While we were all resting, and each busy in arranging some fearful meal for himself, I retired furtively into the thickest part of the wood to eat the potatoes I had hidden so carefully. But a fearful disappointment was in store for me. When I tried to bite, I felt nothing but ice; my teeth slipped, and I could not get hold of a bit. I was sorry then that I had not shared the potatoes with the others, and I went back to them, holding in my hand the frozen one, covered with blood from my lips. They asked me what I had got, and I silently showed them the potato I held, and the others in my bag. They were snatched instantly from me; but the result, when they tried to bite, was no better than mine. They tried to thaw them at the fire, but they melted away like ice. While this was going on, other men came up to ask me where I had found the potatoes, and when I pointed to the wood they ran there, returning to say they had found nothing. They were very good to me, as they invited me to share a potful of horse's blood which they had cooked. I did not need two invitations. I have always felt very sorry for behaving as I did. The men believed that I found the potatoes in the wood, and I did not undeceive them. But all this is only a hundredth part of what came afterwards.
After an hour's rest we set out again, crossing a wood, where every now and then we came on open spaces, with houses in them occupied by Jews. Some of them are large, and built very much like our barns, only of wood. At each end is a large door. These houses take the place of posting houses. A carriage is taken in at one end, and, after changing horses, goes out at the other. The houses are built about three leagues apart; but most of them had disappeared, having been burnt at the army's first passage.
FOOTNOTES:
[25] The name of the village was Mickalowka.—Author's Note.
A DISASTER—A FAMILY DRAMA—MARSHAL MORTIER—TWENTY-SEVEN DEGREES OF FROST—WE REACH SMOLENSK—A DEN OF THIEVES.
When we got out of the wood, near to a miserable little hamlet called Gara, I saw, a short distance off, one of the posting-houses I have been describing. I pointed it out to one of our sergeants, an Alsatian called Mather, and suggested to him that we should spend the night there, if we could possibly manage to get there first. We set off running, but found on arriving that it was crammed full with officers, men, and horses—about 800 people being there—so that there was not an inch of room for us.
While we were running, first one way and then another, trying to find places, the Imperial column and our own regiment passed, so we decided to spend the night under the horses tied up to the doors. Those who were camped round the house repeatedly tried to pull it down to make fires and shelters with the wood, and to get hold of the straw lying in a sort of loft. Some of this straw was used for beds by those inside the house, and, tightly packed though they were, they even made small fires to warm themselves and cook their horseflesh. They threatened to shoot those outside who tried to pull up the planks of the house. Some who had got on the roof, and had torn off planks, were forced to jump down in danger of their lives.