CHAPTER XIV
NEY'S RETREAT
Ney's corps, as usual, had remained at Smolensk as the rear-guard of thearmy. The rest and abundance of food did much to restore their _morale_.Ney had utilized the time they remained there to see that the arms wereexamined, and new ones served out from the magazines in place of thosefound to be defective. A certain amount of clothing was also served outto the troops, and discipline restored. The numerous stragglersbelonging to the divisions that had gone on were incorporated with hisregiments, and all prepared for the toilsome and dangerous march beforethem. They believed that at Krasnoi they should come up with the mainbody of the army. But Krasnoi had already fallen, and the enemy weremustering thickly along the road.
"We have a rough time before us, Jules," one of the veterans said. "Ishould not say as much to any of the youngsters, but your spirits seemproof against troubles. You see, in the first place, we know reallynothing of what is going on. For the last four days we have heard thesound of cannon in the air. It is a long way off, and one feels itrather than hears it; but there has certainly been heavy and almostconstant fighting. Well, that shows that there are Russians ahead ofus. Never was I in a country before where we could get no news. It isall guess-work. There may be 50,000 Russians already between us andDavoust's division, and there may be only a handful of Cossacks. It is atoss-up. Nothing seems to go as one would expect in this country. We areat a big disadvantage; for the skill of our generals is thrown away whenthey are working altogether in the dark.
"Do you know, this reminds me a good deal of our pursuit of your army toCorunna; only there I was one of the hunters, while here we are thehunted. When we entered the towns they had quitted we heard that theywere altogether disorganized--a mere rabble of fugitives. But wheneverwe came up to them they turned round and fought like their ownbull-dogs; and never did they make a stronger stand than they did whenwe came up at last and caught them at Corunna. There was the army we hadbeen told was a disorganized mass standing in as good order, and with asfirm a front, as if they had but just landed from their ships. And itwas not in appearance only. They had 16,000 men; we had 20,000. They hadonly six or eight cannon, having embarked the remainder on board theirships; we had over fifty guns; and with Soult in command of us, therewas not a man but regarded the affair as being as good as over, andconsidered that the whole of them would fall into our hands. Well, itwasn't so. We were on higher ground than they were, and soon silencedtheir little guns; and the village of Elvira, in front of theirposition, was carried without difficulty.
"Suddenly their reserve marched round, fell on our flank, and threatenedour great battery that was in position there. They drove us out ofElvira, and for a time held us in check altogether. The fight roundthere became very hot; but they pushed forward and continued to attackus so desperately that they partly rolled our left up, and if it had notbeen that night set in--the fight had not begun until twoo'clock--things would have gone very badly with us, for we were fallingback in a great deal of confusion. There was a river behind us with buta single bridge by which we could retreat, and I can tell you we wereglad indeed when the English ceased to press us and the firing stopped.All night their picket-fires burned, and we were expecting to renew thebattle in the morning, when we found that their position was deserted,and that they were embarking on board their ships. That shows thatalthough troops may be greatly disorganized in a retreat they do notfight any the worse when you come up to them.
"The English had practically no guns, they had no cavalry, they wereinferior in numbers, and yet they beat us off. Their back was against awall. You see, they knew that if they didn't do it there was nothing buta French prison before them. It is the same thing with us, lad; we don'twant to fight--we want to get away if we can. But if we have got tofight we shall do it better than ever, for defeat would mean death; andif a soldier has got to die, he would a thousand times rather die by amusket-ball or a bayonet-thrust than by cold and hunger. There is onething in our favour, the country we have to cross now is for the mostpart forest; so we shall have wood for our bivouacs, and if we have toleave the road it will cover our movements and give us a chance ofmaking our way round the enemy. You will find that child a heavy burden,Jules. I do not blame you for bringing her along with you, but whenthings come to such a pass as this a man needs every ounce of hisstrength."
"I am aware of that," Jules said, looking at Stephanie as she stoodlaughing and talking with some of the soldiers at a fire close by; "butI believe that I shall save her. I cannot help thinking she would neverhave given that little cry which met my ears as I passed by the brokencarriage, if it had not been meant that she should be saved. To allappearance she was well-nigh insensible, and she would have suffered nomore pain. It would have been a cruel instead of a kind action to saveher, when she was already well-nigh dead. I firmly believe that, whoeverfalls during the struggle that may be before us, that child will getthrough safely and be restored to her parents. I don't say that I thinkthat I myself shall go through it, but my death does not necessarilymean hers. If she falls into the hands of the peasants, and tells themwho she is, they may take care of her for the sake of getting a reward,and she may in time be restored to her friends. At any rate, as long asI have strength to carry her I shall assuredly do so; when I cannot, Ishall wrap her in my cloak and shall lie down to die, bidding her sitwrapped up in it till she sees some Russians approaching. She will thenspeak to them in their own language and tell them who she is, and thatthey will get a great reward from her parents if they take care of herand send her to them."
"You are a good fellow, comrade--a man with a heart. I trust that,whoever gets out of this alive, you may be one of them. To most of us itmatters little one way or the other. We have had our share of good luck,and cannot expect that the bullets will always avoid us. Now let us turnin, for we march at daybreak. At any rate, we may think ourselves luckyto have had five days' rest here, with no more trouble than was neededto keep the Russians from occupying that place across the river."
Julian called Stephanie to him, lay down by the side of his comrade nearthe fire, and was soon fast asleep. They were under arms before daylightbroke, and in a few minutes were on the way. They had marched but half amile when a series of tremendous explosions were heard--the magazinesleft behind at Smolensk had been blown up, together with such buildingsas the fire had before spared. 112 guns had been left behind, therebeing only sufficient horses remaining to draw twelve. The fightingforce was reduced to 7000 combatants, but there were almost as manystragglers, more or less armed, with them. The march led by the side ofthe Dnieper, and they bivouacked that night at Korodnia. The next daythey arrived at a point within four miles of Krasnoi, where, on a hill,fronted by a deep ravine, 12,000 Russians, with forty guns, had taken uptheir position.
A thick mist covered the lower ground, and the advance of the French wasnot perceived by the enemy until they were within a short distance ofits crest. Then the forty guns poured a storm of grape into the leadingregiment. The survivors, cheering loudly, rushed forward at thebatteries, and had almost reached them, when a heavy mass of Russianinfantry flung themselves upon them with the bayonet, and after a shortbut desperate struggle hurled them down the hill again. The Russiancavalry charged them on the slope, and swept through their shatteredranks. Ney, ignorant that Napoleon had already left Krasnoi, and thatthe whole Russian army barred his way, made another effort to force apassage. He planted his twelve guns on a height above the ravines, andsent forward several companies of sappers and miners to endeavour tocarry the battery again. Gallantly they made their way up the hillthrough a storm of fire. But the Russians again fell upon them in greatforce, and few indeed were enabled to make the descent of the hill andrejoin their comrades.
Darkness had set in now, and Ney, finding it impossible to make his wayfurther, and feeling sure that had the Emperor been still at Krasnoi hewould have sent a force to his assistance, fell back into the forest.His position was a desperate one; the scanty supply
of provisions withwhich they had started was exhausted, and they were in an unknowncountry, surrounded by foes, without a guide, without carriage for thewounded, without an idea of the direction in which to march. The Russiangeneral sent in two flags of truce, offering him terms of capitulationwhich would save the life of himself and of his brave soldiers. Ney,however, was not yet conquered. He detained the messengers with theflags of truce, lest they might take news to their general of theposition of his force, and then, with all capable of the exertion,continued his march. They passed in silence within half a mile of theCossack fires, and reaching a village on the Dnieper, attempted thepassage; but the ice broke under the first gun, and it was necessary toabandon the whole of the artillery and every vehicle.
Before the entire body had passed, the Cossacks, attracted by the soundmade by the troops marching across the ice, arrived and captured severalhundred prisoners, for the most part stragglers. In a village further onthey found temporary rest, surprising a few Cossacks and capturing theirhorses, which afforded a ration to the troops; but on the next morning agreat swarm of Cossacks appeared on the plain and opened a heavyartillery fire. Unable to advance in that direction the column turnedtowards a wood on its left, but as it was about to enter the refuge, abattery concealed there poured a volley of grape into them. The columnhesitated, but Ney dashed to the front, and they rushed forward anddrove the battery from the wood. All day they continued their marchthrough the forest, until, coming upon a village, they obtained a fewhours' rest and shelter and some food.
It had been a terribly heavy day, for the snow here was not, as on theroad, trampled down, and the marching was very heavy. Julian had carriedthe child the greater part of the day. The grenadiers had not beenactively engaged, as they formed the rear-guard, and several times hisfriend the sergeant relieved him of Stephanie's weight.
"This is better luck than I looked for, comrade," he said as they cookedthe food they had found in the village, filled their pipes, and sat downby a blazing fire. "_Peste!_ I was frightened as we crossed the riverlast night. We knew the ice was not strong, and if it had given way aswe crossed, not a man upon it would have reached the other side.However, it turned out for the best, and here we are again, and Ibelieve that we shall somehow get through after all. Ney always has goodluck. There is never any hesitation about him. He sees what has to bedone and does it. That is the sort of man for a leader. I would ratherserve under a man who does what he thinks best at once, even if it turnsout wrong, than one who hesitates and wants time to consider. Ney hasbeen called 'the child of victory,' and I believe in his star. Anyoneelse would have surrendered after that fight yesterday, and yet you seehow he has got out of the scrape so far. I believe that Ney will crossthe frontier safe, even if he carries with him only a corporal's guard."
Julian was too exhausted to talk, and every moment of rest was precious.Therefore, after smoking for a short time, he lay down to sleep. Atdaybreak the next morning the march through the forest continued. Whenfrom time to time they approached its edge, the Cossacks could be seenhovering thickly on the plain; but they dared not venture into the wood,which was so close that their horses would be worse than useless tothem. At three o'clock, when within twenty miles of Orsza, two Polishofficers volunteered to push ahead to that town on some peasant's horsesthat had been brought from the village where they had slept to acquaintthe commander of any French force that might be there with theirsituation, and to pray for assistance. After a halt of an hour thecolumn pushed on again. When they had marched another twelve miles theforest ceased. Night had long since fallen, and a thick fog hung overthe ground. This served to hide their movements, but rendered itdifficult in the extreme for them to maintain the right direction.
Their way led over a steep hill, which was climbed with greatdifficulty by the exhausted troops; but on reaching the summit they sawto their horror a long line of bivouac fires illuminating the plain infront of them. Even the most sanguine felt despair for a moment. Neyhimself stood for a few minutes speechless, then he turned to his men.
"There is but one thing to do, comrades," he said. "It is death to stayhere. Better a thousand times meet it as soldiers. Let us advance inabsolute silence, and then rush upon our enemies and strive to burst ourway through. They cannot know that we are so near, and, aided by thesurprise, we may force a passage. If we fail, we will, before we die,sell our lives so dearly that our enemies will long bear us inremembrance."
In silence the column marched down the hill. No sound proclaimed thatthe enemy had taken the alarm. When within charging distance, the linelevelled its bayonets and rushed forward to the fires. To theirstupefaction and relief, they found no foe to oppose them. The fires hadbeen lighted by order of the Cossack general to make them believe thatan army lay between them and Orsza, and so cause them to arrest theirmarch. Half an hour was given to the men to warm themselves by thefires, then the march was resumed. Three miles further the sound of alarge body of men was heard, then came a challenge in French, "_Quivive!_" A hoarse shout of delight burst from the weary force, and aminute later they were shaking hands with their comrades of Davoust'sdivision. The Polish messengers had, in spite of the numerous Cossackson the plains, succeeded in reaching Orsza safely. The most poignantanxiety reigned there as to the safety of Ney's command; and Davoust, onhearing the welcome news, instantly called his men under arms andadvanced to meet them.
The delight on both sides was extreme, and Ney's soldiers were suppliedwith food that Davoust had ordered his men to put in their haversacks. Ahalt of three or four hours was ordered, for the column had beenmarching for eighteen hours, and could go no further. At daybreak theycompleted the remaining eight miles into Orsza. Napoleon himself wasthere. Here they rested for five days. Food was abundant, and arms weredistributed to those who needed them. Ammunition was served out, andNapoleon employed himself with great energy in reorganizing his forcesand in distributing the stragglers,--who were almost as numerous asthose with the standards,--among them. Ney's corps was now too small forseparate service, and henceforth was united to that of Davoust. The haltdid wonders for the men. They were billeted among the houses of thetown, and warmth and abundant food revived their strength. They lookedforward with some confidence to reaching the spot where great magazineshad been prepared, and where they would take up their quarters until thecampaign recommenced in the spring.
Napoleon's plans, however, were all frustrated by the inconceivableblunders and follies of the generals, to whom were entrusted the task ofcarrying them out. Everywhere, in turn, they suffered themselves to bedeceived and caught napping. The important positions entrusted to themwere wrested from their hands. Minsk, where there were supplies for thewhole army for months, had been captured, and now Borizow, where thepassage of the Berezina was to be made, was captured almost withoutresistance. Well might Napoleon when he heard the news exclaim indespair:
"Will there never be an end to this blundering?"
Great as the cold had been before, it increased day by day in severity.Happily for the French, Kutusow, with the main Russian army, was far intheir rear, and they might well hope, when joined by Victor, who was tomeet them near the Berezina with his division, to be able to defeat thetwo Russian armies that barred their way, either force being inferior totheir own.
Stephanie had borne the march wonderfully well. Since leaving Smolensk,she had had no walking to do. The cold was so great that she was glad toremain during the day snuggled up beneath Julian's cloak. The marchingsongs had ceased. Hunted as they were, silence was imperative, andindeed the distances traversed and the hardships endured were so greatthat even Julian felt that he had no longer strength to raise his voice.Few words indeed were spoken on the march, for the bitter cold seemed torender talking almost impossible.
Being in ignorance of the forces concentrating to cut him off, Napoleonordered Oudinot's corps to march forward to secure the passage atBorizow, and Victor that at Studenski, but Tchichagow arrived at Borizowbefore Oudinot, and began to cross the br
idge there. Oudinot, however,fell upon him fiercely before his whole army had passed over, and theRussians drew back across the bridge, destroying it behind them.Napoleon on his arrival found the Russian army of the Danube drawn up onthe opposite bank ready to dispute his passage. He at once sent bodiesof troops up and down the river to deceive the Russian admiral as to thepoint at which he intended to force a passage. Victor had already comein contact with Wittgenstein and had fought a drawn battle with him, andnow moved to join Napoleon at the spot decided upon for the passage ofthe Berezina, near Studenski.
On the evening of the 25th of November Napoleon arrived there withOudinot's corps. The engineers immediately commenced the construction oftwo bridges, and the cavalry and light infantry crossed the river toreconnoitre the enemy, and some batteries were established to cover thework. Materials were very scarce, and it was not until noon on thefollowing day that the bridges were reported practicable. Oudinot'scorps crossed at once, but the rest of the troops passed over in greatconfusion, which was increased by the frequent breaking down of thebridges. Victor took up a position to cover the rear, but one of hisdivisions was cut off by Wittgenstein, and eight thousand men forced tosurrender. The main body of the French army, completely panic-strickenby the thunder of guns in their rear, crowded down in a confused mass.The passage was frequently arrested by fresh breakages in the bridges;hundreds were pushed off into the river by the pressure from behind;others attempted to swim across, but few of these succeeded in gainingthe opposite bank, the rest being overpowered by the cold or overwhelmedby the floating masses of ice. Thousands perished by drowning. By the28th the greater part of the French army had crossed, Victor's corpscovering the passage and repulsing the efforts of Wittgenstein up tothat time; then being unable to hold the Russians at bay any longer hemarched down to the bridge, forcing a way through the helpless crowdthat still blocked the approaches.
Altogether the loss of the French amounted to 28,000 men, of whom 16,000were taken prisoners.
On the same day Tchichagow attacked in front with his army, but,animated by Napoleon's presence, and by despair, the French fought sofiercely that he was repulsed with much loss, and the way lay open toWilna. The intensity of the cold increased daily, and the sufferings ofthe army were proportionately great. On the 5th of December Napoleonhanded over the wreck of the army, now reduced to 45,000 men, to Murat;while the Viceroy was to have the chief command of the infantry.
By the time they reached the Berezina, Davoust's corps had beendiminished to a few thousand men, and on Victor taking the post ofrear-guard, they were relieved from that arduous task, and were amongthe first who crossed the fatal bridge. From there to Wilna there wascomparatively little fighting. Kutusow's army was still far behind, andalthough Wittgenstein and the Admiral hung on their rear, the Frencharmy still inspired sufficient respect to deter them from attacking itin force.
As the army approached the Berezina, scarce a hundred men of theGrenadiers of the Rhone still hung together, and these were so feeblethat they staggered rather than marched along. Rations had ceased to beissued, and the troops depended solely upon the flesh of the horses ofthe waggons conveying the military chests, treasure, and artillery, andfrom what they could gather in the deserted villages. So desperate werethey now that even the fear of falling into the hands of the peasantswas insufficient to deter them from turning off, whenever a villageappeared in sight, in the hope of finding food, or, if that failed, atleast a few hours' shelter. Not one of them was in such good conditionas Julian, who had been sustained not only by his naturally highspirits, but by the prattle of the child, and by the added warmth of hersleeping close to him at night.
She now, for the most part, trotted beside him, and it was only whenvery tired that the child would allow him to take her up. She herselfhad never been short of food, for however small the portion obtained,enough for her was always set aside before it was touched. One dayJulian had, with some of his comrades, entered a village. The others hadinsisted on lying down for a sleep, after devouring a little food theywere fortunate enough to find in one of the houses. Julian's efforts toinduce them to continue the march were in vain. They lighted a huge fireon a hearth with wood obtained by breaking up some of the doors, anddeclared that they would be warm for once, whatever came of it. Thecolumn was already some distance off, and night was closing in. Juliantherefore started alone. He was carrying the child now, and for an hourhe kept on his way. Still there were no signs of a road, and he at lastbecame convinced that he must have gone in the wrong direction. Hewalked for half an hour longer, and then coming upon a small hut, he atonce determined to pass the night there.
Laying the sleeping child down, he covered her over with his cloak. Thenhe broke up some woodwork, cut a portion of it into small pieces, mixedthe contents of a cartridge with a little snow and placed it among them,and then drew the charge from his musket, put a little powder into it,and discharged it into the heap. In a few minutes a bright fire wasblazing, and taking the child in his arms, he lay down before it, andwas soon asleep. He was awakened some time afterwards by a strangenoise. He sprang up at once, threw some fresh wood on the embers, and,grasping his musket, stood listening. In a minute the noise was renewed;something was scratching at the door, and a moment later he heard apattering of feet overhead. Then came a low whimper and a snarl, and thetruth at once rushed upon him. He was surrounded by wolves.
For a long time the march of the army had been accompanied by thesecreatures. Driven from the forest by cold and hunger, and scenting bloodfrom afar, they had hung upon the skirts of the army, feasting on thebones of the horses and the bodies of the dead. Julian examined thedoor. It was a strong one, and there was no fear of their making anentry there. The roof, too, seemed solid; and the window, which waswithout glass, had a heavy wooden shutter. Hoping that by morning thewolves, finding that they could not enter, would make off, Julian laydown by the fire again, and slept for some hours. When he woke daylightwas streaming in through a crack in the shutter. On looking through thisand through the chinks of the door, he saw to his dismay that the wolveswere still there. Some were sitting watching the house; others wereprowling about. It was clear that they had no intention whatever ofleaving. The child had been roused by his movements.
"Stephanie wants breakfast," she said decidedly, as he broke up somemore wood and rekindled the fire.
"I am afraid, dear, you will have to wait," he said. "I have not got anyto give you."
"Let us go and get some," she said, standing up.
"I would, Stephanie; but there are some wolves outside, and we can't gountil they move."
"Wolves are bad beasts. Stephanie was out riding in the sleigh withpapa, when they came out from a wood and ran after us, and they wouldhave killed us if the horses had not been very fast. Papa shot some ofthem, but the others did not seem to mind, and were close behind when wegot home, where the men came out with forks and axes, and then they ranaway. Stephanie will wait for her breakfast."
Julian thought for some time, and, then going to the window, opened theshutters and began to fire at the wolves. Several were killed. They wereat once torn to pieces by their companions, who then withdrew to a safedistance, and sat down to watch. Julian had not even hoped that it wouldbe otherwise. Had he waited, it was possible that they would at lastleave the hut and go off in the track of the army; but even in thatcase, he would not, he felt, be able to overtake it alone, for, weak ashe was, he felt unequal to any great exertion, and he and his chargemight be devoured by these or other wolves, long before he came up withthe column, or they might be killed by Cossacks or by peasants. The lastwere the most merciless enemies, for death at their hands would beslower and more painful than at the hands of the wolves, but at leastthe child might be saved, and it was in hopes of attracting attentionthat he opened fire. He continued therefore to discharge his gun atintervals, and to his great satisfaction saw in the afternoon a numberof peasants approaching. The wolves at once made off.
"Stephanie," he sa
id, "there are some of your people coming. They willsoon be here, and you must tell them who you are, and ask them to sendyou to your father, and tell them that he will give them lots of moneyfor bringing you back to him."
"Yes," the child said, "and he will thank you very, very much for havingbeen so good to me."
"I am afraid, Stephanie, that I shall not go back with you. The peoplekill the French whenever they take them."
"But you are not French; you are English," she said, indignantly."Besides, the French are not all bad; they were very good to me."
"I am afraid, dear, that it will make very little difference to them mybeing an Englishman. They will see that I am in French uniform, and willregard me as an enemy just as if I were French."
"I will not let them hurt you," she said sturdily. "They are serfs, andwhen I tell them who I am they will obey me, for if they don't I willtell them that my father will have them all flogged to death."
"Don't do that, dear. You are a long way from your father's house, andthey may not know his name; so do not talk about flogging, but onlyabout the money they will get if they take you back. They are poor men,they have had a great deal to suffer, and have been made very savage; soit is best for you to speak kindly and softly to them. Now, dear, let usturn down that collar, so that they can see your face, and take yourthings off your head, and then go out and speak to them. They are closehere."
The child did as he told her, and as he opened the door she stepped out.The peasants, who were only some twenty yards away, stopped in surpriseat the appearance of the strange little figure before them. Her goldenhair fell over her shoulders, and the long loose jacket concealed therest of her person. She spoke to them in Russian, in a high, clearvoice:
"I am the Countess Stephanie Woronski. I am glad to see you. I wastravelling to go to my father, when there was an accident, and my nurseand the coachman were both killed; and I should have died too, but agood man--an Englishman--took me up, and he has carried me many days,and has fed me and kept me warm and been my nurse. He must go with meback to my father; and my father will give you lots of money for takingus both to him, and you must remember that he is an Englishman and not aFrenchman, although somehow he has been obliged to go with their army;and he is very, very good."
All this time Julian was standing behind her, musket in hand, determinedto sell his life dearly. The peasants stood irresolute; they conferredtogether; then one of them advanced, and took off his fur cap and bowedto the child.
"Little mistress," he said, "we are but peasants, and do not know thename of your honoured father; but assuredly we will take you to ourvillage, and our priest will find out where he lives, and will take youhome to him; but this man with you is a Frenchman, and an enemy."
The child stamped her foot angrily. "Pig of a man!" she exclaimedpassionately, "Do I, then, lie? I tell you he is English. I have aFrench coat on, just as he has. Will you say next that I am a Frenchgirl? I tell you that my friend must come with me, and that when I cometo my father he will give you much money. He is a friend of the Czar,and if I tell him that you have hurt my friend, he and the Czar willboth be angry."
A murmur broke from the group of peasants. The anger of the Czar was, ofall things, the most terrible. Doubtless this imperious, little countesswas a great lady, and their habitual habit of subservience to the noblesat once asserted itself, and, while they had hesitated before, thethreat of the Czar's anger completed their subjugation.
"I AM THE COUNTESS STEPHANIE WORONSKI. I AM GLAD TO SEEYOU."]
"It shall be as the little mistress wills it," the peasant said humbly."No harm shall be done to your friend. We cannot promise that the troopswill not take him away from us, but if they do not he shall go with youwhen we find where your father lives. If he has saved your life, he mustbe, as you say, a good man, and we will take care of him."
"They will take care of you," the child said in French, turning toJulian. "I told them that my father would reward them, and that the Czarwould be very angry with them if they hurt you; and so they havepromised to take you with me to him."
Julian at once placed his gun against the wall, and, taking her hand,walked forward to the peasants.
"Tell them," he said, "that the English are the friends of Russia, andthat there are some English officers now with their army, for I haveseveral times seen scarlet uniforms among the Russian staff."
The child repeated this to the peasants. One of them went into the hut,and looked round; and then securing Julian's musket, rejoined theothers, who at once started across the snow, one of the party carryingStephanie. On her telling them that she was hungry, some black bread wasproduced. She gave the first piece handed her to Julian, and then satcontentedly munching another. The peasants had now come to theconclusion that the capture would bring good fortune to them, and one ofthem took from the pocket of his sheep-skin caftan a bottle, which hehanded to Julian. The latter took a drink that caused him to coughviolently, to the amusement of the peasants, for it was _vodka_, and thestrong spirit took his breath away after his long abstinence fromanything but water. It did him good, however, and seemed to send a glowthrough every limb, enabling him to keep pace with the peasants. Theircourse lay north, and after four hours' walking they arrived at agood-sized village at the edge of a forest.
Their arrival created much excitement. There was a hubbub of talk, andthen they were taken into the largest house in the village. Stephanie,who had been asleep for some time, woke up; and Julian threw aside hiscloak, for the close heat of the interior was almost overpowering. Avery old man, the father of the families that occupied the house,--forin Russia married sons all share the houses of their parents,--made adeep bow to Stephanie, and placed a low seat for her before the stove.Julian helped her off with her jacket and her other encumbrances, andher appearance in a pretty dress evidently increased the respect inwhich she was held by the peasants. In a short time bowls of hot brothwere placed before them, and, weak as was the liquor, both enjoyed itimmensely after their monotonous diet of horse-flesh. Then Stephanie wasgiven a corner on the cushion placed on a wide shelf running round theapartment. The place next to her was assigned to Julian, who, afterswallowing another glass of vodka, was in a few minutes sound asleep,with a sweet consciousness of rest and security to which he had longbeen a stranger.
In the morning there was a gathering composed of the papa or priest ofthe village and the principal men. When it was concluded, Stephanie wasinformed that none of them knew the place of residence of her father,but that a messenger had been sent off to the nearest town with a letterfrom the priest to the bishop there, asking him to inform them of it.She was asked how many days had passed since she had fallen in with theFrench, and how long she had been travelling before she did so. Julianwas able to say exactly where he had fallen in with her--about thirtymiles from Smolensk. Stephanie herself was vague as to the time she hadtravelled before the accident to the carriage, "days and days" being theonly account that she could give of the matter. The priest then spoke toher for some time in Russian.
"They want you," she said to Julian, "to take off your uniform and toput on clothes like theirs. They say that though they wish to take youwith me to my father, they might on the way fall in with other people orwith soldiers, who would not know how good you are, and might take youaway from them and kill you, so that it would be safer for you to travelin Russian dress. You won't mind that, will you?"
"Not at all, Stephanie; I think that it is a very good plan indeed."
A quarter of an hour later Julian was equipped in the attire of awell-to-do peasant, with caftan lined with sheep-skin, a round fur cap,a thick pair of trousers of a dark rough cloth, bandages of the samematerial round the leg from the knee to the ankle, and high loose bootsof untanned leather with the hair inside. The transformation greatlypleased the peasants, whose hatred of the French uniform had hithertocaused them to stand aloof from him, and they now patted him on theshoulder, shook his hand, and drank glasses of _vodka_, evidently to hishealt
h, with great heartiness. Julian could, as yet, scarcely believethat all this was not a dream. From the day that he had crossed theNiemen he had been filled with gloomy forebodings of disaster, andsickened by the barbarities of the soldiers upon the people, while,during the retreat, he had been exposed to constant hardship, engaged ininnumerable fights and skirmishes, and impressed with the firm beliefthat not a Frenchman would ever cross the frontier save as a prisoner.After this the sense of warmth, the abundance of food, and the absenceof any necessity for exertion seemed almost overpowering, and for thenext three or four days he passed no small proportion of his time insleep.
Stephanie was quite in her element. She was treated like a little queenby the villagers, who considered her presence among them a high honouras well as a source of future reward. They were never weary oflistening to the details of her stay among the French, and accorded toJulian a good deal of deference both for the kindness he had shown thelittle countess and for the service that he had thereby rendered tothemselves. It was ten days before an answer was received as to thecount's estates. They lay, it said, far to the south, but the bishop wasof opinion that the little countess had better be sent to St.Petersburg, as the count had a palace there, and would be certain to beat the capital at the present juncture of affairs. He offered that, ifthey would bring her to him, he would see that she was sent on thitherby a post-carriage, but that in view of the extreme cold it would bebetter that she should not be forwarded until the spring.
A village council was held on the receipt of this letter, and theproposal that she should be sent by the bishop was unanimouslynegatived. It seemed to the villagers that in such a case the glory ofrestoring Stephanie to her parents, and the reward that would naturallyaccrue from it, would not fall to them; but, at the same time, noalternative method occurred to them. Finally, after much consultation,Stephanie was asked to interpret the bishop's letter to Julian, and whenshe had done so she was told to add: "They think, Julian, that if theysend us to the bishop papa will not know that it was they who found meand took care of me."
Julian understood the difficulty. He first inquired how much the villagecould raise to pay for the expenses of a post-carriage to St.Petersburg. He said that it would, of course, be only a loan, and wouldbe repaid by the count. This led to a considerable amount of discussion,but the difficulty was much diminished when Julian said that he couldhimself supply five napoleons towards the fund. It had been decided thatthree times that amount would be required to pay all expenses of travel,and the priest agreeing to contribute an equal amount to Julian's, theremaining sum was speedily made up. It was then arranged that thepriest would himself go to Borizow and obtain the _podorojna_ or orderfor the supply of post-horses at the various stations. He would have toname those who would accompany him. The head man of the village wasunanimously elected to go with him, and after some talk it was settledthat Julian should be put down as Ivan Meriloff, as a foreign name wouldexcite suspicion and cause much trouble, and possibly he might bedetained as a prisoner, in which case the peasants saw that there wouldbe considerable difficulty in inducing the little countess to go withthem. The priest was absent three days, and then returned with thenecessary document authorizing him to start from Borizow in four days'time. Julian was sorry when the time came for his departure. After fourmonths of incessant hardship and fatigue, the feeling of rest andcomfort was delightful. He had been more weakened than he was aware ofby want of food, and, as his strength came back to him, he felt like onerecovering from a long illness, ready to enjoy the good things of lifefully, to bask in the heat of the stove, and to eat his meals with asense of real enjoyment.
Rumours had come in every day of the terrible sufferings of the Frenchas they were hotly pressed by the triumphant Russians, and of thegeneral belief that but few would survive to cross the Niemen. Still,while the French were thus suffering the Russians were in but littlebetter plight, following, as they did, through a country that had beenswept bare of everything that could be burned by the retreating French.Their sufferings from cold were terrible, 90,000 perished, and out of10,000 recruits, who afterwards marched for Wilna, as a reinforcement,only 1500 reached that city, and the greater portion of these had atonce to be taken to the hospital mutilated from frost-bite. Thus, then,the number of Russians that perished was at least as great as that oftheir harassed foes, and this in their own climate, and without thenecessity for the constant vigilance, that had assisted to break downthe retreating army.
Julian was instructed in the Russian words to reply if asked by any ofthe postmasters whether he was the Ivan Meriloff mentioned in thepassport, and, on the day after the return of the priest, they startedin a sledge filled with hay and covered with sheep-skins.
Julian with Stephanie were nestled up in the hay at one end of thesledge, the two Russians at the other. On reaching Borizow they stoppedat the post-house, and on producing the _podorojna_ were told that thecarriage and horses would be ready in half an hour. They had brought aconsiderable amount of provisions with them, and now laid in a stock ofsuch articles as could not be procured in the villages. When thepost-carriage came round, a large proportion of the hay in the sledgewas transferred to it, together with the sheep-skins. There was noluggage, and four horses were deemed sufficient. The wheels had, ofcourse, been taken off the vehicle, and it was placed on runners. Thedriver climbed up to his seat, cracked his whip furiously, and thehorses started at a gallop. The motion was swift and pleasant, indeedtravelling in Russia is much more agreeable in winter than in summer,for the roads, which in summer are often detestable, are in winter assmooth as glass, over which the sledge glides with a scarce perceptiblemovement, and the journeys are performed much more rapidly than insummer.
The distance between the post-houses varied considerably, beingsometimes only nine miles apart, sometimes as many as twenty, but theywere generally performed at a gallop, the priest, at Julian'ssuggestion, always giving somewhat more than the usual drink-money tothe driver, and in five days from the time of their leaving Borizow theyarrived at St. Petersburg, halting only for a few hours each night atpost-houses. They had no difficulty in ascertaining where the Woronskipalace was situated, and, taking a _droski_, drove there at once.Stephanie clapped her hands as she saw it.
"You ought to have put on your cloak, Julian, and to have packed me upunder it as you used to carry me, and to take me in like that."
"I am afraid that grand-looking personage at the door would not have letme in. As it is, he is looking at us with the greatest contempt."
"That is Peter," the child said. "Peter, Peter, what are you standingstaring for? Why don't you come and help me down as usual?"
The porter, a huge man with a great beard, and wearing a fur cap and along fur-trimmed pelisse, almost staggered back as the child spoke. Hehad, as Julian said, been regarding the _droski_ and its load with anair of supreme contempt, and had been about to demand angrily why itventured to drive up into the courtyard of the palace. He stoodimmovable until Stephanie threw back her sheep-skin hood, then, with aloud cry, he sprang down the steps, dashed his fur cap to the ground,threw himself on his knees, and taking the child's hand in his, pressedit to his forehead. The tears streamed down his cheeks, as he sobbedout, "My little mistress, my little mistress! and you have come backagain to be the light of our hearts--oh, what a joyful day is this!"
"Thank you, Peter. Now, please lift me down. I am quite well. Are papaand mamma well?"
"The gracious countess is not well, little mistress, but when she knowsthat you are back, she will soon regain her health. His excellency, yourfather, is not ill, but he is sorely troubled. He has been away for afortnight searching for news of you, and returned but last week. I don'tknow what his news was, but it was bad, for the countess has been worsesince he returned."
"This gentleman has told me, Peter, that I must not run in to see themwithout their being told first that I am safe, and that you had betterfetch Papa Serge. This is the English gentleman, Peter, who saved mylife when I was
almost dead with cold, and carried me for days and daysunder his cloak, and kept me warm close to him when we lay down in thesnow at night."
Again the Russian fell on his knees, and seizing Julian's hand, put itto his forehead. Then he jumped up, "Why am I keeping you out in thecold?" he said. "Come in, little mistress, and I will send to fetch thepapa."
"Cover up your head, Stephanie," Julian said as, holding his handtightly, they entered the hall together. "If others were to see you thenews would run through the house like wildfire, and it would come toyour mother's ears before it had been broken to her. Tell Peter to takeus into a quiet room, and not to inform the man he sends to the priestthat you are here."
Followed by the village priest and the peasant they entered a roomfitted as a library.
"It is here papa writes his letters," Stephanie said, throwing back herhood again and taking off her cloak; "isn't it nice and warm?"
Coming in from the temperature of some forty degrees below freezing, itwas to Julian most uncomfortably warm. It was some four or five minutesbefore the door opened, and Papa Serge, the family chaplain, enteredwith a somewhat bewildered face, for he had been almost forcibly draggeddown by Peter, who had refused to give any explanation for the urgencyof his demand that he should accompany him instantly to the count'sstudy. When his eyes fell on Stephanie, who had started up as heentered, he gave a cry of joy. A moment later she sprang into his arms.
"Dear, dear, Papa Serge!" she said, as she kissed his withered cheekswarmly. "Oh I do love to be home again, though I have been very happy,and everyone has been very kind to me. Now, you mustn't stay here,because I want to see papa and mamma; and this gentleman says--he is mygreat friend, you know, and I call him Nurse Julian--that you must goand tell them first that I have come, and that you must tell them verygently, so that it won't upset poor mamma."
"Tell him, Stephanie, that he had better say at first only that someonehas just come with the news that you are quite safe, and that you willbe here soon, and then after a little while, he had better call yourfather out and tell him the truth. By the way, ask if they are togethernow."
The child put the question.
"No, the countess is in bed and the count is walking up and down thegreat drawing-room. He does it for hours at a time."
"In that case, Stephanie, tell Serge to speak first to your father, andto bring him down here to you. He will break it to your mother betterthan anyone else would do."
The priest was too deeply moved to speak, but upon Stephanie translatingwhat Julian had said, put her down and left the room. As soon as he haddone so the priest who had travelled with them, and who, with hiscompanion, had been standing in an attitude of respect while Stephaniewas speaking, said to her:
"Little countess, we will go out into the hall and wait there. It werebetter that his excellency, your father, should meet you here alone."
"He would not mind," Stephanie said, "but if you think that you hadbetter go, please do."
The two peasants left the room somewhat hastily. They had beenabsolutely awed at the splendour of the house, which vastly surpassedanything they had ever imagined, and were glad to make an excuse toleave the room and so avoid seeing the count until his daughter hadexplained the reason of their presence there. Julian guessed theirreason for leaving and was about to follow them when Stephanie took himby the hand.
"No," she said, "you are not to go, Julian. It is you who saved my life,and it is you who must give me back to papa." A few minutes elapsed,then the door was suddenly thrown open and the count ran in.
"My Stephanie! my little Stephanie!" he cried, as he caught her up. "Oh,my little girl! we never thought to see you again--it seems a miraclefrom heaven. Do not cry, darling," he said presently, as she lay sobbingwith her head on his shoulder. "It is all over now, and you will come tothink of it in time as a bad dream."
"Not a _very_ bad one, papa. It has been funny and strange, but not bad.Oh, and I meant this gentleman--he is an English gentleman, papa--tohave put me into your arms, only somehow I forgot all about it when youcame in. I call him Nurse Julian, papa, because he has been my nurse. Hehas carried me for days and days on his back under his warm cloak, and Ihave slept curled up in his arms; and sometimes there were battles. Oh,such a noise they made! When it was a big battle he stowed me away in awaggon, but sometimes when it was a small one, and he had not time totake me to the waggon, he carried me on his back, and I used to jump atfirst when he fired his gun, but I soon got accustomed to it, and healways got me plenty of food, though it was not very nice. But he didn'toften get enough, and he became very thin and pale, and then I usedsometimes to run along by his side for a bit, and I only let him carryme when I was very tired, and at last we were in a little hut byourselves, and some peasants came. They looked very wicked at first, butI told them who I was, and that you would give them money if theybrought me back to you, and so we went to their village and stayedthere, and it was warm and nice, and there was plenty of food, and dearJulian got strong again, and then they brought us here in apost-carriage, and two of them came with me. They are out in the hallnow."
The count set his little daughter down, and coming up to Julian threwhis arms round his neck and kissed him in Russian fashion. "Mybenefactor!" he exclaimed, "I don't understand all that Stephanie hastold me, but it is enough that you saved her life, and that you nursedher with the tenderness of a mother, and have restored her to us as onefrom the grave. Never can I fully express my thanks or prove mygratitude to you, but now you will, I trust, excuse me. I am burning tocarry the news of our dear one's return to her mother, whose conditionis giving us grave anxiety. She is far too weak to stand any suddenshock, and I will merely tell her now that news has come that a littlegirl whose description corresponds with that of Stephanie has been foundand is on her way here, and may arrive very shortly. More than that Ishall not venture upon to-day, unless, indeed, I find that theexcitement and suspense is likely to be even more injurious to her thanthe state of dull despair in which she now lies. If I see that it is soI must go on, little by little, till she guesses the truth. Now,Stephanie, you had better come up to your own room. Of course, yourfriend will come with you," he added with a smile as Stephanie tookJulian's hand. "But you had better wait three or four minutes so that Imay give strict orders to the household that everything is to be keptperfectly quiet, and that not a sound is to be heard in the house. Therewill be time enough for rejoicings afterwards."
The count, who was a handsome man some thirty years old, now left theroom. He paused in the hall for a minute, shook the priest and hiscompanion warmly by the hand, and assured them that they should behandsomely rewarded for the kindness they had shown to his daughter,and then after speaking to Peter he ran lightly upstairs to his wife'sroom. Stephanie waited for about five minutes and then said:
"I should think that papa has had time to give the orders. Now, Julian,shall we go?"
"Yes, dear, I think we might do so."
On going out into the hall a singular spectacle presented itself. Thegrand staircase was lined on each side with kneeling men and women.There was a sound of suppressed sobbing, and a low murmur was heard asStephanie appeared.
"Go first, Stephanie dear," Julian said in a low voice; "they want tokiss your hands."
Stephanie showed no shyness, for, stopping on each step, she held outher hands to the kneeling figures, who murmured prayers and blessings.As they kissed them, she said softly to each, "Thank you very much, butI must not talk now. This gentleman is my friend. It is he who saved mylife, and nursed me, and carried me. You must all love him for my sake,"whereupon, as Julian followed her, he met with a reception similar tothat given to their young mistress. He was glad when at last theyreached the top of the stairs and Stephanie led the way into her ownroom, which was a sort of glorified nursery. Here two or three maidswere laying a table, and as the door closed behind him they crowdedround her and by turns kissed and hugged her. Then an old woman, who hadsat apart until the girls had had their tur
n, came forward. She placedher hands solemnly on the child's head:
"May the great Father bless you, my child. I have seen many glad dayssince I entered the service of your house sixty years ago. I was presentat your grandfather's wedding, and your father's, but never was there sobright and happy a day as this, which but half an hour ago was so darkand sad. It was but three days ago that the whole household went intomourning for you, for the news your father brought home seemed to showthat all hope was at an end. In five minutes all this has changed. Yousee the maids have got on their festive dresses, and I will warrant methey never changed their things so rapidly before. Now we have but toget your beloved mother strong again, which, please God, will not belong, and then this will be the happiest house in all Russia."
"This is my nurse, my new nurse, Elizabeth. His name is Julian, and heis an English gentleman, as you will see better when he gets some niceclothes on. He has carried me days and days across the snow, and kept mewarm by night and day, and done everything for me. He doesn't speakRussian, but he can speak French, and so, of course, we got on verynicely; and I have been in battles, Elizabeth, think of that! and I wasnot afraid a bit, and I was quite happy all the time, only, of course, Iam very, very glad to get home again."
The meal was now laid, and Julian and the child sat down to it with avigorous appetite. Their food while in the village had been coarsethough plentiful, and Julian especially appreciated the delicate flavourand perfect cooking of the many dishes of whose names and contents hewas absolutely ignorant. An hour after they had finished, the count camein.
"Your mother has borne it better than I expected, Stephanie," he said."I have been able to break the news to her sooner than I expected. Comewith me; be very quiet and do not talk much. She will be well content tohave you lying quietly in her arms." So saying, he lifted her andcarried her off, saying to Julian, "I will return and have the pleasureof a talk with you after I have left Stephanie with her mother."