The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 19

The Czar A tale of the Time of the First Napoleon 19

There was a sense of exhilaration in the universal feeling that

to march under him was infallibly to march to victory. Some faint

reflected glow from the enthusiasm of all around could not fail to

reach him and to awaken stirrings of the martial ardour that slumbered

in the son of a long line of gallant warriors.

 

An unknown unit in a regiment of infantry--young recruits who as yet

had won no laurels--Henri de Talmont marched one day over a temporary

wooden bridge which had been flung by French pontoniers across the

Niemen. “Now, mes enfants,” their captain said, “you are standing upon

Russian ground.”

 

They cheered, embraced one another, and shouted until they were hoarse,

“Vive l’Empereur! vive Napoleon! A bas les Russes!” Henri shouted as

loudly as the rest; while, at least to the human eye, coming events

cast no shadow before, nor was there any foreboding voice raised to

whisper, as that vast and gallant host passed by,--

 

“The snow shall be their winding-sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre!”

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII.

 

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.”