Grangier came in, also in marching order. He arrived just in time to breakfast with me, as there was plenty of wine.
It was perhaps eight o'clock in the morning when we sat down to table; at half-past eleven we were still there, when Picart, who was just emptying his glass, stopped short, and said: 'Listen! I fancy I hear artillery!'
The noise indeed grew louder, the alarm sounded, the men ran to take up their arms. Madame Gentil rushed into the room exclaiming:
'Gentlemen, the Cossacks!'
'We are just going to make them dance,' said Picart.
Hurriedly I arranged my things, and directly afterwards I was embracing Madame Gentil, while Picart and Grangier, like proper soldiers, were emptying the last bottle. I tossed off a final glass, then rushed into the street behind my friends.
We had not taken thirty steps, when I heard someone calling me. I turned, and saw the fat Christian, who was making signs to me to stop, saying I had forgotten something. Madame Gentil was standing in the passage. As soon as she caught sight of me, she cried out:
'You have forgotten your little kettle.'
My poor little kettle that I had carried from Wilna, that I had bought from the Jew who tried to poison me—I had really not given it a thought. I went in to embrace this dear woman once more, who had nursed me and cared for me as if I had been her brother or her child. I told her to keep my kettle as a remembrance of me.
'You can use it to boil water in for tea, and every time you do so you will think of the young sergeant-vélite of the Guard. Farewell!'
I heard the roar of artillery still louder; again I rushed out into the street, this time not to return.
I caught sight of Grangier waiting impatiently for me on a little bridge. We took the shortest road along the quay to the place of muster. We had not been walking five minutes, when we saw Picart in the middle of the street, swearing in a rage, holding a Prussian down with his foot, and in front of him four Prussian soldiers commanded by a corporal under the orders of a police superintendent. The reason was this: several people had thrown snowballs at Picart in front of a café. He stopped, threatening to enter the house and have them arrested, but they took no notice; one of them, coming down into the street and advancing behind Picart, rested a billiard-cue on his shoulder, and began to cry: 'Hourra! Cossack!' Picart, turning rapidly, gripped hold of him and flung him flat on his face in the snow. Then, placing his right foot on his back, he fixed his bayonet, and, turning in the direction of the café, defied all those within.
The guard was fetched; Picart had in the meantime made his man understand that if he made the least movement he would be bayoneted. He said the same to those who were in the café; no one stirred, and then the guard came up with the superintendent of police.
The guard did not frighten Picart. He was just then like a lion holding his prey in his claws, and looking proudly at his hunters. He did not see us; the superintendent was trembling with fear. The women said, 'He is right; he was going quietly on his way, and they insulted him.'
Finally a Protestant minister, who had seen everything, and who spoke French, came forward and explained to the superintendent how the whole thing had happened. On this they told Picart that he might let the man go,that justice would be dealt him. Picart said, 'Get up!' He did not require to be told a second time.
When he had risen, Picart gave him a sound kick behind, saying, 'This is justice on my own account.' The man made off amid the hootings of all the women present, holding his hand to the place where he had been kicked.
Meanwhile the superintendent was exacting a fine of twenty-five francs from all those persons who had insulted Picart, as well as from the one who had had the kick. He pocketed half of it 'for the King,' he said, 'and to defray the expenses of justice.' The other half he presented to Picart, who at first refused, but on second thoughts offered half of it to the policemen, the other half to the Protestant minister, saying, 'If you should ever meet the wife of an old soldier, give her that from me.' We had to explain to them what Picart meant, for they could not understand so much disinterestedness on the part of a soldier. They would have liked to say flattering things to him; even the superintendent of police began jabbering compliments. We pursued our way in the direction of the palace, Grangier making remarks upon the Prussian character, Picart singing his refrain:
'Ah! tu t'en souviendras, la-ri-ra,Du départ de Boulogne!'
We reached the square, and we saw a regiment of negroes opposite the palace where Murat was staying. It was really comical to see the contrast of their faces against the snow-covered square. The officers commanding them were black also. I could not find out what route this corps took in the retreat, but I think they crossed the Vistula at Marienwerder.
The artillery had almost ceased firing; the Russians had been driven from the neighbourhood of the town by abody of fresh troops, who had not been on the Russian campaign. A little grape-shot scattered among their cavalry had been quite enough for them.
We were stopped by the service waggons of the different corps leaving the town. We were now near Picart's quarters, so he exclaimed, 'Halt, friends! I must say adieu to my landlady, and get my white cloak and the pipe and cap belonging to the deceased uncle, and there are still some bottles of wine under my straw bolster that we must empty.'
We went into the house and straight to his room without meeting anyone. Picart then got out five bottles, two of wine and three of Dantzig gin. He told us to each put one in our knapsacks, an order we obeyed at once. Then he called the landlady.
'Allow me to embrace you,' said Picart, 'and say adieu, for we are going.'
'So I suppose,' she said; 'and you will be hardly out of the town before the dirty Russians will come to take your place. What a pity! But before leaving us you must take something. You must not go away like this.'
And she went in search of two bottles of wine, some ham and bread, and we sat down to table.
Presently the noise of artillery was heard quite near. The woman cried, 'Jésus! Maria!' and we ran out.
I was a little in front of my two comrades. A few steps before me I saw a man I fancied I recognised, who had stopped. I went up and found I was not mistaken; it was the oldest man in the regiment, who had sword, musket, and cross of honour, and who had disappeared since December 24th—Père Elliot, who had been through the Egyptian campaign. He was in a pitiable condition: both his feet were frozen and wrapped in bits of sheepskin;his ears, also frozen, were covered with the same; his beard and moustache were bristling with icicles. I looked at him, so much surprised I was unable to speak.
At last I said, 'Well, Père Elliot, and here you are! And where the devil have you come from? And how you are dressed! You seem to be in terrible suffering.'
'Ah, my good friend,' said he, 'I have been a soldier now for twenty years, and I have never wept; but I am shedding tears to-day more from rage than misfortune, for I shall be taken by these brutes of Cossacks without being able to strike a blow. For nearly four weeks I have been going about alone, ever since the passage of the Niemen, all across the snow in a savage country, and unable to get any news about the army. I had two companions; one died a week ago, and the second is very likely dead, too. Four days ago I had to leave them in the house of some poor Poles, where we had been sleeping. I have travelled more than 400 leagues in the snow since leaving Moscow, unable to rest, my feet and my hands frozen, and even my nose.'
I saw great tears flowing from the old soldier's eyes.
Picart and Grangier just then rejoined me. Grangier recognised Père Elliot instantly; they belonged to the same company; but Picart, although he had known him for seventeen years,[72]could not remember him.
We entered the nearest house, and were made very welcome; it belonged to an old sailor, and these people are generally kind.
Picart made his old comrade in arms take a seat beside the fire; then, drawing one of the two bottles of wine from the pocket of his overcoat, he filled a big bumper.
'Come, my old comrade of the 23rd Brigade, swallowthis! Good! And now this! Very good! And now a morsel of bread, and you will feel better.'
Since leaving Moscow he had not tasted wine, nor eaten such good bread, and he seemed to forget his miseries at once. The sailor's wife bathed his face with a linen cloth soaked in warm water; this melted the icicles on his beard and moustache.
'And now,' said Picart, 'we'll have a little chat. Do you remember when we embarked at Toulon on our way to Egypt?...'
Grangier, meanwhile, had been out to see if the march had begun again, and now came in to tell us that a conveyance, laden with heavy baggage belonging to Murat, had stopped before the door. A fine chance for Père Elliot. He must get into it at once. 'Forward!' cried Picart; and with the help of the sailor we soon had the old sergeant perched on the vehicle.
Picart put the other bottle of wine between his knees, and the white mantle over his back to keep him from the cold. Shortly afterwards we began to march, and half an hour later we were outside Elbing.
The same day we crossed the Vistula on the ice, and marched on, without accident, till four o'clock, when we halted at a large town where Marshal Mortier, who was in command, decided we should spend the night.
I have not written my memoirs either out of vanity or from a desire to talk about myself. I have merely wished to recall the memory of this gigantic campaign, so fatal to us and those fellow-soldiers who went through it with me. Their ranks, alas! are thinning day by day. The facts I have related appear incredible, sometimes impossible; but no one must imagine I have added anything which is not true, or have tried to make my narrative interestingby embellishing it. On the contrary, I must ask my readers to believe I have not told all, for I scarcely can believe it myself. I made a note of everything while I was prisoner in 1813, and in 1814 on my return from captivity, while the impressions of such disasters were still fresh in my mind.
Those who went through this lamentable but glorious campaign proved, as the Emperor said, that they must have been made of iron to bear so many privations and so much misery; this was surely the very greatest test to which men were ever exposed.
If I have omitted anything, such as a date or the name of a place, which I think unlikely, I owe it to myself to say I have added nothing.
Several witnesses to what I have written, who were in the same regiment with me, and some in the same company, are still living. I will quote some in particular:
M. Césarisse, Grenadier-Vélite, now Field-Marshal in the service of the King of Holland, a native of St. Nicolas in Brabant. He was Lieutenant in the same company in which I was then sergeant.
Rossi, Quarter-master in the same company, a native of Montauban, and whom I had the pleasure of meeting again at Brest in 1830. We had not seen each other for sixteen years.
Vachain,[73]then a Lieutenant in the same battalion, now living at Auzin (Nord). I met him again after an interval of twenty years.
Leboude, then Sergeant-Major, now Lieutenant-General in Belgium, belonged also to the same battalion.
Grangier, Sergeant, who came from Puy-de-Dôme in Auvergne. He was my intimate friend. On more than one occasion he saved my life. His constitution wasweak, his courage equal to any trial. He died of cholera in 1832.
Pierson, also Sergeant-Vélite, now Captain on the staff at Angers.[74]He was very ugly, but a good fellow, as were all the Vélites. There never was a face like his; he was so different from everyone else. One need only set eyes on him once to remember him. In this connection I will relate a fact that bears me out in what I have been saying.
At the beginning of this campaign, when we were at Wilna, the capital of Lithuania, Pierson was one day mounting guard at the works. It was July 4th, and big ovens were being constructed for the baking of bread for the army. The Emperor came to see how the work was getting on. Pierson thought he would take advantage of the occasion to beg for a decoration, and, going up to His Majesty, he made his request. 'Very good,' answered the Emperor, 'after the first battle!' After that came the siege of Smolensk, the great battle of the Moskowa, as well as several others during the retreat. But during the disastrous retreat no opportunity arrived of reminding the Emperor of his promise. It was not till March 16th, 1813, some days after our return to Paris, at Malmaison, where a review was being held—the same day I was made Lieutenant—that Pierson was able to remind the Emperor of the promise he had made him. Seeing him approaching, the Emperor asked him what he wanted. 'Sire,' he replied, 'I want the cross your Majesty promised me.' 'True,' answered the Emperor, smiling, 'at the works at Wilna!' It was ten months since the promise had been given. The man had certainly an unforgettable face, but what a memory the Emperor had!
I will quote some further witnesses:
M. Péniaux, of Valenciennes, superintendent of the Emperor's relays and stages, who saw me almost dying, laid upon the snow, on the banks of the Bérézina.
M. Mellé, a Dragoon of the Guards, whom I often met during the retreat, leading his horse by the bridle, and making holes in the ice of the lakes to give him drink. He was from Condé, the place I came from. He might be called, with truth, one of the best soldiers in the army. Before entering the Guard, M. Mellé had already gone through the Italian campaign. With the same weapons and the same horse he went through the campaigns of 1806 and 1807 in Prussia and Poland, 1808 in Spain, 1809 in Germany, 1810 and 1811 in Spain, 1812 in Russia, 1813 in Saxony, and 1814 in France.
After the departure of the Emperor for the Isle of Elba, he remained in the Royal Guard, awaiting his pension, and always keeping his horse with him. On the return of the Emperor from Elba, he reappeared again in the same corps as one of the Imperial Guards at Waterloo. He was wounded, and his horse killed—the horse which had gone through so many campaigns with his master, and had taken part in more than fifteen great battles commanded by the Emperor.
Had the Emperor remained in France this brave soldier would have been worthily rewarded. Although Chevalier of the Legion of Honour, he is now in great want. During the retreat from Russia he sometimes penetrated alone at night into the enemy's camp to get hay or straw for Cadet, the name of his horse. He never returned without killing one or two Russians, or bringing back what he called a witness, viz., a prisoner.
Monfort, trooper, now a retired officer of Cuirassiers at Valenciennes. Although from the same country, andalso belonging to the Imperial Guard, I only knew him in the army by reputation, by the manner in which he distinguished himself in the different combats we had in Spain. In Russia, he crossed the Bérézina on horseback over the blocks of ice. But he left his horse behind. At Waterloo, on Mount St. Jean, during a charge against the Queen of England's Dragoons,[75]he killed the Colonel with a thrust in the chest, sending him to sup with Pluto.
Pavart, retired Captain at Valenciennes, belonging during the Russian campaign to the infantry of the Imperial Guard. All that he relates of their campaign, of what happened to him, and of what he saw, is very interesting.
During the retreat, at Krasnoë, we were fighting for three days, November 15th, 16th, and 17th, against the Russian army of 100,000 men. On the night of the 16th, the eve of the battle of the 17th, Pavart, then a corporal, was in command of a patrol of six men. Making his rounds, he caught sight of another patrol of five men upon his right. Imagining—indeed, almost certain—that they belonged to us, he said to his men, 'Wait for me. I am going to speak with the one in command, so that we may both move in the same direction, and avoid the Russian outposts. The men halted instantly, and he went up to the second patrol, who, seeing a man coming alone, no doubt believed he was one of them. But Pavart now saw they were Russians. It was too late to draw back. He advanced resolutely, and, without giving the Russians time to reflect, he fell upon them and put three of themhors de combatwith the bayonet. The others took to flight. After this bold stroke he turned to rejoin his men, but found them close at hand, running to help him.
Wilkés, non-commissioned officer in a line regiment, a native of Valenciennes; taken prisoner on the banks of the Bérézina; led in captivity 1,400 leagues from Paris, where he was kept three years.
Captain Vachain, of whom I have spoken above, had a very lively discussion while we were in Spain with my sergeant-major, which ended in a duel and a sword-cut which divided my sergeant-major's face in two from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his chin. He did as much on various occasions for Austrians, Prussians, Spaniards, Russians, and English, against all of whom he was fighting for ten years without stopping, for during this time he took part in more than twenty great battles commanded by the Emperor Napoleon.
At the Battle of Esslingen, May 22nd, 1809, Vachain was carrying a skin filled with wine, hung at his side. One of his friends, a non-commissioned officer like himself, signed to him that he would very much like a drink. Vachain called to him to come near, and, stooping to one side, he offered him some wine. This took place during the action, when bullets and grape were flying on all sides. The man had hardly swallowed it, when a brute of an Austrian ball carried away his head as well as the gourd of wine.
Two days before they had dined together at Vienna, and there they had made each other gifts of what they possessed in the way of watch, belt, etc., in case of the death of one or the other. But Vachain had no desire to put his promise into execution. He drew back and fell into rank, thinking himself lucky not to have been struck by the same ball, but reflecting that at any moment as much might still happen to him, for it was warm work just there. I was wounded that same day.
Besides the old soldiers whom I knew individually, Ican quote others who made a glorious and terrible fight with Russia:
MM. Buoy, retired Captain at Valenciennes, and a native of that place, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Hourez, retired Captain at Valenciennes, and a native, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Piète, Sub-Lieutenant, Valenciennes.
Legrand, ex-gunner of Grenadiers of the Imperial Guard, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Foucart, Barrack-Master, wounded and taken prisoner, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Izambert, former non-commissioned officer of the Museum Guard, Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Petit, Sub-Lieutenant of the Young Guard.
Maujard, of the Engineers, retired at Condé (Nord), Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
Boquet, of Condé.
Bourgogne,Ex-Grenadier-Vélite of the Imperial Guard,Chevalier of the Legion of Honour.
FOOTNOTES:[71]This fruit was despatched from Tournai in Belgium.—Author's Note.[72]Since the Italian campaigns.—Author's Note.[73]Died at Valenciennes in 1856.—Author's Note.[74]That is to say, in 1835, the date when I was arranging my Memoirs.—Author's Note.[75]Queen's Own.
FOOTNOTES:
[71]This fruit was despatched from Tournai in Belgium.—Author's Note.
[71]This fruit was despatched from Tournai in Belgium.—Author's Note.
[72]Since the Italian campaigns.—Author's Note.
[72]Since the Italian campaigns.—Author's Note.
[73]Died at Valenciennes in 1856.—Author's Note.
[73]Died at Valenciennes in 1856.—Author's Note.
[74]That is to say, in 1835, the date when I was arranging my Memoirs.—Author's Note.
[74]That is to say, in 1835, the date when I was arranging my Memoirs.—Author's Note.
[75]Queen's Own.
[75]Queen's Own.