and far more monotonous than those
by which the recruits had reached the headquarters of their army. The
weather was hot and sultry--a curious first experience of the climate
of Russia--and both men and horses suffered from the want of water.
Other wants, too, were supplied but carelessly, or perhaps not at all.
Many a conscript lay down supperless night after night beside the fire
of his bivouac, to sleep away his hunger as best he could. It is said
that some even died of starvation, while others found unwholesome
nutriment in the unripe corn and the raw vegetables that grew along
their route. Nor did the knowledge that the general of his division was
feasting upon sterlet and champagne make the hard, insufficient fare
of the conscript more palatable. “It is the soldier’s own fault if he
wants anything in an enemy’s country,” was a maxim often repeated; but
what can the soldier do when the people flee at his approach, carrying
off or destroying everything they possess, and the country, at best but
thinly inhabited, is left a desert around him?[23] Yet it must be owned
that the French had themselves to thank for some of their privations,
since those peasants who did not flee at their approach were plundered,
beaten, ill-treated, perhaps even murdered.
One day Henri accompanied a detachment of his regiment which was sent
out on a foraging expedition. They were under the command of Seppel,
the corporal who had undertaken to post Henri’s letter in Paris; but
he was a sergeant now, and rode a good horse, while the others tramped
wearily on foot. After a long march through a dreary country they saw,
towards evening, a brown village surrounded by promising corn-fields.
“Courage, mes enfants,” cried Seppel; “here is luck for us at last. No
doubt food and water, ay, and brandy too, are to be found yonder.”
They marched across the fields, trampling down the standing corn
without remorse. Henri and some of his comrades were hungry enough to
pluck the unripe ears and to eat them as they passed, like another
company strangely opposite to these in their character and their place
in the world’s history.
As they approached the village, they became aware that its inhabitants
had not only seen them, but were prepared for their approach. A crowd
of men and boys, armed with axes, pitchforks, and reaping-hooks, came
towards them with loud cries and intentions evidently the most hostile.
Seppel caught hold of a tall, gaunt soldier, whose white uniform
gleamed conspicuous amongst the blue tunics of the rest, and pushed him
to the front. “Here, Klinki, Schlinki, or whatever your unpronounceable
name may be, tell these beggars in their own jargon that we want food
for man and horse, and that if they give it, in plenty and at once, we
will do them no harm.”
The Pole--who had been brought with the party to act as interpreter,
as he happened to know a little Russian--tried to gain a hearing; but
in vain. So the Frenchmen drew their swords, and a brisk fight began.
Suddenly, however, Seppel observed something which made him call upon
his men to stop. He saw a party leaving the village and proceeding
towards the adjoining birch-wood, and he rightly conjectured that these
were the women and children under the escort of some of the men who
had remained behind for the purpose. In fact, this had been from the
first the design of the villagers, and the attack had been only a feint
made in order to gain time for its execution. Seppel raised his hand,
pointing to the retreating group. “Fire, mes enfants!” he cried; “fire
yonder--upon them!” They were just within musket-range, and the sharp,
ringing sound of the shots was followed by heart-rending cries.
There was no more thought of resistance. The village lads threw down
their extemporized weapons, and hurried to the assistance of their
friends. Soon the whole party, their movements quickened by terror, had
disappeared into the wood, carrying with them their wounded, perhaps
their dead. “Was not that well done?” laughed Seppel. “I knew they
would go to look after the women at the first cry.”
Thus Nicolofsky was taken by the French. The victors were soon busy
exploring the deserted cottages in search of food and vodka. Other
things too were needed.
“Here, blacksmith,” said Seppel to Féron, “look after my horse. He has
cast a shoe.”
“Yes, sergeant,” returned Féron coolly, “if you will find me a hammer
and tongs, and a nail or two.”
“Is that my business, stupid? Go and look. These fellows have horses,
so they must have smith’s tackle somewhere about.”
“And they call this conquering a country!” grumbled Féron as he walked
away. “Well, it may be glorious, but it is not particularly convenient
or amusing.”
At that moment there was a joyful shout from some of the party. Very
few fires were burning in the village on that warm summer evening, but
in one of the two largest cottages the great stove had been lighted,
and a capacious caldron of tschi was simmering over it. The French
soldiers fully appreciated the national dish of the Russians, and found
the prospect of an abundant and savoury supper very agreeable.
“Here is one good thing for me,” said Féron, glancing at the fire. “Now
for hammer and nails.--Talmont, you lazy fellow, don’t stand there
gazing at nothing, but come and help me to find them.”
But when they stood outside together, Féron’s tone changed. “M. Henri,”
he said in a quick, eager whisper, “show me your musket.”
Henri did so with a smile.
“Ah!” said Féron, looking relieved, “then after all you _did_ fire. I
feared you would not, and I was going to give you a word of advice.”
“I _did_ fire,” answered Henri in a low voice,--“in the air. What
_else_ could I do, Féron? they were women and children.”
“Well, perhaps _I_ did not shoot very straight either; still we are in
an enemy’s country. Why did not the Czar do whatever the Emperor wanted
him? But take care, M. Henri; that old fox Seppel is no friend of
yours.”
They entered another cottage in search of what they wanted, and Féron
struck his foot against a small bucket full of some liquid. “Ha! what
have we here? Vodka, I hope.” He stooped down and tasted it, but got
up with an air of disgust. “No such luck. Only frog’s ratefia” (so the
French called the kvass of the Russians). “How could any poor wretches
be expected to fight with such stuff as that in their insides?”
“Let me have a pull at it,” said Henri. “I am thirsty enough not to
despise even frog’s ratefia. Do you think Seppel means to stay here all
night?”
“He ought not; but if he finds vodka I would not answer for the
consequences. And certainly it is growing very late.”
Féron at last succeeded in finding the tools with which the villagers
performed whatever rude blacksmith’s work they needed. Then he
rejoined his companions, who were just beginning to help themselves
to the supper which had been prepared for very different guests by
the priest’s wife. The cottage was that of Pope Nikita, and the day
happened to be the name-day of Anna Popovna.
A good store of vodka had been found, and with this help the soldiers
soon forgot their troubles, past, present, and to come. They ate,
drank, and made merry; and the sergeant, far from being any check upon
their mirth, drank more deeply and talked more boisterously than any of
them. The night closed over them unawares, and of course there was now
no question of leaving their comfortable quarters until the morning.
Féron had brought in his hand a small piece of iron, as well as the
hammer and tongs he had been using. He had a jesting dispute with
one of his comrades, who called in question his capabilities as a
blacksmith. “Blacksmith, indeed!” said Féron. “That’s nothing. I am
quite an artist, messieurs. At Brie I was accounted a connoisseur--an
ornamental worker in brass, iron, and the other precious metals.”
“A fine story,” laughed Henri, who was greatly the better for his
comfortable meal. “At Brie your crooked nails were a joke for the whole
village.”
“Don’t talk, but let us _see_ what you can do. Give us a specimen,”
said a conscript, a timorous little fellow, who was unpopular in
the regiment because of his habit of shifting off his work upon his
comrades.
“Yes, I will,” returned Féron. “I’ll make an iron to brand you with
when you are caught trying to desert, as you are sure to be one of
these days.”
A general laugh followed this retort, then silence fell over the group,
while Féron hammered away at his task, and most of the others began to
doze in their places. When at last he held up triumphantly, in proof of
his skill, a finely-formed branding-iron with the letter N upon it, his
companions were far too sleepy to give him the applause he expected.
One hour--two hours passed away. All were sleeping now, even the
sentinels Seppel had placed outside as a matter of form. The village
of Nicolofsky was as still as it was wont to be in the noon of a
midsummer night. If a sound of weeping and lamentation came, softened
by distance, from the adjacent birch-wood, it failed to disturb the
sleepers. But the short summer night was soon over, and the dawn began
to creep in, cold and gray.
Its first faint light fell upon the figure of a mujik, who traversed,
with stealthy, silent footsteps, the deserted street of his native
village. As he passed the church he noticed that the door had been
forced open--though it was again roughly secured on the outside. He
removed the fastening and looked in. The spirit of wanton outrage,
only too common amongst the French soldiery, had made Seppel choose
that sacred place as a stable for his horse, and the animal was eating
corn out of a consecrated vessel placed upon the altar.[24] Michael
Ivanovitch ground his teeth, and his dark cheek flushed ominously; but
he passed on, for his heart was full of a great, deep anguish, before
which every other emotion paled and faded.
That which, at the risk of his life, he had come to fetch, was not
in the desecrated church. It had to be sought for in the very place
where most of the French soldiers had taken up their quarters for the
night--the cottage of Pope Nikita. The door of the cottage was half
open, and he saw that the floor was covered with sleeping forms clad
in the blue tunic of the French infantry. What matter to him? Blotting
out that sight, he saw the wistful, longing look in the dying eyes of
the girl he loved, and, before him, the sacred picture her faltering
accents had entreated him to bring to her. Thank God, there it hung
yet--on the cottage wall, in the right-hand corner. Could he tread
amongst those sleepers without awakening them, and reach it?
His step was noiseless as the footfall of the desert panther, and the
French were weary with marching, and most of them heavy with vodka.
He had grasped his prize--he stood with his hand on its frame, and a
momentary throb of triumph in his sorrowful heart, when suddenly a head
was raised; some one more wakeful than the rest had seen the intruder.
In an instant the alarm was given, and the whole group were on their
feet; in another, a dozen strong hands were laid at once upon Michael
Ivanovitch.
He struggled desperately, but what could one man do against a dozen
armed with swords and bayonets? He would have been cut down almost
immediately, had not Seppel, very sensibly, called upon his men to
spare his life and secure him as a prisoner. “He may serve for a guide,
or at least give us some information,” he said. Then he summoned the
Pole to act as interpreter, taking the precaution to make another
man--Féron it happened to be--stand before the prisoner with his loaded
musket pointed at his breast. “He looks dangerous,” he observed.
There was not much to be read in Michael’s stolid, determined face, as
the light of the early morning shone upon it. He had placed the sacred
picture in the breast of his caftan; but seeing the musket, he took
it out and laid it on the table. “They shall not harm _that_, at all
events,” he thought.
“Tell him,” said Seppel to the Pole, “that if he fails to satisfy us,
we will shoot him; but that if he behaves well, we will spare his life.”
The Pole interpreted, and Michael answered coolly, “Nitshevo.”
“That means,” the Pole explained, “‘It is no matter. I do not care.’”
“Ask him,” pursued Seppel, “what brought him here.”
Michael, as soon as he understood the question, pointed to the picture.
Seppel laughed incredulously; and the Pole inquired of his own accord,
“Is that the whole truth, Russian?”
“Da,” returned the prisoner.
“He says, ‘Yes,’” the Pole explained.
“Tell him he is a liar,” said Seppel.
A scornful smile was the only answer, and Seppel tried another course.
“Ask him,” he said, “how far it is from this place to Klopti.”
He did so; but Michael answered nothing.
“Tell him he must take us there to-day.”
Still no answer.
“Tell him if he chooses to behave in this way he has not two minutes to
live.”
“Nitshevo,” was the only reply.
This went on for some minutes, every inquiry being met by a dogged
silence, every threat by “Nitshevo.” At last Seppel lost patience, and
told Féron to fire upon the prisoner.
But Féron disliked the task, for he rather admired the courage of the
Russian. He slowly laid his finger on the trigger of his musket, then
withdrew it again. This he did twice, keenly watching the countenance
of the prisoner, which showed no perceptible change. All the French
soldiers had now crowded around them, and were watching the scene with
interested faces.
“Do not kill him, sergeant,” pleaded one.
“He is a brave fellow. Try something else first,” said another.
Seppel paused, and a new thought occurred to him. “Ah, yes,” he said,
“these Russian slaves understand nothing except it comes to them
through their bodily feelings. They are accustomed, I suppose, to be
treated like beasts of the field.--Pole, tell him he is our prisoner;
_that_, at least, we will make him know.--Féron, put down your musket,
and bring that branding-iron I saw you make last night; there is enough
fire yet in the stove to heat it red-hot.”
Féron obeyed without hesitation, even with alacrity; for it seemed to
him much better to brand a man on the hand than to shoot him through
the heart. So the letter N, fashioned in sport the night before, was
used in earnest now. It came down with burning pain, and left its mark,
indelible for ever, upon the unresisting hand of Michael.
For a moment his strong frame quivered, but his lips were silent,
pressed closely together. Then he turned to the Pole, and, for the
first time speaking of his own accord, he asked him, “What does that
mean?”
“It means that you belong now, soul and body, to our Emperor, the great
Napoleon. That which you bear on your hand is his mark--the first
letter of his name.”
Michael smiled slightly, and advancing to the table, laid the wounded
hand upon it. (Féron not unintentionally had made choice of the left
one.) Then with one blow from the axe which he drew from the sash of
his caftan, he severed it from his wrist. “Take what belongs to your
Emperor,” he said, turning proudly to the astonished group. “As for me,
I belong altogether to the Czar.”[25]
A thrill of involuntary admiration passed through the spectators,
and for some moments no one spoke. Meanwhile, in the calm summer sky
outside, the sun was rising, and its first red beams flashed through
the little window upon the homely features of the serf, which shone
with a courage and devotion that were almost sublime.
“Cut him down!” cried a solitary voice, that of the conscript who, the
night before, had challenged Féron’s skill. But half-a-dozen other
voices cried, “Shame!” while Seppel himself seemed to hesitate, and
stood with the air of a man perplexed and confounded.
In the meantime Henri de Talmont, who had hitherto taken no part in the
scene, walked boldly up to the prisoner. He held in his hand a fine
white cambric handkerchief, which he wound carefully about the wounded
arm. “As you love your Czar,” he said gently, “so we Royalists in
France loved our King.”
The words, of course, fell meaningless upon the ear of Michael; but
the tones in which they were uttered, and the action which accompanied
them, were abundantly intelligible. The eyes of the Russian serf and
the French gentleman met with a look of comprehension and sympathy.
“Shall we let him go?” Seppel asked at length. “What say you, mes
enfants?”
There was now not one dissentient voice, and Seppel turned to the
interpreter. “Tell him, Pole, that we Frenchmen know how to respect a
brave enemy. He is free.”
Michael heard, bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment, took up the
sacred picture with his remaining hand, and walked slowly out. He
scarcely noticed the ringing cheer which the excitable Frenchmen sent
after him. Their applause was nothing to him: it could not bring back
the young life of his betrothed, flowing forth so quickly through the
wound their guns had made last night. Enough if he might but be in
time to see her once again, and to comfort her dying moments with the
treasure he had risked so much to procure.
When he was gone, Seppel stretched his limbs once more before the
stove, and said half to himself with a meditative air, “After all, I
begin to doubt whether we shall succeed so easily in conquering these
Russians.”