THE VOLTIGEUR.”
“Like most of the distinguished officers in our service—but do not, gentlemen, suppose for a moment that I include myself in the list—I am humbly born. My mother was the daughter of a vine-dresser—my father, ranger of a forest. You see that I lay no claim to ancestry—but the villagers assert that my parents were the handsomest and fondest couple in the commune. Their course of love and life was brief alike. My mother died in giving me birth—and three years afterwards my father was shot accidentally by a chasseur, while hunting in the forest of which he had the charge.
The grief felt and expressed by the Seigneur at this unfortunate occurrence was deep and lasting. At once he adopted me, and I became an inmate of the chateau. There I was brought up and educated; and having evinced an early taste for music, that talent was cultivated, and at eighteen I played on several instruments, and my singing was particularly admired.
The Seigneur had an only child, a daughter. He had been early left a widower; and naturally of retired habits and sombre disposition, he lived in comparative seclusion, dividing his time between two all-engrossing objects, the chase and his daughter’s education. Pauline was now fourteen, and of very opposite temperament to her father—sprightly, spirited, and affectionate—every action was the effect of impulse. Poor Pauline! like many in the world, she acted first, and thought of it afterwards.
With the father and the child I was equally a favourite. To the forest I accompanied the Seigneur, when he hunted: and for Pauline, I dressed her flower-garden, sang chanson d’amour, and played in the evening on the flute. How long, in that remote domain, I might have continued to dream life thus away I know not. The great event in my history occurred—I was drawn in the conscription, and the guitar was exchanged for the musket.
For three years I followed the eagles of the Emperor. Battle after battle was won, and kingdom after kingdom submitted, and was partitioned or disposed of in whatever way was pleasing to the conqueror. Europe was almost at Napoleon’s feet; and, save to England alone—that indomitable enemy to his colossal strides towards the subjugation of a world—his voice was law. After the signature of the treaty of Tilsit, there came a short and deceitful calm. Many of the soldiery obtained leave to revisit that land a Frenchman loves so dearly. I was of the number; and one sweet September evening, he who had left the chateau, half-huntsman half-troubadour, presented himself to the Seigneur and Pauline, a sous-lieutenant.
What a change three years had wrought upon us all! The Seigneur had become grey as a badger. I left Pauline a girl—I found her a woman; and the bud of beauty was now mature. On me the alteration was still more striking: and in the countenance of the dark-browned soldier, bronzed by climate, and marked with a sword-scar, it would have been difficult to recall the laughing features of the youth, whose morn was passed idly in the chase, and his evening in singing love-ditties to the moon.
The poor Seigneur knew nothing of the world. The hunter boy was a safe companion for his daughter—the soldier a dangerous one. No suspicion crossed his mind. I again took up my residence in the chateau. Pauline was more than pretty; the place was sadly remote; we were both musical—youth, loveliness, and music! Pshaw! these cleared his way, and Love slipped in.
The Seigneur was rich—and on wealth he set great value. His lineage was old; and nobody in Provence attached more importance to descent. He had began to fancy that it would soon be time to look for an alliance for his daughter; and he occasionally made sly inquiries touching the ancestry and rent-rolls of his neighbours. Great, however, was our surprise, one afternoon, when he suddenly announced that he had nearly concluded a marriage treaty between Pauline and a wealthy proprietor. This information, at first astounding, only precipitated what would have more tardily occurred. We were married secretly, the next evening; under other circumstances, we might have been dreaming of it for another fortnight.
It was fortunate for us that the Seigneur was proverbially slow in all his movements; and his intended son-in-law equally cautious. Neither would stir an inch, excepting under the especial direction of his notary. All the time, the intimation simply that a hymeneal treaty was in progress being deemed quite enough to render Pauline a consenting party. The suitor was a fool, who considered every woman would feel honoured by being allied to him; and the simple Seigneur could never comprehend, that any daughter should or could do otherwise than what her father exactly pointed ont. Poor man! while he was arranging matters to secure a son, he would have come nearer to the mark, had he been making preparations for the reception of a grandaughter.
Lost in lovers’ dreams, Pauline and I saw day after day pass; and frequently, when we spoke of a discovery, which circumstances would render inevitable before long, we laughed and trembled at the effect it was likely to produce upon her father. It is true the event was somewhat distant; and as long as it were possible, the secret must be kept. But a more sudden blow was impending—it fell, and both were rendered miserable.
If ever man were drunk with fortune, it was Napoleon. He had reached the highest pinnacle of human fortune, that the wildest ambition could soar to; yet, blinded by prosperity so dazzling, he was dissatisfied,—and, forming the most romantic projects, like a desperate gambler, he risked all that he had gained—“wearied his good genius, and provoked his fate.” In a word, he first commenced an unjust and impolitic war here, in the peninsula, and followed that madness out by a still madder act—the invasion of Russia.
Although for more than a year, the hostile attitudes assumed by Napoleon and Alexander, showed mistrust on both sides, few suspected that the crisis should come so suddenly. The remoteness of the Seigneur’s estate—the little intercourse he held with any who knew what was passing in the world, left us in blissful ignorance. And the first intimation I had, that I was about to enter on a bloody and disastrous campaign, was a peremptory command to set out for Dantzic at an hour’s notice. The sudden order prevented Pauline and me from taking any steps to communicate the secret of our marriage; and at the moment when woman requires the greatest attention from a husband, I was obliged to abandon the home of my youth, and her whom I had sworn to cherish and protect.
Already the routes through Germany were crowded with enormous masses of fighting men. Never, in modern warfare, was such an army collected and set in motion. Conceive more than five hundred thousand combatants, of all arms—including sixty thousand horsemen, and twelve hundred pieces of artillery! The very enormity of the vast machine would have required a superhuman mind to direct it.
I need not dwell upon the campaign. On we went!—on—on—on! as if urged by an overruling fatality. The Russians prudently retired—that was called fear—the weather for a few days was moderate; and our leader madly fancied that the horrors of the icy north were fabulous. Oh! how fatally that fallacy of his turned out!
I pass the less interesting portion of this tragic campaign. The mind that conceived the monstrous undertaking, could not be sane. The haughty assumption of the Emperor struck many a thinking soldier as being incompatible with the statesman’s prudence; and when assuming the mantle of prophecy, and in reply to a temperate appeal, exclaiming, “a fatality involves them; let their destinies be fulfilled!” he rejected conciliatory advances, and flung the scabbard from the sword, more than Talleyrand pronounced, that Fortune and he had shaken hands and parted; and the sad results of that mad aggression upon Russia proved its truth.
A circumstance occurred, that looked like an evil augury; and, to the superstitious, foreboded evil results. Although the month was July, at Pilony a rain storm nearly overwhelmed the men and horses of a whole division. Of the latter, several hundreds were lost; and at Lismori, a thunderbolt fell into the bivouac of the Old Guard, and destroyed several of our veteran soldiers.
But the decree was passed; and our leader pushed forward where the finger of destiny pointed. At Witepsk, the enemy presented themselves in order of battle, after retiring, in perfect order, and holding every inch of forest through which we passed. That they were intimidated, was a manifest absurdity; their skirmishers held the ground boldly and freely,—mingled with ours as they advanced. From the audacity with which they awaited our approach, and singled out individuals, we lost some valuable officers; and in the very centre of his escort, General Roussel was pistoled by a Russian dragoon. It was evident that policy, not fear, induced the enemy to recede. In a cavalry affair, the next morning, a regiment of chasseurs were charged, and heavily cut up by some squadrons of the Cossack Guard, and nothing but the immediate support of an infantry corps saved them from destruction. Napoleon was a looker-on, and directed the movement by which the regiment was rescued.
On the heights beyond the Lonchesa, we observed the whole Russian army in position. A battle would be received, and we bivouacked, waiting for morning, to fail on. At day-break we were, under arms. Where was the enemy we were to assail? On the preceding night, Barclay de Tolly had abandoned his position; and that, too, with so little precipitation, that the very route he took was doubtful;—neither dismounted guns, nor dead horses, pointing the line of his retreat. The youngest soldier, as he passed over a country ravaged and deserted, began to suspect the reason that a conflict had been declined. It was masterly policy; and the sacrifices it cost in the outset, were amply repaid in the end.
At this period of the advance, we suffered dreadfully from heat and scarcity of water. Many a veille moustache asserted that an Egyptian sun was more endurable. Then, the weather would change suddenly,—rain fall in torrents,—and, from the difficulty of the roads, render marching almost impracticable. We thought our hardships severe enough. Little did we imagine those that remained in store!
Smolensko was fought—and, after a doubtful contest, the victory was gained.—Gained! When the city could no longer be defended, the Russians fired it, simultaneously, in an hundred quarters; and the fruits of a bloody conflict was a town laid in ashes by the very men who held it so desperately to the last!
On other points, the French arms were equally successful; and here it was believed that Napoleon would pause; organize Roland—hold Riga, Witepsk, and Smolensko,—and wait the return of spring. But, having dictated terms to the conquered, even in the palaces they had occupied—regardless of desert roads and coming winter, without magazines or hospitals, and, leaving the Moldwian army in his rear, he determined to march direct upon “the sacred city.” It was said, that the prudent of those around him, remonstrated strongly against this act of madness; but the Emperor’s resolution was not to be shaken.
On we went; and the Russians, to cover Moscow, received battle on the heights of Borodino. With nearly equal numbers, two hundred and fifty thousand combatants were for twelve hours engaged in murderous conflict. Night ended it. The victors bivouacked on the ground they had gained at a sacrifice that shocks humanity—and the vanquished retired in perfect order, leaving the conquerors a field of battle. O God! such a field as the morning of the 8th disclosed!—sixty thousand dead or dying men, interspersed with five-and-twenty thousand horses.
Well, the road to Moscow was open, but every step we advanced showed the madness of the proceeding. If we reached a town, we found it in a blaze; if we met a village, it was totally deserted. Cattle were driven off; provisions burned or buried; the peasantry had risen en masse and every man’s hand was against us; but still our infatuated leader persevered in his mad career, and recklessly pushed on.
It was fondly supposed, that Moscow once gained, our hardships would terminate, and a winter of repose reward the privations we had undergone. That hope was false; Moscow, like the meanest village we had seen ruined, was also devoted to destruction. We entered it at noon; few inhabitants had remained; and none were seen in the deserted streets but a few felons who had left the jails, and some wretched outcasts of the other sex. Every dwelling, from the palace of the noble to the shop of the meanest artisan, was abandoned. The churches alone contained any living occupants, and they were the wounded only, or those whom age or infancy had rendered incapable of retiring with the remainder of its inhabitants from the doomed city.
Although an army was in the place, still it looked a splendid desert. Every soldier whom you met was loaded with costly plunder. It appeared a city of enchantment. Houses, splendidly furnished, invited the passer to go in; and he might have freely traversed every sumptuous room which the building contained, and met with nothing living. It was, in truth, a fearful picture of deserted magnificence.
Suddenly, an alarm was heard. It was not caused either by secret surprise, nor an approaching enemy. At several points a dense smoke was visible; flames broke out in different quarters of the city; no water was to be procured, nor engines could be found; and a fearful rumour began to prevail, that Moscow had been determinately fired.
It was too true. By an act of desperate devotion, every private feeling had yielded to public necessity—the most extraordinary national sacrifice which history records was decreed and executed—and “the sacred city” was laid in ashes, by the hands of those who regarded it with a holy veneration, approaching to idolatry.
To Napoleon the destruction of Moscow was a blow neither expected nor remediable. The stake, for which he played the wildest game, was at the same moment, won and lost. To reach the city of the Czars was the object for which he cast every prudential consideration to the winds—and what resulted? He dated a few despatches from the ruins of a city, to gain which two hundred thousand soldiers were to form the sad consideration.
The fire momentarily increased—the wind rose, blew in a fatal direction, and the flames spread fearfully. There were quarters which the raging element had not reached, but incendiaries fired the houses, and the whole city was speedily sheeted in one broad blaze, far too irresistible for human agency to arrest. Then followed violence and rapine. Those of the inhabitants who had not removed, secreted themselves in vaulted cellars, or the remoter portions of their houses, most likely to afford concealment; while others remained before shrine and altar, trusting to their sanctity for protection. From all, the angry element obliged those unfortunates to retire. They were forced into streets where bands of drunken soldiers mingled with galley-slaves and robbers, launched by sad accident as a curse upon the world again, and maddened now by intoxication. With all the excesses of plunder, they mingled the most degrading and horrible debauchery. “Neither nobility of blood, the innocence of youth, nor the tears of beauty, were respected. The licentiousness was cruel and boundless; but it was inevitable, in a savage war, in which sixteen different nations, opposite in their manners and their language, thought themselves at liberty to commit every crime.”
That night I never rested for a second. Though removed from the immediate vicinity of the conflagration, the lurid glare of the burning city penetrated the closet in which I sought repose, and female shrieks, and deeper cries of murder, fell loud and frequent on the ear. To add to the horror of the hellish scene, even animal sufferings were added. The watch-dogs, chained at the doors, had not been liberated: and as the flames reached them, their howlings were heart-rending.
God forbid that I should ever witness such a scene again! The next day came. The fire raged more furiously than ever, and murder and violence, and every villany, continued. I strove, if possible, to fly from human crime and suffering; and in the evening found myself clear of the walls of Moscow, in a suburb totally detached, and, to all appearance, entirely deserted.
Generally, the houses were mean, and had belonged to the humbler classes, who live in the environs of a city. Here and there, houses enclosed with gardens and high walls were interspersed; and, as I afterwards understood, were residences of wealthy merchants, who neither would incur the expense or affect the display which the occupancy of nobler mansions within the walls demanded. I looked back—the city was in a blaze—a sheet of fire and smoke, by turns, as the flames were fed or smouldered. The lonely suburb, whither I had wandered, was deserted, but not ravaged. Indeed, here the plunderer would have only wasted time, when within there was so much to repay the most boundless cupidity.
Accident directed me: 1 turned down a narrow passage; a lane led to a garden-gate; it was open, and the ruins of wliat had been a pretty country house were visible. The garden was destroyed—the shrubs and fruit-trees broken—many hoof-marks were apparent in the soft earth; and litter strewed the ground, and showed, that the evening before the Emperor entered Moscow, an advanced picket had made, the chateau and grounds its bivouac. No living thing was visible; a dog-chain hung beside the door of the ruined mansion. Even that was a mute testimony of abandonment.
I was still looking at the deserted building, and fancying the happy home it might have been but a few days since, when a wild and piercing shriek was heard from the rear; and a young girl rushed from behind the house, followed by two Polish lancers, and both were infuriated with brandy. One seized her in his arms. I called on him to desist; but he held her with a firmer grasp, while his companion confronted me—and in a moment both sabres were unsheathed, and we commenced a deadly combat. Of the two, I was the better swordsman;—pressed the villain hard—and would have cut him down.—I heard a wild scream,—a blow from behind stunned me—a dreamy recollection followed of others fighting. The rest is blank.
I awoke—where was I? Candles burned at my bed-side; and an old man, and a girl, particularly handsome, sate at either side.
“Where am I?” was my first question. The girl replied, in tolerable French, and assured me I was in perfect safety, and all around me were friends. Gradually, my memory came back; and in the young female at my side, I recollected her whom I had protected.
It appeared, that in the affray I had with the lancers, I had been cut down by a treacherous blow from the comrade of the fellow I was engaged with. The cries of the girl, and the clashing of sabres, alarmed the family, who came to my assistance too late to save me from injury, but in time to revenge, what they believed to be, my death. The villains were despatched without mercy—their bodies concealed till night, and then carried to a distance, and thrown into a sewer,—a necessary precaution, to prevent the suspicion that might arise should they have been discovered, and their deaths have occasioned inquiry.
Where was I? I looked around, and saw that the apartment was vaulted, and lighted by a lamp. Everything was not only comfortable, but luxurious—and Polowna—for so the fair girl who nursed me was designated, at my request explained the mystery.
Her father and kinsmen were merchants: and when Napoleon menaced Russia with invasion, with more forethought than was generally exercised, they prepared against a visitation that, though not probable, was still within the range of possibility. Beneath their country house, cellars of spacious size had been originally constructed, with a secret entrance, wherein to deposit merchandise which the Russian laws declared contraband. Though long disused, in this season of insecurity they were prepared for a different purpose. When the field of Borodino proved unsuccessful, and Napoleon approached the sacred city, Strenowitz, as the merchant was called, had everything valuable transferred from the chateau to the cellars; and having laid in all necessaries for supplying his family and servants during their confinement, the dwelling was apparently deserted,—and even those who resided in his immediate neighbourhood, believed that he had followed the example of the wealthier Muscowites, and removed into the interior. The destruction of the chateau, by the picket who had occupied it, added to the security of the family;—a ruined house held out no inducement to the plunderer; and, excepting the evening Polowna was surprised by the marauders who had wounded me, and paid the penalty with death, the concealment of Strenowitz escaped any visitation from the enemy, during the period that Napoleon continued to occupy his dearly-bought conquest.
My recovery was tedious,—the scull had been slightly fractured; and hence great care was necessary. Never was a soldier more tenderly attended to; and had I heart to spare, it should have been offered to Polowna. To quit my concealment would have compromised the safety of my young preserver; and, indeed, until after Napoleon abandoned Moscow, and commenced his calamitous retreat, I should not have been able to leave my couch.
Too late the Emperor found the terrible truth confirmed, to which he had hitherto obstinately refused credence. We could no longer remain in that ruined capital, which he had risked everything to obtain; and Lauriston’s mission to Kutusoff proved a failure. The 22d of October was the day of our deliverance. The young guard retired from the ruins of Moscow; and, in an hour afterwards, a tremendous explosion announced that the last work of destruction was completed, and the Kremlin was no more.
The retreat of the invading army forms a frightful picture of retributive suffering. It shall be passed over;—one fact will tell its fearful history.—Four hundred thousand splendid soldiers, at the opening of the campaign, passed the Neimen: on the 13th of December, which may be taken as the termination of the retreat, scarcely twenty thousand men recrossed that fatal stream.
For my own part, I had long since been reported dead; and when my health was sufficiently restored, when the exertions of my excellent protectors obtained my liberty, and I rejoined the skeleton of my regiment, I was looked upon by the few survivors as one returned from the grwe. But every league that brought me nearer to France seemed to remove a weight from my bosom, and my heart beat lighter. Pauline, in all her pride of beauty, was before my eyes—and in fancy, I was a father. I obtained leave to return home for the recovery of my health—and I hurried to that home where the smiles of my young bride would welcome me. Alas! Pauline was in the grave, and a broken-hearted old man and helpless orphan, occupied a dwelling in all the gloom of bereavement, which once was the abode of loveliness and plighted faith. I listened to the sad narration half stupified with grief. Pauline had confessed her secret marriage, and had been forgiven. The hour of trial came; and, at that dreaded moment, the intelligence of my supposed death was rashly communicated—and it killed her! Enough; I bore the visitation like a man; and when an order came to join a battalion of my regiment in Spain, I willingly obeyed it. You know the rest; and, but for you, if the dead are united in another world—as my heart fondly tells me that they are—I would have been with thee, Pauline!
He stopped; a tear trickled down his cheek; and, to divert the sadness of his thoughts, I proposed that we should retire for the night. The host lighted us to a dirty and comfortless apartment; and, without undressing, we threw ourselves on the outside of the bed-coverings, and, wrapped in our cloaks, were speedily asleep. We were still fast as watchmen, when the guerilla roused us. For all, he had agreeable intelligence. There was a post established lately by General Laval, but two leagues off, occupied by a party of French lancers.—that the voltigeur could join easily. A few miles, in an opposite direction, a squadron of Julian Sanchez light cwalry were cantoned; and once with them, the fosterer and I would be in safety. Accordingly, after an early breakfast, we took leave of each other, each to follow out his respective fortunes, and, not improbably, meet again—upon a field of battle.
One thing I must not forget: when summoned to the court-yard to mount our horses, we found the hidalgo and his friend, the little physician, settling accounts with the worthy host. On certain charges in the score, the parties held very opposite opinions. A long and bootless argument ensued; and, as disputants occasionally will part, the monetary transaction of the morning seemed to have raised neither in the estimation of the other.
In turn I advanced to the landlord, paraded my purse, and demanded in what I was indebted for great hospitality, excellent wine, and a supper.
“That would kill the divil!” was an addition of the fosterer’s.
With a profound bow, the host begged to leave the consideration entirely to myself, and forthwith I produced a guinea. I never saw joy so strikingly displayed: every line of the landlord’s face expanded—the lip curled graciously—the eye sparkled; when a change as suddenly came over it, and the countenance at once changed to the very picture of despair. What could have caused this change? I turned my head. Immediately behind me the partida guide was standing, his finger in a monitory position, while his dark eye told the rest.
“Not for worlds,” faltered the unhappy man, “would I accept one real for any poor service I could show a dog—I beg pardon, Senhor,—a gentleman, who has the honour of Don Juan Diez’ acquaintance!”
The guerilla motioned us to ride on. I did not look back, but a groan reached me from the doorway of the venta, as if a heart had broken. There was no mistake about it—the landlord was the sufferer!
