General Longchamps, with his poor remainder, was forced to leave his guns, all the horses being killed, and follow our retreat, taking advantage of what shelter he could find behind houses or banks as he went.
We were scarcely within the town of Krasnoë when the Russians, their guns mounted on sledges, took up a position near the outlying houses, and opened a fire of grape-shot on us. Three men of our company were wounded. A ball, which grazed my musket and split the stock, struck a young drummer on the head and killed him on the spot. The town of Krasnoë is divided in two by a deep hollow, which must be crossed. Arrived there, we saw at the bottom a herd of oxen dead of cold and hunger. So stiff were they frozen, that our sappers could scarcely cut them up with hatchets. Only their heads were visible, their eyes still open; their bodies were covered with snow. These bullocks belonged to the army, and had not been able to reach us: the extreme cold and want of fodder had killed them.
A large convent in this wretched town and all the houses were filled with wounded, who shrieked in despair when they heard they were to be left to the Russians. We were forced to leave them thus to a savage and brutal enemy, who stripped and robbed these unfortunate men without pity for their wounds or their condition.
The Russians still followed us, but slowly, and they were unable to do us much harm. Our road was through a deep cutting, and the bullets passed over our heads; the cavalry on our right also prevented the enemy coming to close quarters.
At a quarter of a league's distance from the town things grew quieter. We walked on sadly and silently, thinking of our dreadful situation, and of our unfortunate comrades left in the hands of the enemy. I seemed still to hear them begging for help; and looking back, we could see some of the slightly wounded already stripped almost naked by the Russians, and left in that condition. We were luckily able to save the poor fellows—at least, for the time, and we spared all we could to cover them.
That night the Emperor slept at Liadouï, a village built of wood. Our regiment camped a little further off. As I passed through the village I stopped near a wretched hovel to warm myself at a fire. There I had the good fortune to meet Sergeant Guignard again—from my own village—and his Hungarian cantinière. They gave me a little oatmeal broth and some horseflesh. I was badly in want of the food, as I was shockingly weak, having eaten hardly anything for two days. The sergeant told me that their regiment had suffered considerably in the battle, and their numbers were much diminished, but not nearly as greatly as ours; that he had thought much of me, and was heartily glad to see me again with a whole skin. He asked me after Captain Débonnez, but I had not seen him since the 16th. I left him to go back to my regiment, encamped near the highroad. We spent a dreadful night; there was a high wind, and half-melted snow was falling, which wetted us through, and we had very little fire. All this, however, was nothing compared to what we went through afterwards.
During this dreadful night many of the sharp-shooters came to warm themselves at our fire. I asked them for news of several of my friends, especially of two from my part who were in the Vélites with me. One was M. Alexandre Legrand, of the Quatre fils Aymon at Valenciennes; and the other, M. Laporte, from Cassel, near Lille, had been killed by a grape-shot.
At midnight one of our sentinels told me he could see a man on horseback appearing to come from our side. I ran at once with two of our men to see who it could be. I could distinguish the horseman perfectly, and in front of him a foot soldier, whom he was apparently forcing on before him. When they got near us I recognised a Dragoon of the Guard, who had made his way into the Russian camp to get food for himself and his horse. He had disguised himself by means of the helmet of a Russian Cuirassier whom he had killed the day before. He had brought away from the enemy's camp a bundle of straw and a little flour, and had wounded one sentinel and knocked down another, whom he made prisoner and brought along with him. This brave fellow was called Mellé, and he came from Condé. He stayed with us for the rest of the night. He said that he had run this risk for his horse, called Cadet, and not for himself; at any cost he had determined to get the animal some food. 'If I save my horse, he will save me afterwards.' This was the second time he had got inside the Russian camp since leaving Smolensk. On the first occasion he had brought back a horse already harnessed.
He was fortunate enough to return to France with his horse. They had already been through the Prussian and Polish campaigns of 1806-7 together, in Spain in 1808, in Germany in 1809, in Spain again 1810-11, and in Russia 1812; afterwards in Saxony in 1813, and France 1814. The poor horse was finally killed at Waterloo, after being through more than twelve great battles commanded by the Emperor, and over thirty smaller engagements. I met Mellé again during this wretched campaign on a lake breaking a hole in the ice with a hatchet to get water for his horse; and another time I saw him at the top of a burning barn, in peril of his life, getting straw from the roof for him, for the horses were as badly off as we were. The poor animals had to gnaw at the trees to feed themselves, until in their turn they fed us.
After this others followed Mellé's example and got into the Russian camp for provisions. Many of them were seized, and died afterwards. Our destitution was now so great that our men left their regiments at the least sign of a road in the faint hope of its leading to some village—if one can give that name to the collection of wretched hovels made out of tree-trunks, and containing absolutely nothing. I could never discover what these peasants lived on. Our men would come back sometimes bringing bits of bread as black as coal, and filled with long pieces of straw and grains of barley, so terribly hard that no teeth could bite into them; and, besides, our lips were all split and cracked by frost. During all this miserable campaign I never saw a man bring so much as a cow or a sheep with him. What these savages live on no one can tell. They have no beasts, that is certain, or we should have seen some. It is the devil's own country, for it is hell all through.