[Illustration: _Napoleon._]
The Russian general Grabbe, who, during the invasion, visited the French
camp, was astonished at the disorganized state of the cavalry.
This impression is emphasized by Fezensac.
“From the very first, I was struck by the exhaustion and numerical
weakness of the troops. At head-quarters they only judged by results,
without weighing the cost, and thus they had no idea of the condition of
the army.
“Four regiments of cavalry were reduced to 900 men out of 2800 who had
crossed the Rhine. All articles of clothing, but especially boots, were
in a wretched condition. We had at first enough flour, and a few herds
and flocks, but these resources were soon exhausted, and to renew them
we were obliged to move constantly from place to place, for in
twenty-four hours we cleared out any locality through which we passed.”
In a conversation with M. de Narbonne at Vitebsk, the Emperor estimated
the two combined Russian armies before Smolensk at 130,000 men; with the
Guard, the 1st, 3rd, 4th, 5th, and 8th Corps, he calculated his own
strength at 170,000 men. If no battle were fought he did not intend to
pass Smolensk; if he won a complete victory, he would perhaps march
straight to Moscow; but in any case, a battle, even if undecided, seemed
to him likely to pave the way for peace.
At Smolensk and at the battle of Valoutina, René Bourgeois and Fezensac
agree in estimating the French losses at 6000 to 8000 killed, and over
10,000 wounded. The Russian loss was equal, if not greater. Together
with prisoners and stragglers, the Grande Armée lost in these
engagements about 20,000 combatants.
The Emperor, however, does not scruple to assert, in Bulletin XIII.,
that for every dead Frenchman on the field of battle there were eight
Russians, and that the soldiers of the Tsar, encouraged by the proximity
of their villages, seized every opportunity to desert. He acknowledges
that General Sebastiani was beaten and obliged to fall back, but he
estimates his loss at only 100 men. As, however, this retreat of one of
his best generals might be looked upon as a serious check, and produce a
painful impression on the whole army, the Emperor decided to march on
Moscow.
Labaume sketches the situation at that moment in a few strokes—“To
describe our distress in the midst of our apparent victory, it is
sufficient to say that we were utterly worn out by the persistent and
systematic retreat of the Russians. Our cavalry was totally
disorganized, and the half-starved artillery horses could no longer draw
the guns.”
All this took place at the beginning of the campaign; but far from
showing alarm, Napoleon merely laughed at the Russians, whether
sincerely or not it is difficult to say. “In the midst of all the
defeats which they look upon as victories,” he writes in Bulletin XIX.,
“the Russians sing _Te Deums_ of thanks. In spite of their ignorance and
want of culture, this behaviour begins to strike one as unnatural and
hideous.”
At Borodino the Russian redoubts turned out to be mere sketches of
fortifications, and the trenches shallow and unprotected; yet the
Russians defended them so obstinately that, according to Labaume’s
description, the centre of the Great Redoubt presented an inexpressibly
terrible picture. The dead were piled upon one another several deep. The
Russians were falling on all sides, but they refused to retire; in the
space of one square league there was not a spot that was not covered
with dead or wounded. Further on were heaps of dead among scattered
fragments of guns, lances, helmets, cuirasses, or cannon-balls covering
the ground like hailstones after a violent storm. The most awful
spectacle of all was to be seen in the trenches—poor wounded wretches,
who had fallen one on the top of the other, lay weltering in their
blood, groaning in the most heart-rending manner and praying for death.
“Not only,” says Fezensac, “had the French army never before suffered
such losses as at Borodino, but, what was worse, never before had the
spirit of the soldiery been so utterly broken as after that battle. The
irrepressible gaiety of the French soldiers vanished, and instead of the
songs and jokes in which it had been their wont to forget the fatigues
of their long marches, a death-like silence reigned in the camp. Even
the officers, it appears, utterly lost heart. Such depression is
intelligible when it follows defeat, but it was certainly not to be
expected after a victory which had thrown open the gates of Moscow.”
According to Russian authorities, whose accounts are completely at
variance with Napoleon’s own assertions, the Emperor lost more than
50,000 men in the attack, including 1200 officers and 49 generals; while
the Russian losses, dead and wounded, amounted to 40,000, including 1732
officers and 18 generals. The enemy’s losses must have been increased by
the fact that during the three days in which they were engaged on the
field of battle they had nothing to eat and drink but roots and water.
Ségur admits a loss of 40,000 men, and says that the army which entered
Moscow numbered 90,000. The division of Cuirassiers, which had comprised
3600 horses all told, numbered but 800 on that day.
The situation in which the French army found itself within the walls of
Moscow was not by any means an enviable one. It had neither bread nor
meat, although the tables were spread with sweetmeats and syrups.
Valuable wine was readily exchanged for blankets; and a fur-coat could
be bartered for any quantity of sugar and coffee.
The camp presented the appearance not of a military bivouac, but rather
of a market where every soldier, turned tradesman, was busy selling the
most valuable articles at the most moderate prices; where all the men,
though living in the open field exposed to rain and storm, ate from
porcelain plates, drank out of silver goblets, and were surrounded with
the costliest luxuries of the period.
During their stay at Moscow, the battalions quartered outside the walls
knew no peace. There existed, as Ségur says, a kind of tacit, informal
armistice between the opposing armies, but only in the front. On the
flanks and in the rear, not a wagon could pass, not an ounce of forage
could be brought in unopposed, so that in reality the war still
continued.
During the first few days Murat delighted in showing himself to the
outposts of the enemy. He was flattered by the respect paid to his
appearance, his reputation for courage, and his rank. The Russian
officers took good care not to undeceive him. They loaded him with all
the tokens of deference calculated to keep up this illusion. He was
allowed to order their vedettes about as if they were Frenchmen. If any
part of the ground they occupied pleased him, they hastened to surrender
it to him.
Cossack chiefs went so far as to pretend enthusiasm, and to say that
they only recognized as Emperor the Emperor who reigned in Moscow. Murat
even believed for a time that they would not fight against him.
The Emperor, who was not deceived by these professions, complained
bitterly of the exasperating guerilla warfare to which he was constantly
exposed. “Had not a hundred and fifty dragoons of the Old Guard met,
been attacked, and routed by a horde of these barbarians? And this took
place but two days after the armistice on the road to Mozjaisk, his
principal line of communications, which connected him with his stores,
his reserves, his depots, with Europe itself.”
“Every morning,” adds Ségur, “our soldiers, especially the cavalry, had
to travel great distances to obtain the necessaries of life. And as the
environs of Moscow and Winkovo became more and more denuded, they were
obliged to range further and further afield. Men and horses returned
worn out, some did not return at all. Each measure of oats, each bundle
of straw, had to be fought for, dragged out of the enemy. Nothing but
surprises, fights, losses. Even the peasantry began to be troublesome.
“We had war on all sides—in front, on our flanks, in our rear. The army
was growing weaker and weaker; the enemy becoming daily more
venturesome.... At last Murat himself grew anxious. He saw half the
remnant of his cavalry melt away in these daily skirmishes.”
In Bulletin XXII. Napoleon only says—“The Cossacks attack our scouts....
The Turkish flags, as well as some curiosities taken from the Kremlin,
and the image of the Holy Virgin studded with diamonds, have been
forwarded to Paris.... Rostopchin is said to have gone mad.... He has
set his country-house on fire.... The sun is more brilliant and hotter
than in Paris, one might fancy oneself in the south.... The Russian army
does not approve of the burning of Moscow.... The Russians look on
Rostopchin as a Marat consoling himself in the society of Wilson, the
English _attaché_.”
Napoleon says not a word about his endeavours to conclude peace.
Winter was advancing. Ségur continues—“The Russians openly expressed
their astonishment that we should appear so indifferent to the approach
of their terrible winter. It was their natural ally; they grieved for
us, and urged us to retreat. ‘In another fortnight,’ they said, ‘your
nails will drop off, your weapons will fall out of your stiffened and
half-frozen hands.’”
Fain confirms these details—“The cold seems to be the only cause of
future anxiety. But the veterans of the army, who have already learned,
in the bogs of Pultusk and the ice-fields of Eylau, to brave the
climate, hope to escape this time with the same good luck. Moreover, no
calculation has been neglected in this matter, and all the probabilities
are reassuring. It is usually only in December or January that the
Russian winter displays all its severity. During November the
thermometer seldom marks six degrees of frost, in a normal year.
Observations made during the preceding twenty years confirm this
statement.”
On October 13 the Emperor saw the first fall of snow. “Let us hurry,” he
said, “for in twenty days we must be in our winter quarters.” Napoleon
repeats this sentence in Bulletin XXIV.
Labaume is very emphatic in his remarks—“It is past all comprehension,”
he says, “that Napoleon could be so blind and so obstinate as to remain
in Russia when he saw that the capital on which he had relied was in
ruins, and that winter was approaching.... Providence no doubt, in
punishment of his pride, must have dulled his wits. Could he otherwise
have imagined that the very men who had had the courage to destroy their
homes would be weak enough to accept his onerous terms, and sign a peace
on the flaming ruins of their cities?”
“In proportion as our strength and energy fell,” says the same author,
“so did the boldness of the Cossacks rise. It increased to such a pitch
that they actually attacked an artillery convoy on its road from Viazma,
and repeated the experiment on another artillery convoy coming from
Italy. These Tartar hordes dashed in whenever they found a gap between
our armies, and availed themselves of the advantages of their position
to display the most impudent daring.”
The King of Naples, whose cavalry had almost reached the vanishing
point, daily implored that something should be done; that peace should
be concluded or a retreat begun. But the Emperor was both deaf and
blind.
“The spell was broken at last!” exclaims Ségur, “and by a mere Cossack.
This barbarian fired at Murat as he was visiting an outpost. Murat was
highly indignant, and explained to Dorogomilovsky that an armistice that
existed only to be broken was not worth prolonging.”
[Illustration: _Bivouac Fire._]
The position of the French army then became intolerable. It was
impossible to remain in Moscow, but it was equally impossible to retreat
without preparation. The Emperor of the French nevertheless continued to
issue the same characteristic bulletins. “Some think,” he said, “that
the Emperor ought to set fire to the public buildings, march to Tula in
order to be near Poland, and spend the winter in a friendly country
where he can easily obtain all he requires from the stores of Dantzic,
Kovno, Vilna, and Minsk. Others point out that between Moscow and St.
Petersburg there are 180 leagues of bad road, while the distance from
Vitebsk to St. Petersburg is only 130 leagues, and conclude that Moscow
is worthless as a strategic position, while in its ruined condition it
must lose its political importance for a century to come. There are a
number of Cossacks with the enemy who give our cavalry some trouble....
Everything points to the necessity of seeing to our winter quarters. The
cavalry especially are in need of rest.”
The battle of Tarutina opened Napoleon’s eyes. He now saw that Kutuzof
was merely playing with him, and he resolved to retreat. But what a
retreat! “From the very first,” says Fezensac, “it resembled a rout.”
Some companies were dying from sheer starvation, whilst others did not
know what to do with their provisions. Those soldiers who straggled from
the line of march in search of food, fell into the hands of the Cossacks
and the armed peasants. The road was filled with caissons which had been
blown up, with guns and carts that had been abandoned.
The soldiers were unwilling to sacrifice their loot, and marched heavily
laden. One of them gives an inventory of his share—“I had furs, pictures
by old masters, rolled up for convenience of transport, and some
precious stones. One of my comrades carried a huge case of quinine.
Another had a whole library of beautiful books with gilt edges, and
bound in red morocco. I had not forgotten the inner man, and had
provided myself with rice, sugar, and coffee, besides in reserve three
big pots of jam—two cherry and one gooseberry.”
Bourgogne gives similar details—“We were obliged to halt and wait for
the left column. I took this opportunity to overhaul my knapsack, which
seemed too heavy. It was well loaded. I had several pounds of sugar and
rice, some biscuits, half a bottle of liqueur, the silk dress of a
Chinese woman embroidered in gold and silver thread, several gold and
silver ornaments, among them a fragment of the cross of St. Ivan, or
rather the cover which surrounded it. I should state that in the middle
of the great cross of St. Ivan was a smaller one, in massive gold, a
foot in length. I had also my full-dress uniform, a woman’s large cape
for riding, two silver pictures, a foot wide by eight inches high, the
figures in relief, and several medals and stars set in diamonds
belonging to a Russian prince. All these I kept to give away. Moreover,
I had on my shirt, a waistcoat of yellow silk, embroidered and wadded,
which I had cut out of a woman’s petticoat, and over that again a large
collar, lined with ermine. A game-bag was slung at my side and held up
under the collar by a heavy piece of silver braid. This bag held many
precious things, among them a figure of Christ in gold and silver, a
china porcelain vase, both of which escaped the general wreck as if by a
miracle.... Then came my cross-belts, my arms, and sixty rounds of
cartridges in my pouch.”
The Russian witness, A. F. de B., gives the last touch to this
picture—“Every French officer had two or three carriages, and each took
with him a Russian or French woman; for a number of women had in one way
or another managed to follow the army. Some of them, suspecting the hard
fate that awaited them, changed their minds at the gates of the city and
returned. Others were robbed on the road of their horses, their
provisions, and their furs. These wretched beings lived to see their
children buried under the snow, and later on the greater number of them
perished miserably. Very few escaped, and not one of them was seen to
cross the frontier.”
Speaking of the women who accompanied the Grande Armée, Duverger relates
a characteristic episode—“We had orders to prevent any carriage from
getting between the guns. A magnificent carriage, drawn by four horses,
approached us rapidly. I signalled to the coachman to stop, but he
refused, and continued to drive on. My comrades and I seized the bridle,
and the carriage was close to the edge of a ditch when a young and
pretty woman put her head out of the window. Her handsome new clothes,
as well as the luxury which surrounded her, plainly showed that she
enjoyed the favour of some very important personage. She ordered us in
the name of the Emperor, and of the Major-General, to let her pass, but
we refused.”
After Malo Jaroslavetz the situation of the army became more and more
critical. On November 5, hand-mills, and rather heavy ones, too, were
served out to the Guard. It seemed like a practical joke, for there was
nothing to grind. The troops threw away these cumbersome and useless
utensils within twenty-four hours.
On the following day snow began to fall heavily. The men were blinded by
the flakes and numbed by the intense cold.
“Within a few nights,” writes Baron Fain, “everything is changed. Horses
fall by thousands, cavalrymen march on foot, the artillery are without
harness, the edge of the road is strewn with our unfortunate comrades.
An entire brigade under General Augereau, the brother of the marshal, is
surprised on the 9th, by the Cossacks of Orlov-Davidov and Seslavin, and
surrenders! Napoleon has still enough natural feeling to be moved by
this new misfortune. He sends General Baraguay d’Illiers—an old comrade
of the army of Italy, and one of his most distinguished generals—on to
France, with orders to remain under arrest in his own house until he can
be tried by court-martial.”
Prince Eugène reported the loss of all his artillery and ammunition. On
the road into Doukovstchina he met with a terrible disaster crossing the
little river Vop. The scene is dramatically described by Labaume—“There
was a general panic, for in spite of the efforts made to keep the
Russians in check, we knew but too surely that they were advancing. The
prevailing panic, moreover, increased our danger. The river, being only
half frozen, would not bear the weight of the wagons and droshkies which
contained our few remaining provisions. Every one then struggled to
transfer his most precious possessions from the wagons to the horses’
backs. No sooner were the horses out of a cart than a crowd of soldiers,
without giving the owners time to rescue their effects, began to plunder
it. Their search was particularly keen for flour and wine.... The cries
of those who were crossing the river, the terror of those who were
preparing for the plunge from the steep and slippery bank, the distress
of the women, the weeping of children, and the panic of the soldiers
themselves, made the passage of this river so harrowing a scene that it
is impossible to recall it without a shudder. For a whole league around,
on the edge of the road and the banks of the river, lay abandoned guns,
caissons and elegant carriages that had come from Moscow. On every side
lay articles that had been flung from the wagons; they were of course
especially conspicuous on the dazzling snow. There were candelabra,
bronze antiques, old masters, and rare and costly porcelain services.”
“On every side reigned terror and despair,” says Bourgeois. “Safety
seemed to lie only in flight, and of course no one wished to be the
last. If the crowd jostled you beneath the wheels of the carriages, you
might abandon all hope of the horses pulling up and allowing you to
extricate yourself. No one would listen to your cries. In the throng it
was impossible to distinguish generals from common soldiers; they were
dressed like scarecrows, in tattered garments, suffering the pangs of
cold and hunger, and reduced to beg favours of the soldiers under their
command.”
Chambray relates, for instance—“One day when some soldiers were warming
themselves round a fire, a general came up half dead with cold, and
begged for a place. No one vouchsafed a word in reply, and it was only
on his repeating his petition that one of the men answered—‘All right,
if you’ll fetch another log.’
“Lawlessness and insubordination reached their climax; there was no
thought of discipline, and obedience was out of the question. All
distinctions of rank were levelled—we were a wretched mass of shrunken,
decivilized humanity. When some poor wretch, wearied with the long
struggle, fell at last, a prey to his miseries, his neighbours, fully
assured that all was over with him, and that he would never rise again,
flung themselves upon their wretched comrade, before the breath was out
of his body, and stripped him of the remnants of his clothing. In a few
moments he would be left naked on the ground, to die a lingering and
painful death. One might often see the spectral semblance of a man
dragging himself painfully along to reach the halting-place, striving
his utmost to put one leg before the other, until he realized at last
that his strength was leaving him. A deep groan would be heard, the
man’s eyes would fill with tears, his legs would begin to fail him, he
would totter along for a few yards, swaying from side to side, then fall
to the ground, never to rise again. If the poor wretch’s body fell
across the road, his comrades would step indifferently over it as if
nothing had occurred.
“The courage of which the troops had at first afforded so many signal
proofs, gave place to the most hopeless cowardice. They had no thought
but of flight. The idea of defending themselves never seemed to occur to
them. In many instances they refused to raise a hand to save their own
lives.
“At the approach of a handful of Cossacks, or a band of peasants with
clubs, there was a general stampede. Even those who carried muskets
would fling them away in order to run the more quickly. Those who were
taken prisoners never dreamed of resistance—a company of Grenadiers
would fall an easy prey to these unarmed peasants.”
“The Cossacks and the militia,” says the author of _The War of 1812_,
“were more formidable to the captives than the regular forces.” The
Russian generals did all that was in their power to restrain their
ferocity, but their animosity was such that the officers would have had
to be everywhere at once in order to save the prisoners.
“It was like marching over an endless battle-field,” says Fezensac.
“Some lay in the snow with frost-bitten limbs; others fell asleep and
perished in the burning villages. I remember a private in my battalion
who acted like a drunken man. He marched at our side without recognizing
any of his comrades, asked after his regiment, named the men of his
company, and yet conversed with them as if they were complete strangers.
He swayed from side to side as he walked, and his expression was dazed
and wandering....
“The soldiers, blinded by the whirl of drifting snow, could not even
distinguish the road, and often fell into ditches which became their
graves. Ill-shod and worse clad, without meat or drink, huddled and
shivering, hardly able to move a limb, they pressed forward at all
costs, without paying the slightest attention to those who were failing,
falling, and dying around them. Alas! what a mass of poor wretches there
was upon that road, perishing of sheer exhaustion, yet still struggling
to ward off the approach of death! Some cried ‘Farewell’ to their
brethren and comrades, some with their last breath murmured the names of
their mothers and their homes. The cold soon stiffened their limbs and
struck into the very marrow of their bones. The place where they fell
was marked only by little heaps of snow along the wayside, covering
their bodies like the hillocks in the churchyard.
“Flocks of carrion rose up from the valleys and hovered in the air above
them, uttering cries of ill omen. The innumerable dogs which had
followed the army from Moscow, fattening on carrion, slunk around and
howled on every side, awaiting fresh prey.”
It should be mentioned that when the retreat began most of the men had
furs of different kinds, but in the nightly bivouacs, the snow, melted
by the heat of the fires, soaked them through and through, and they
afterwards froze again into solid blocks of ice. The result of the
alternate freezing and thawing was that at last the fur rotted away and
dropped off, and nothing was left of the splendid sables and ermines but
a few wretched brown rags.
Stragglers who had deserted from their regiments were repulsed wherever
they went, and could find no place in the bivouacs. One can imagine the
plight of these poor wretches. Tortured with hunger they flung
themselves on every horse that fell, and fought like savage dogs over
the carcase. Exhausted with long marches and want of sleep, they could
find in the snow no rest for their weary limbs. Half dead with cold,
they wandered in every direction, searching the snow for fuel, and even
when they were successful, the sodden wood was difficult to kindle and
the fire was easily extinguished by the wind. “Then they huddled
together like cattle,” says an eye-witness, “around birches and pines,
or under carts. Sometimes they would set fire to the houses in which the
officers had taken refuge, and sit motionless through the night around
these monster bonfires.”
The soldiers’ frost-bitten limbs were covered with sores, which turned
into black patches when they warmed them at the fire, and he was a lucky
man who could boast of having escaped frost-bite altogether.
In their miseries they forgot their booty. “The road was covered,” says
Duverger, “with useless plunder, which they had flung away. The famous
chest of quinine was left to its fate. I tried to sell my pictures, but
no one seemed to want them. I gave my furs away for nothing. The man who
brought away the library was struck with the happy thought of selling it
in lots, but no one would make a bid.”
They had even to abandon the famous trophies from Moscow, casting them
into Lake Semlefsky, between Gjatsk and Mikhailov. The guns, the various
knights’ trappings, and the ornaments from the Kremlin were buried close
by. Ségur says that the famous cross from the belfry of John the Great
was also sunk in the lake, but according to other authorities it was
dragged on as far as the first post-house beyond Vilna. “How did it
happen,” he asks, “that nothing had been provided for before the army
left Moscow? How was it that these masses of soldiers who died of cold
and starvation, were found laden with gold and silver instead of the
food and clothing they required? How was it that during a rest of
thirty-three days they never thought of roughing the horses’ feet so
that they might get along with more speed and safety? How was it that,
even if Napoleon himself gave no orders, these obvious precautions did
not occur to the other authorities—the kings, princes, and marshals?
Were they not aware that even in Russia autumn is followed by winter?
Can we suppose that Napoleon relied upon the sagacity of his men, and
left them to look after themselves?
“Was he perhaps misled by his experience of campaigning in Poland, where
the winter is no more severe than in France? Was he deceived by those
sunny October days, which surprised even the Russians themselves? What
midsummer madness was it that scattered the wits of Napoleon and his
army? What mist was it that obscured their vision? What was the resource
on which they counted? Even if all heads were turned by the notion of
concluding a treaty of peace within the walls of Moscow, they had still
in any case to march back again. Yet not the slightest preparation was
made even for the most peaceful return.”
“At last,” continues Ségur, “the army cast its eyes once more upon
Smolensk. Before them lay the promised land, where the hungry should be
filled and the weary be at rest, where they were to lie in warm and
comfortable rooms and forget their nightly bivouacs in forty degrees of
frost. ‘Now,’ they thought, ‘we can sleep as long as we wish, mend our
clothes, and provide ourselves with boots!’ But the skeletons of horses
lying in the streets show that even here there is a scarcity of
provender. Broken doors and window-frames serve as fuel for camp-fires,
and the warm houses and promised winter quarters—where are they? The
sick and wounded lie neglected in the street, in the vans in which they
arrived. This is but another camp, still colder than the forests through
which the march has hitherto lain.
“The greatest care was needed to prevent detachments of the different
corps from coming to blows at the doors of the store-houses. When the
rations were at last served out the soldiers refused to carry them to
their various regiments. They sprang eagerly upon the sacks, seized a
few pounds of flour and bore it off to gorge themselves. The same thing
happened with the brandy. Next day the houses were filled with the
bodies of these poor wretches, dead of their surfeit of food and drink.
It was evident that Smolensk, which the army had regarded as the end of
its sufferings, was but the beginning. An endless vista of misery opened
out before it. There remained forty more days of marching—forty more
such days as they had already experienced.”
The Emperor arrived on November 9, when their despair was at its height.
He locked himself in a house in the market-place, and left it on the
14th, to continue his retreat. He had been counting on a fortnight’s
full rations for a force of 100,000 men, and he found only half that
quantity in flour, rice, and brandy—meat there was none.
“Ever since Napoleon arrived,” writes the author of _The War of 1812_,
“I have been engaged in serving out rations to the troops of the various
corps. I am afraid that the seven sentries who keep guard over me day
and night will hardly manage to save me from being torn to pieces by the
famishing soldiers.... Some of the very highest officers broke one of my
windows the other night and climbed in.”
Every eye-witness speaks of the bitter disappointment of the soldiers at
Smolensk.
“Our horror,” says Labaume, “was indescribable when we first learned on
the outskirts of Smolensk that the 9th Army Corps had already marched
on, that the troops were not to stay at Smolensk, and that such
provisions as there were had already been exhausted. Had a thunder-bolt
fallen at our feet, we could not have been more astounded than at this
news; it was so overwhelming that we refused to believe it. We soon
found out, however, that downright famine prevailed in the town—the town
which we had pictured a veritable Land of Promise.”
Those soldiers who could find no quarters lay in the streets; and within
a few hours they would be found dead by their fires. The hospitals, the
churches, and all the public buildings were crowded with the sick who
flocked thither in thousands. Those who could find no room were left to
die in the vans and on the caissons and gun-carriages on which they had
been brought.
“One Cuirassier,” says an eye-witness, “moaning with hunger, flung
himself upon the flayed body of a dead horse, thrust his head in between
the naked ribs, and began tearing out the entrails with his teeth. So
fierce were the pangs they suffered that the Russians found dead bodies
of Frenchmen half devoured by their comrades.”
They left 5000 sick and wounded in Smolensk without provisions of any
kind. The doctors and officials charged with the duty of attending upon
them took to flight, in fear of being massacred or taken prisoners.
Chambray is our authority for saying that, contrary to custom, the sick
were not even commended to the generosity of the enemy—they were simply
abandoned as so much useless rubbish.
“The war now became so barbarous,” says the author of _The War of 1812_,
“that it is impossible to imagine within what limits an enemy whose
wrath has been aroused by wholesale ruin and destruction will confine
his vengeance. Before planning the cruel and wanton destruction of
Moscow and Smolensk, the French should have remembered that they were
leaving 10,000 of their men in the hospitals and on the road as hostages
in the hands of the enemy.”
“When they found themselves left to perish of starvation,” writes René
Bourgeois, “compelled to shift for themselves, these poor wretches
crawled about the fields digging up roots and picking up the refuse of
cabbages and other vegetables. They lay about on rotten grass and straw,
on rags and scraps; they were covered with vermin and filth and
surrounded by the decomposing bodies of their comrades. For a distance
of eighty leagues the road was impassable; one had, so to speak, to cut
a way through corpses and _débris_ of every kind. At every halting-place
were huge cemeteries, miscalled hospitals, which made their presence
known for miles around by their nauseating odour due to the heaps of
unburied dead, and the filth of every sort that lay weltering in foul
pools.”
The fugitives, too, were covered with every sort of vermin. The stench
that arose from these living corpses was due both to their disorders,
and the fact that through dread of the cold they never removed their
clothing for any purpose whatever. Their hands were smeared with horses’
blood, and their faces and tattered garments reeked with its effluvium.
Many whose faces and arms were frost-bitten resembled the rounded
figures of ivory chessmen.
“What I dreaded most,” says a German writer, “was the approach of night;
not so much because our sufferings were greatly intensified at night, as
because when we halted all the soldiers collected together and huddled
close to one another so as to keep as warm as circumstances would
permit. In the general silence one might hear on different sides,
sometimes on all sides at once, the dull thud of men and horses falling
on to the frozen ground, dead of cold and privation.”
“In one encampment,” says Bourgogne, “I was horrified to find that all
the men and horses were dead and already covered with snow. The men’s
bodies lay in the most natural manner round the camp-fires, and the
horses remained harnessed to the guns. There were five men snarling and
fighting like dogs—on one side lay the hindleg of a horse, the subject
of their dispute.
“They had been buoyed up by the expectation of finding food and lodging
in Smolensk, but now they had no further hope; they marched along
mechanically wherever they were led, and halted when others halted.”
“A veteran Chasseur,” says the same author, “who had wrapped his
frost-bitten extremities in strips of sheep-skin, sat down by our fire.
He cursed the name of the Emperor Alexander, and he cursed Russia and
all the saints; then he asked whether any brandy had been served out.
When he heard the answer—‘No, none has been served out, and none will
be,’ he exclaimed—‘Well, there is but one thing left, and that is
death!’
“On the road we came upon a Hussar in his death agony, now rising to his
feet, now falling to the ground again. We tried to help him along, but
he fell again, and for the last time. Further on we came upon three men
engaged upon a fallen horse. Two were standing up, reeling so fearfully
that they looked like drunken men. The third, a German, lay across the
horse—the poor devil, half dead with hunger and too feeble to cut a
piece off, was trying to bite out a mouthful, but he died in the
endeavour.”
The unfortunate women who still managed to drag on a miserable existence
suffered, if possible, still more. “Throughout this terrible march,”
says Madame Fusil, “I said to myself each day that I should probably not
see the end of it; but I could not tell by what death I should die. When
we halted and camped in the hope of warming ourselves and eating
something, we generally sat on the bodies of those who had fallen
victims to the cold, settling ourselves upon them with as little concern
as if they were so many sofas. All day long one might hear people
exclaiming—‘Great heavens, my purse has been stolen!’ or ‘my bag,’ or
‘my bread,’ or ‘my horse.’ It was just the same with every one, from
generals to privates. People were perpetually trying to push their way
through the crowd, with—‘Room for Marshal So-and-so’s carriage!’ or ‘His
Excellency So-and-so’s,’ or ‘General So-and-so’s.’ When there was a
bridge to be crossed, generals and colonels would range themselves on
either side, in spite of the general confusion, so as to expedite the
passage of their own vehicles as much as possible, for the Cossacks were
never far off.”
“The Frenchwomen who had fled from Moscow to escape the vengeance of the
Russians,” says Labaume, “and who had counted on perfect safety in our
midst, presented a most pitiable spectacle. Most of them had to go on
foot, shod in summer shoes and clad in the flimsiest of silks and
satins, in torn fur cloaks and military great-coats taken from the
shoulders of the dead. Their plight would have been enough to wring
tears from the hardest heart had not every sentiment of sympathy been
stifled by each man’s individual privations.
“Of all the victims of this war, not one presents such an interesting
figure as the young and lovely Fanny. Modest, amiable, and witty, a
talented linguist, adorned with qualities calculated to captivate the
least impressionable—she was reduced to begging for the slightest
services almost upon her knees, and compelled to pay for every crust of
bread at the price of her shame. Her benefactors abused their position
to demand the most debasing return for the nourishment they afforded
her. I saw her at Smolensk unable to walk, clinging to a horse’s tail,
until she fell at last upon the snow, and there she probably remained,
her fate provoking no sign of sympathy or look of pity.”
“The unhappy P.,” continues Labaume, “still succeeded in keeping up with
us, sharing with servile fidelity in our sorrows and privations. The
story of this unfortunate girl is worth narrating. Whether she had lost
herself, or whether her romantic spirit prompted her to seek for
adventure, I do not know, but she was found secreted in the crypt of the
Cathedral of St. Michael. They brought her to one of the French
generals, who took her under his protection. He afterwards pretended to
be in love with her, and made her his mistress under promise of
marriage. With the true heroism of virtue she suffered every misery and
privation. She was about to become a mother, and was proud of her
condition and of her fidelity in following her husband. But when the man
on whose promises she relied learned that the army was not to stay at
Smolensk, he resolved to sever a tie which he had never regarded
otherwise than as a pastime. This black-hearted scoundrel, whose bosom
was closed to every sentiment of pity, announced to the innocent girl,
under some plausible pretext, that they must part. The unhappy creature
uttered a cry of despair. She declared that having sacrificed her home
and her good name for one whom she already regarded as her lawful
husband, she looked upon it as her duty to follow him to the world’s
end—that neither fatigue nor danger should deter her in her resolution
to cling to the man she loved.
“The general, unmoved by her fidelity, curtly repeated that they must
part—in the first place because circumstances rendered it impossible to
maintain women on the march; and secondly, because he was already
married; in short, she had best return to Moscow, where no doubt a
handsome sweetheart awaited her. The wretched girl was stricken dumb
with despair at this announcement. Pale as death, paler than when they
found her among the vaults of the Cathedral in the Kremlin, she was
unable for many minutes to open her lips. Then she began to weep and
moan, and, overwhelmed with grief, she fell into a swoon, of which her
betrayer availed himself—not to escape a trying farewell, but to fly
from the Russians whose cries were drawing nearer and nearer.”
[Illustration: _French Fugitives._]
“The scarcity of fodder for the horses,” says René Bourgeois, “was
appalling. Handfuls of decaying straw, the broken and trampled remnants
of former bivouacs, or thatch torn from the roofs of what few huts
remained, furnished all their provender, and they perished in the camp
by thousands. The sheets of ice that covered the roads gave them their
_coup de grâce_—in a short time the cavalry was a thing of the past, and
dismounted horsemen swelled the ranks of the pedestrians. The regiments
became hopelessly mixed up, order and discipline were no longer
maintained. The soldiers took no notice of their officers, and the
officers took no thought for the soldiers, every one plodded along at
his own sweet will.
“This disorderly rabble was clad in the most extraordinary garments—in
the skins and hides of various animals, in women’s petticoats of every
conceivable hue, in great shawls, in scraps of blankets, in old
horse-cloths with a hole in the middle for the head, and hanging down
all round. As their boots were gone, their feet were wrapped in tattered
rags and shreds of felt and sheep-skin, tied up with bits of straw....
Above these vermin-infested rags were to be seen sunken faces black with
the smoke of camp-fires, smeared with all manner of filth—faces on which
were imprinted horror, despair, and the haunting terror of hunger, cold,
and all their other ills. There was no centre or flank; the whole army
was huddled into a heap, with no cavalry or artillery, and moved
forward, baggage and all, in indescribable confusion.”
* * * * *
At last the French army arrived at the Beresina, where it must have been
annihilated but for the folly of the Russian General Chichagof, who had
been directed to cut off its retreat.
“It must be admitted,” says René Bourgeois, “that throughout the
campaign the Russians made the most astounding blunders. At the
Beresina, in particular, they might have taken the whole French army
prisoner without spilling a drop of blood. Our escape was due solely to
the incapacity of the Russian commander, Admiral Chichagof, who took
over the command of the army of Moldavia from Kutuzof.... He was a young
courtier, self-confident and vain, who enjoyed the fullest confidence
and favour of the Emperor Alexander.”
A perusal of the despatches which this youthful favourite wrote, with
the pompous French periods, the confident and condescending criticisms
of anybody and everybody, not even excepting Kutuzof, enables us to
appreciate his fatuity and incompetence.
The French, having hoodwinked the Russian general—or rather,
admiral—proceeded to throw bridges over the Beresina.
“_Esprit de corps_ in the different arms of the service,” says Marbot,
“is of course worthy of all honour, but it does no harm now and then to
moderate it under certain circumstances. This was a task beyond the
powers of those in command of the artillery and engineers at the passage
of the Beresina; for sappers and gunners each insisted that they alone,
and no others, were going to build the bridges. The result was that the
work remained at a complete standstill until the Emperor, who arrived on
the 26/14, settled the dispute by ordering the artillery to build one
bridge and the engineers the other.”
“Who shall number the victims of this passage,” says S. U., “or describe
the scenes of horror and destruction? Amid inconceivable confusion the
Emperor endeavoured to facilitate the passage by ordering a multitude of
vehicles to be burned under his own eyes; the Prince of Neufchâtel led
several horses over with his own hands.”
“One’s pen,” says Constant, “simply refuses to depict the scenes of
horror that were witnessed at the Beresina. Vehicles of all kinds drove
up to the bridge literally over heaps of bodies that lay blocking up the
road. Whole crowds of wretched soldiers fell into the river and perished
among the blocks of ice. Others clung to the planks of the bridge,
suspended over the abyss, until the wheels of the carts passed over
their fingers and compelled them to relinquish their hold. Caissons,
wagons, drivers, and horses went down together.”
“One woman was seen,” says de B., “caught between the blocks of ice,
holding up her baby in the air and imploring the passers-by to save it
from a watery grave.”
[Illustration: NEY AND THE STAFF.]
“I saw soldiers,” says the author of the _Journal de la Guerre_,
“clinging to their neighbours to save themselves from falling. I saw the
feeble, tottering as they went, yet still pressing feverishly forward,
jostling one another so that whole rows of them fell into the water
together, toppling over like houses of cards. If a Cossack showed
himself, or any one repeated the word ‘Cossack’ two or three times, the
whole army of fugitives were seized with such panic that they dashed
hither and thither, backwards and forwards, slipping and falling
headlong into the river.”
* * * * *
Beyond the Beresina the cold became even more severe. The whole country
round was covered with snow. Even the villages, buried in the drifts, no
longer broke the monotony of the horizon, and they could only be
distinguished by the smoke and flame of burning houses fired by the
inhabitants or by fugitives from the French army.
“The soldiers,” says Ségur, “were perpetually burning down whole houses,
merely for the sake of warming themselves for a few minutes at the
blaze. The glare would attract some poor creatures who had partly lost
their wits through cold and privation. Grinding their teeth, and yelling
with unearthly laughter, they would leap into and perish in the flames,
while their comrades looked on with calm unconcerned countenances. The
bystanders sometimes pulled out their burnt and disfigured bodies and,
horrible to relate, devoured them.”
“The road was so thickly covered with dead and dying,” says the author
of the _Journal de la Guerre_, “that one had to exercise the greatest
care to avoid treading on them. Marching, as we were, in a compact mass,
one had no choice but to step on or over these poor wretches who lay
writhing in their death agony. One could hear the death rattle in their
throats, but it was useless to think of giving them any assistance.”
“In the sheds by the roadside,” says Ségur, “were to be seen spectacles
of indescribable horror. Many of our men who sheltered there for the
night found their comrades in the morning frozen by scores around the
remains of the fires. In order to get out of these charnel-houses one
had to clamber over heaps of poor wretches, many of whom were still
breathing.”
“I could never understand,” says Constant, “why in our wretched plight
we must needs continue to play the _rôle_ of conquerors, and drag
captives along with us, to the infinite discomfort of our own men. The
unfortunate Russians, half dead with fatigue and famine, were herded
together in a large open space like cattle. A multitude of them died in
the night; the rest sat huddled together for the sake of warmth. Those
who died of the cold continued to sit cheek by jowl with the living.
Some of the prisoners ate the bodies of their dead comrades.”
It is interesting to note that all this went on within a few yards of
Napoleon’s head-quarters—a wooden house, the windows of which had to be
stuffed with hay and straw.
When Napoleon left the troops, their confusion, and consequently their
misery, became, if possible, worse than before. The army needed the arm
of a giant to help it to bear its miseries, but meanwhile the giant
abandoned it. On the very first night one of the generals refused to
obey orders, and the Marshal in command of the rear-guard had to attend
the King’s head-quarters almost alone. Round these head-quarters lay all
that was left of the Grande Armée, 3000 files of the Old and Young
Guard. When Napoleon’s departure became known, discipline suffered a
severe blow, even among these seasoned veterans.
“There were some among them who had covered two hundred leagues without
daring to look back; _sauve qui peut_ was the order of the day.
“All that were left of the baggage-wagons after the passage of the
Beresina, including the Emperor’s, had to be finally abandoned near the
Tamari post-house at the foot of an ice-covered declivity on the further
side of Vilna. The continual arrival of more vehicles behind those that
had been abandoned intensified the prevailing lawlessness and disorder.
Russians and French were soon mingled in an inextinguishable crowd round
the wagon-loads of French treasure.”
“Every one,” says the author of the _Journal de la Guerre_, “took what
he pleased from the contents of the carriages and carts. I saw wagons
full of gold and silver looted in the middle of the road, partly by
Frenchmen, partly by Cossacks, without any display of hostility between
them. I made my way into the midst of them, and not one of the Russians
attempted to molest me.”
At the Russian frontier, two kings, one prince, eight marshals, a few
generals and officers, roaming aimlessly about, together with a few men
of the Old Guard who still carried muskets, were all that remained of
the Grande Armée.
[Illustration: Printer's decoration]
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