I would have a stronger wine to-night, my friends, a wine of Burgundy
rather than of Bordeaux. It is that my heart, my old soldier heart, is
heavy within me. It is a strange thing, this age which creeps upon one.
One does not know, one does not understand; the spirit is ever the same,
and one does not remember how the poor body crumbles. But there comes a
moment when it is brought home, when quick as the sparkle of a whirling
sabre it is clear to us, and we see the men we were and the men we
are. Yes, yes, it was so to-day, and I would have a wine of Burgundy
to-night. White Burgundy--Montrachet--Sir, I am your debtor!
It was this morning in the Champ de Mars. Your pardon, friends, while
an old man tells his trouble. You saw the review. Was it not splendid? I
was in the enclosure for veteran officers who have been decorated.
This ribbon on my breast was my passport. The cross itself I keep at
home in a leathern pouch. They did us honour, for we were placed at the
saluting point, with the Emperor and the carriages of the Court upon our
right.
It is years since I have been to a review, for I cannot approve of many
things which I have seen. I do not approve of the red breeches of the
infantry. It was in white breeches that the infantry used to fight. Red
is for the cavalry. A little more, and they would ask our busbies and
our spurs! Had I been seen at a review they might well have said that I,
Etienne Gerard, had condoned it. So I have stayed at home. But this war
of the Crimea is different. The men go to battle.
It is not for me to be absent when brave men gather.
My faith, they march well, those little infantrymen!
They are not large, but they are very solid and they carry themselves
well. I took off my hat to them as they passed. Then there came the
guns. They were good guns, well horsed and well manned. I took off my
hat to them. Then came the Engineers, and to them also I took off my
hat. There are no braver men than the Engineers. Then came the cavalry,
Lancers, Cuirassiers, Chasseurs, and Spahis. To all of them in turn I
was able to take off my hat, save only to the Spahis.
The Emperor had no Spahis. But when all of the others had passed, what
think you came at the close? A brigade of Hussars, and at the charge!
Oh, my friends, the pride and the glory and the beauty, the flash and
the sparkle, the roar of the hoofs and the jingle of chains, the tossing
manes, the noble heads, the rolling cloud, and the dancing waves of
steel! My heart drummed to them as they passed. And the last of all,
was it not my own old regiment? My eyes fell upon the grey and silver
dolmans, with the leopard-skin shabraques, and at that instant the years
fell away from me and I saw my own beautiful men and horses, even as
they had swept behind their young colonel, in the pride of our youth and
our strength, just forty years ago. Up flew my cane. “Chargez! En avant!
Vive l'Empereur!”
It was the past calling to the present. But oh, what a thin, piping
voice! Was this the voice that had once thundered from wing to wing of
a strong brigade? And the arm that could scarce wave a cane, were these
the muscles of fire and steel which had no match in all Napoleon's
mighty host? They smiled at me. They cheered me. The Emperor laughed and
bowed. But to me the present was a dim dream, and what was real were my
eight hundred dead Hussars and the Etienne of long ago.
Enough--a brave man can face age and fate as he faced Cossacks and
Uhlans. But there are times when Montrachet is better than the wine of
Bordeaux.
It is to Russia that they go, and so I will tell you a story of Russia.
Ah, what an evil dream of the night it seems! Blood and ice. Ice and
blood. Fierce faces with snow upon the whiskers. Blue hands held out
for succour. And across the great white plain the one long black line
of moving figures, trudging, trudging, a hundred miles, another hundred,
and still always the same white plain. Sometimes there were fir-woods
to limit it, sometimes it stretched away to the cold blue sky, but the
black line stumbled on and on. Those weary, ragged, starving men, the
spirit frozen out of them, looked neither to right nor left, but with
sunken faces and rounded backs trailed onward and ever onward, making
for France as wounded beasts make for their lair. There was no speaking,
and you could scarce hear the shuffle of feet in the snow. Once only I
heard them laugh. It was outside Wilna, when an aide-de-camp rode up to
the head of that dreadful column and asked if that were the Grand Army.
All who were within hearing looked round, and when they saw those broken
men, those ruined regiments, those fur-capped skeletons who were once
the Guard, they laughed, and the laugh crackled down the column like a
feu de joie. I have heard many a groan and cry and scream in my life,
but nothing so terrible as the laugh of the Grand Army.
But why was it that these helpless men were not destroyed by the
Russians? Why was it that they were not speared by the Cossacks or
herded into droves, and driven as prisoners into the heart of Russia? On
every side as you watched the black snake winding over the snow you
saw also dark, moving shadows which came and went like cloud drifts on
either flank and behind. They were the Cossacks, who hung round us like
wolves round the flock.
But the reason why they did not ride in upon us was that all the ice of
Russia could not cool the hot hearts of some of our soldiers. To the end
there were always those who were ready to throw themselves between these
savages and their prey. One man above all rose greater as the danger
thickened, and won a higher name amid disaster than he had done when he
led our van to victory. To him I drink this glass--to Ney, the red-maned
Lion, glaring back over his shoulder at the enemy who feared to tread
too closely on his heels. I can see him now, his broad white face
convulsed with fury, his light blue eyes sparkling like flints, his
great voice roaring and crashing amid the roll of the musketry. His
glazed and featherless cocked hat was the ensign upon which France
rallied during those dreadful days.
It is well known that neither I nor the regiment of Hussars of Conflans
were at Moscow. We were left behind on the lines of communication
at Borodino. How the Emperor could have advanced without us is
incomprehensible to me, and, indeed, it was only then that I understood
that his judgment was weakening and that he was no longer the man that
he had been. However, a soldier has to obey orders, and so I remained
at this village, which was poisoned by the bodies of thirty thousand men
who had lost their lives in the great battle. I spent the late autumn in
getting my horses into condition and reclothing my men, so that when the
army fell back on Borodino my Hussars were the best of the cavalry, and
were placed under Ney in the rear-guard.
What could he have done without us during those dreadful days? “Ah,
Gerard,” said he one evening--but it is not for me to repeat the words.
Suffice it that he spoke what the whole army felt. The rear-guard
covered the army and the Hussars of Conflans covered the rear-guard.
There was the whole truth in a sentence.
Always the Cossacks were on us. Always we held them off. Never a day
passed that we had not to wipe our sabres. That was soldiering indeed.
But there came a time between Wilna and Smolensk when the situation
became impossible. Cossacks and even cold we could fight, but we could
not fight hunger as well. Food must be got at all costs. That night Ney
sent for me to the waggon in which he slept. His great head was sunk on
his hands. Mind and body he was wearied to death.
“Colonel Gerard,” said he, “things are going very badly with us. The men
are starving. We must have food at all costs.”
“The horses,” I suggested.
“Save your handful of cavalry; there are none left.”
“The band,” said I.
He laughed, even in his despair.
“Why the band?” he asked.
“Fighting men are of value.”
“Good,” said he. “You would play the game down to the last card and so
would I. Good, Gerard, good!”
He clasped my hand in his. “But there is one chance for us yet, Gerard.”
He unhooked a lantern from the roof of the waggon and he laid it on
a map which was stretched before him. “To the south of us,” said he,
“there lies the town of Minsk. I have word from a Russian deserter that
much corn has been stored in the town-hall. I wish you to take as many
men as you think best, set forth for Minsk, seize the corn, load any
carts which you may collect in the town, and bring them to me between
here and Smolensk. If you fail it is but a detachment cut off. If you
succeed it is new life to the army.”
He had not expressed himself well, for it was evident that if we failed
it was not merely the loss of a detachment. It is quality as well as
quantity which counts.
And yet how honourable a mission and how glorious a risk! If mortal men
could bring it, then the corn should come from Minsk. I said so, and
spoke a few burning words about a brave man's duty until the Marshal was
so moved that he rose and, taking me affectionately by the shoulders,
pushed me out of the waggon.
It was clear to me that in order to succeed in my enterprise I should
take a small force and depend rather upon surprise than upon numbers.
A large body could not conceal itself, would have great difficulty in
getting food, and would cause all the Russians around us to concentrate
for its certain destruction. On the other hand, if a small body of
cavalry could get past the Cossacks unseen it was probable that they
would find no troops to oppose them, for we knew that the main Russian
army was several days' march behind us. This corn was meant, no doubt,
for their consumption. A squadron of Hussars and thirty Polish Lancers
were all whom I chose for the venture. That very night we rode out of
the camp, and struck south in the direction of Minsk.
Fortunately there was but a half moon, and we were able to pass without
being attacked by the enemy. Twice we saw great fires burning amid the
snow, and around them a thick bristle of long poles. These were the
lances of Cossacks, which they had stood upright while they slept. It
would have been a great joy to us to have charged in amongst them, for
we had much to revenge, and the eyes of my comrades looked longingly
from me to those red flickering patches in the darkness. My faith, I was
sorely tempted to do it, for it would have been a good lesson to teach
them that they must keep a few miles between themselves and a French
army. It is the essence of good generalship, however, to keep one thing
before one at a time, and so we rode silently on through the snow,
leaving these Cossack bivouacs to right and left. Behind us the black
sky was all mottled with a line of flame which showed where our own poor
wretches were trying to keep themselves alive for another day of misery
and starvation.
All night we rode slowly onward, keeping our horses' tails to the Pole
Star. There were many tracks in the snow, and we kept to the line of
these, that no one might remark that a body of cavalry had passed that
way.
These are the little precautions which mark the experienced officer.
Besides, by keeping to the tracks we were most likely to find the
villages, and only in the villages could we hope to get food. The dawn
of day found us in a thick fir-wood, the trees so loaded with snow that
the light could hardly reach us. When we had found our way out of it it
was full daylight, the rim of the rising sun peeping over the edge of
the great snow-plain and turning it crimson from end to end. I halted
my Hussars and Lancers under the shadow of the wood, and I studied
the country. Close to us there was a small farm-house. Beyond, at the
distance of several miles, was a village. Far away on the sky-line
rose a considerable town all bristling with church towers. This must be
Minsk. In no direction could I see any signs of troops. It was evident
that we had passed through the Cossacks and that there was nothing
between us and our goal. A joyous shout burst from my men when I told
them our position, and we advanced rapidly toward the village.
I have said, however, that there was a small farm-house immediately in
front of us. As we rode up to it I observed that a fine grey horse
with a military saddle was tethered by the door. Instantly I galloped
forward, but before I could reach it a man dashed out of the door, flung
himself on to the horse, and rode furiously away, the crisp, dry snow
flying up in a cloud behind him. The sunlight gleamed upon his gold
epaulettes, and I knew that he was a Russian officer. He would raise the
whole country-side if we did not catch him. I put spurs to Violette and
flew after him. My troopers followed; but there was no horse among them
to compare with Violette, and I knew well that if I could not catch the
Russian I need expect no help from them.
But it is a swift horse indeed and a skilful rider who can hope to
escape from Violette with Etienne Gerard in the saddle. He rode well,
this young Russian, and his mount was a good one, but gradually we wore
him down.
His face glanced continually over his shoulder--dark, handsome face,
with eyes like an eagle--and I saw as I closed with him that he was
measuring the distance between us. Suddenly he half turned; there were a
flash and a crack as his pistol bullet hummed past my ear.
Before he could draw his sword I was upon him; but he still spurred
his horse, and the two galloped together over the plain, I with my leg
against the Russian's and my left hand upon his right shoulder. I saw
his hand fly up to his mouth. Instantly I dragged him across my pommel
and seized him by the throat, so that he could not swallow. His horse
shot from under him, but I held him fast and Violette came to a stand.
Sergeant Oudin of the Hussars was the first to join us. He was an old
soldier, and he saw at a glance what I was after.
“Hold tight, Colonel,” said he, “I'll do the rest.”
He slipped out his knife, thrust the blade between the clenched teeth of
the Russian, and turned it so as to force his mouth open. There, on his
tongue, was the little wad of wet paper which he had been so anxious to
swallow. Oudin picked it out and I let go of the man's throat. From the
way in which, half strangled as he was, he glanced at the paper I was
sure that it was a message of extreme importance. His hands twitched as
if he longed to snatch it from me. He shrugged his shoulders, however,
and smiled good-humouredly when I apologised for my roughness.
“And now to business,” said I, when he had done coughing and hawking.
“What is your name?”
“Alexis Barakoff.”
“Your rank and regiment?”
“Captain of the Dragoons of Grodno.”
“What is this note which you were carrying?”
“It is a line which I had written to my sweetheart.”
“Whose name,” said I, examining the address, “is the Hetman Platoff.
Come, come, sir, this is an important military document, which you are
carrying from one general to another. Tell me this instant what it is.”
“Read it and then you will know.” He spoke perfect French, as do most
of the educated Russians. But he knew well that there is not one French
officer in a thousand who knows a word of Russian. The inside of the
note contained one single line, which ran like this:--
“Pustj Franzuzy pridutt v Minsk. Min gotovy.”
I stared at it, and I had to shake my head. Then I showed it to my
Hussars, but they could make nothing of it. The Poles were all rough
fellows who could not read or write, save only the sergeant, who came
from Memel, in East Prussia, and knew no Russian. It was maddening, for
I felt that I had possession of some important secret upon which the
safety of the army might depend, and yet I could make no sense of it.
Again I entreated our prisoner to translate it, and offered him his
freedom if he would do so. He only smiled at my request.
I could not but admire him, for it was the very smile which I should
have myself smiled had I been in his position.
“At least,” said I, “tell us the name of this village.”
“It is Dobrova.”
“And that is Minsk over yonder, I suppose.”
“Yes, that is Minsk.”
“Then we shall go to the village and we shall very soon find some one
who will translate this despatch.”
So we rode onward together, a trooper with his carbine unslung on either
side of our prisoner. The village was but a little place, and I set a
guard at the ends of the single street, so that no one could escape from
it. It was necessary to call a halt and to find some food for the men
and horses, since they had travelled all night and had a long journey
still before them.
There was one large stone house in the centre of the village, and to
this I rode. It was the house of the priest--a snuffy and ill-favoured
old man who had not a civil answer to any of our questions. An uglier
fellow I never met, but, my faith, it was very different with his only
daughter, who kept house for him. She was a brunette, a rare thing in
Russia, with creamy skin, raven hair, and a pair of the most glorious
dark eyes that ever kindled at the sight of a Hussar. From the first
glance I saw that she was mine. It was no time for love-making when
a soldier's duty had to be done, but still, as I took the simple meal
which they laid before me, I chatted lightly with the lady, and we were
the best of friends before an hour had passed. Sophie was her first
name, her second I never knew. I taught her to call me Etienne, and I
tried to cheer her up, for her sweet face was sad and there were tears
in her beautiful dark eyes. I pressed her to tell me what it was which
was grieving her.
“How can I be otherwise,” said she, speaking French with a most adorable
lisp, “when one of my poor countrymen is a prisoner in your hands? I saw
him between two of your Hussars as you rode into the village.”
“It is the fortune of war,” said I. “His turn to-day; mine, perhaps,
to-morrow.”
“But consider, Monsieur--” said she.
“Etienne,” said I.
“Oh, Monsieur----”
“Etienne,” said I.
“Well, then,” she cried, beautifully flushed and desperate, “consider,
Etienne, that this young officer will be taken back to your army and
will be starved or frozen, for if, as I hear, your own soldiers have a
hard march, what will be the lot of a prisoner?”