The fencing master, p.3
THE FENCING MASTER, page 3
“Penetrate the woods,” says Napoleon, “they are only a curtain and the Russians will never hold them.”
And now the bands of the approaching regiments are heard. Confident of support, Murat and Eugène once more take command of their troops and resolutely enter the woods, which they find deserted, dark and gloomy as an enchanted forest. About an hour later an aide-de-camp returns to Napoleon with news that the advance guard has traversed the woods, and from its present position Vitebsk is in view.
“That is where they are awaiting us,” said Napoleon. “I was not mistaken.”
Then he orders the whole army to follow him, and galloping through the wood he comes up with Murat and Eugène. His officers had spoken the truth, Vitebsk is really before his eyes, clustering on the two slopes of an amphitheatre.
By now the day is too far advanced for any fresh enterprise; a halt is essential for reconnoitring, studying the country, and evolving a plan; besides the rest of the army is still engaged in the defiles, whence Napoleon himself emerged only three hours ago. He orders his tent to be pitched on a hillock to the left of the main road, has his maps spread out and drops asleep over them.
Night falls and the camp fires are lit, and from their number and extent it is quite obvious that the Russian army is at hand, on the spot, and waiting.
From time to time, Napoleon awakens, and asks if the Russians are still at their posts, only to be told that such is the case. Seven times in the night he summons Berthier and on the last occasion he walks with him to the entrance of his tent, to make certain with his own eyes that he is not mistaken; then, giving orders that he is to be called at daybreak, he goes to sleep greatly reassured.
But the orders proved needless; at three in the morning he asks for a horse. As one is always kept ready, it is brought to him. He leaps into the saddle and, accompanied by some of his staff, picks his way through the lines. Russians and French are at their posts, and when day breaks, Napoleon views with joy the hostile army spread over the terraces commanding the approaches of Vitebsk. Three hundred feet below the river Luczissa is rushing down the mountain slopes on its way to swell the Dvina.
In the van of the army, thrown out, en échelon, are ten thousand cavalry, their right supported by the Dvina, and their left by a wood crowded with infantry and bristling with cannon. There is every indication, so it seems to him, of a fierce resolve to fight.
Napoleon has mastered at one glance the whole disposition of the enemy, and his forebodings are dispelled. If the Russians display no eagerness to attack us, at any rate they seem prepared to act on the defensive.
At this point the Viceroy joins Napoleon, who gives his instructions, and climbs an isolated knoll, to the left of the main road, and from this point of vantage, he can command both armies.
Orders are immediately issued. Broussier’s division, followed by the 18th regiment of light infantry and General Piré’s cavalry brigade, wheels to the right, crosses the road, and sets about repairing a small bridge destroyed by the enemy which will afford a passage to the other side of a ravine that runs along our lines just as the Luczissa fronts the Russians. After an hour’s work the bridge is restored without the least opposition on the part of the enemy.
The first to cross the ravine are two hundred musketeers of the 9th regiment of the line under the command of Captains Gayard and Savary; they are to bear away to the left and form the extremity of our wing, which will be ranged up to the Dvina like the Russian flank. They are followed by the 16th Mounted Chasseurs, led by Murat, and after them come a few pieces of light artillery. The Delzons division now makes its appearance and begins the passage, when suddenly Murat, either because he allows himself to be carried away by his customary eagerness, or misinterpreting some order, charges at the head of the 16th Chasseurs against the masses of Russian cavalry, who up till this have been watching our passage, motionless and steady as though on parade.
There is astonishment mingled with dread at the sight of six hundred men rushing upon ten thousand; but before they can get up to them, the irregularities of the ground, cut up by the winter rains, throw their lines into disorder, so that at the first movement on the part of the Russian Lancers, our men perceiving that resistance is perfectly futile, wheel round and beat a retreat. But the rains which hindered their attack are unluckily still greater obstacles to a retreat. Hotly pursued by the enemy, the Chasseurs are beset and overthrown in the hollow and only rally under the fire of the 53rd regiment. Murat alone holds on, accompanied by some sixty odd officers and horsemen, and fighting his way, he is so inextricably mixed up with the Russian cavalry that he appears to be the pursuer instead of the pursued. Twice during this mad enterprise does his body servant save his life, once by pistolling a lancer who was within an ace of transfixing him, and once by striking up the wrist of a trooper, who had his sword raised ready to cut him down. Suddenly the Russian Lancers catch sight of the Emperor, standing on his knoll, at not more than a few hundred yards distance and protected by a mere handful of guardsmen. They gallop straight at him, while the whole army is in dismay and the two hundred Musketeers retrace their steps. Murat and his brave troopers come thundering by with the speed of an arrow, overtake them and draw rein at the foot of the knoll; the horsemen leap to the ground, and carbine in hand form a circle round Napoleon; Murat himself seizes a musket and starts firing, The on-coming Lancers stop short at this unexpected resistance; the fusillade redoubles; The Delzons division comes up at the double. Thus the fifteen or eighteen hundred Lancers, finding themselves in a tight place face about and put spurs to their horses; but half way they encounter the two hundred French Musketeers, who now find themselves hemmed in between the two armies; it is their fate to act as scapegoats.
For a moment all thought the two hundred heroes were lost, when suddenly from the centre of the circle which surrounds them and almost conceals them from view, the sustained rattle of musketry is heard and its deadly effects are very apparent; the brave fellows are not going to give in without a struggle. By a rapid manœuvre the two captains have ranged their troops in a hollow square, and from its four faces fire and death belch forth; for reply, the Lancers attack them furiously. Meanwhile the murderous battalion retreats slowly, but never relaxes its fire and at length gains a position intersected by ravines and brushwood. The Lancers hemming them in on every side, beset them tenaciously; while the bloody track is strewn with dead and wounded, and more than two hundred riderless horses are scattered over the plain. The Russians grow desperate; they get hopelessly confused in the brushwood, and stumble in the ravines; while the continuous and regular fusillade shows that the hollow square still remains intact. At length the Lancers lose heart in a struggle which threatens nought but disaster, wheel round and make for their own lines, which like ours have stood motionless watching this strange combat; one final discharge pursues them and the whole French army bursts out in a shout of joy at the sight of a mere handful of men rescued by their own bravery in so strange and miraculous a fashion.
Napoleon oblivious of the risk of personal danger he ran in watching the bloody contest, sends an aide-de-camp to ascertain what corps the two hundred heroes belong to; the aide-de-camp returns with the answer: — ”The ninth, Sire, — Paris lads every one of them.”
“Go back and tell the plucky fellows that they deserve the Cross of the Legion of Honour and that they shall have ten decorations to distribute as they think fit.”
This message is greeted with cries of — “Long live the Emperor.”
But up to this point all that has happened is mere child’s play, the real battle is only just beginning.
Broussier arranges his division in double squares, regiment by regiment, and advances straight at the enemy, while the army of Italy, Count Lobau’s three divisions and Murat’s cavalry make for the high road and the woods, upon which the Russian left wing rests.
Two hours later all the advanced positions are in our possession and the enemy has retreated beyond the Luczissa; every man emulates the example of the two hundred Musketeers and does his best; Murat particularly having an old score to wipe off performs prodigies.
It is only mid-day and there is still enough time to renew the battle; but doubtless Napoleon, discovering that the Russians, dismayed at their first check, are only fooling us with a rearguard action while arranging for a general retreat, hopes to lessen their fears by simulating vacillation. He therefore gives the order to cease firing, quietly trots along the line, warning every one to be prepared for fighting on the morrow, and halts for lunch on a small hillock in the midst of the sharpshooters, where a stray bullet wounds a soldier three yards from him.
In the course of the day the various army corps come up and unite to form one grand army.
That evening Napoleon left Murat with the words: “To-morrow, at five in the morning, the sun of Austerlitz!”
Murat shaking his head doubtfully moved away and had his tent pitched on the banks of the Luczissa, within half a gunshot of the enemy’s outposts.
Napoleon was not mistaken, Barclay de Tolly’s intention was to occupy the approaches of Smolensk and hold them, until Bagration could unite with him sooner or later; but at eleven o’clock that night the Russian General learns that Bagration has been defeated and driven beyond the Dnieper; so, with all his communications cut, he is forced to repair to Smolensk, where he will await orders from the commander-in-chief.
At midnight Barclay de Tolly gives the order for a retreat, and so quietly and orderly is it conducted that Murat hears not the least movement; in fact as the camp fires still remain alight, everyone believes that the Russians are close at hand.
Napoleon awakens at day break and steps out of his tent; every spot is silent and deserted where the evening before there were seventy thousand men; once more have the Russians eluded his grasp.
The Emperor refuses to believe they have retreated, so desirous is he of engaging them; he gives orders that the army is not to advance without a strong vanguard and with sharpshooters scouting on the wings, so fearful is he of a surprise. But very shortly he realizes the truth; he finds himself in the midst of Barclay’s camp and a prisoner captured asleep under a bush is all that remains of the Russian army.
Two hours later Vitebsk is entered and found to be abandoned; with the exception of a few Jews, there are absolutely no inhabitants. Napoleon, who cannot believe in this everlasting retreat, has his tent erected in the courtyard of the castle as if to indicate that he is only making a halt there. He sends out two parties to reconnoitre, one to work up the bank of the Dvina, the other to scour the Smolensk road. Both return without having encountered a soul save a few mounted Cossacks who disperse at their approach, but of the seventy thousand men lately spread out in full view not a trace remains, they have vanished like phantoms.
At Vitebsk the most disastrous news is brought to Napoleon; according to despatches from Berthier one sixth of the army is laid up with dysentery; Belliard, when questioned, declares that six days more of these forced marches will put all the cavalry out of action. Napoleon, from the castle windows, casts his eyes over the situation and notes how admirable are its natural defences so that art can do little to strengthen them. Various projects coursed through his brain; here he is six hundred leagues from France; Lithuania is conquered, it must be organized; he is beaten, not by men it is true, but by leagues; why not stop here and prepare for the lengthy and terrible Russian winter. Vitebsk would make excellent headquarters; the course of the Dvina and Dnieper would determine the French lines; the siege artillery could march on Riga with the left wing of the army supporting it; Vitebsk, gifted by nature with woods and strengthened by the ramparts Napoleon would provide, would supply an admirable entrenched camp in a central position, while the right wing would extend to Bo-Bruisk, of which they would have to take possession, then blockhouses must be erected on the lines of communication.
Thus disposed, the grand army would be well supplied with every need; besides the dépôts at Dantzig, Vilna and Minsk, contributions can be levied on Courland and Livonia; thirty-six immense ovens must be put up, capable of baking thirty thousand loaves of bread at the same time. So much for material wants.
A number of mean buildings mar the site of the palace; they must be pulled down and the rubbish carted away. But the town is deserted; no matter, the richest of the gentry and the most fashionable ladies from Vilna and Warsaw shall be invited to spend the winter there; a theatre shall be built and at its inauguration Talma and Mademoiselle Mars shall come to Vitebsk, just as they visited Dresden. Thus will amusement be provided.
In such a fashion does Napoleon resolve upon a plan which has taken him not more than half-an-hour to mature, then unbuckling his sword he throws it on the table and addresses the King of Naples, who has just entered the room, as follows: — ” Murat, the preliminary campaign in Russia is over; let us plant our eagles here; I want time to reconnoitre and to recover; two great rivers mark out our position; let us form a hollow square with guns at the four angles and within, so that they can cross fire in all directions; 1813 will see us at Moscow, 1814 at St. Petersburg; the Russian War is to be a matter of three years.”
Thus did the good genius of Napoleon dictate at this moment, but it was not long before the demon of war regained his sway; a fortnight later all the Emperor’s grand projects were scattered to the winds; and like an exhausted runner who has got his second wind, a fortnight later he was again on the march.
On the 15th of August Smolensk fell into our possession; on September the 16th Moscow was in flames, and on the 13th of December Napoleon in full flight recrossed the Niemen by night, alone and haunted by the spectre of his grand army.
As a humble tourist bent on witnessing the scenes of our country’s glory, as likewise of its disasters, I had followed the route pursued by Napoleon twelve years before, collecting all the traditions which the simple Lithuanians had preserved of his march. I should have much liked to see Smolensk and Moscow, but this expedition would mean an additional two hundred leagues for me, and that was out of the question. After spending a day at Vitebsk and visiting the castle where Napoleon resided for a fortnight, I ordered horses and one of those little post carriages used by the Russian couriers and known as perekladnoi because they are changed at the end of each stage. I threw my portmanteau inside and had soon left Vitebsk behind, swept swiftly along by my three horses, of which the middle one kept up a trot with his head in the air, while his companions galloped and neighed with lowered heads, as if they wanted to devour the very ground.
After all I was only leaving one road rich in memories for another. For now I was on the route taken by Catherine on her journey to the Crimea.
CHAPTER II
ON leaving Vitebsk I was confronted with the Russian custom house; but as I had only one valise, in spite of the evident desire of the official to prolong the business to its utmost limits, it lasted only two hours and twenty minutes, a feat almost without precedent in the annals of the Muscovite customs. This duty accomplished, I could continue my journey to St. Petersburg without fear of a similar interruption. That evening I reached Velikiye-Luki, which is the Russian equivalent for the “Great Bow.” This picturesque title is derived from the windings of the river Lovat which flows in and out of its walls. Built in the eleventh century, the town was laid waste by the Lithuanians in the twelfth, then conquered by Ballori, king of Poland, afterwards recovered by Ivan Vasilievitch and finally burnt by the ‘‘False Demetrius.” Abandoned for nine years, it was repeopled by the Cossacks of the Don and the Jaik, from whom the present population is almost wholly descended. It boasts of three churches, two of them situated in the main street, before which my post-boy did not fail to make the sign of the cross.
Notwithstanding the hardness of my springless carriage and the wretched state of the roads, I had made up my mind not to stop, for I had been told that I could do the hundred and seventy-two leagues from Vitebsk to St. Petersburg in forty-eight hours. I halted at the post-house just long enough to change horses and continued my journey. I need hardly say that I did not get an hour’s sleep all night. I was tossed about in my chaise like a nut in its shell. I tried hard to cling to the wooden board on which they had laid a leather cushion about the thickness of a copy book; but at the end of ten minutes my arms felt dislocated and I was compelled once more to abandon myself to the terrible jolting, pitying from the bottom of my heart, the unlucky Russian couriers who sometimes travel a hundred leagues in such a conveyance.
Already the difference between a night spent in Russia and one in France was apparent. In any other vehicle I could have read. I may as well own that weary from want of sleep, I made the attempt, but at the fourth line, a jolt wrenched the book from my hands and as I was stooping to pick it up, another jolt sent me too flying from my seat. I spent a good half hour floundering in the bottom of the chaise, before picking myself up and I was cured of my desire to continue my reading.
At day-break we entered Bejanitzi, a small village of no importance, and at four o’clock in the afternoon we arrived at Porkhov, an old town situated on the Chelonia, which exports corn and flax to Lake Ladoga by way of Lake Ilmen and the river connecting the two lakes. Half my journey was over. I must confess that the temptation to stop one night was great, but so terribly dirty was the interior of the inn that I quickly re-entered my carriage. It is only fair to add that the post-boy assured me that the worst of the journey was over, and the fact materially aided me in arriving at such a heroic determination.
Accordingly the chaise once more started at full speed, and I continued to flounder in the interior while the post boy on the box chanted a melancholy dirge. Its meaning I was unable to gather, but judging from the air it was marvellously applicable to my painful situation.
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