Mayence, July 22nd.
Our speed outstrips my pen. I am to retrace our steps to Soissons, whereas here we are upon the banks of the Rhine, which is hurrying majestically by to terminate its course amongst the dykes of Holland.
The nearer we came to Soissons[79] the nearer we perceived we were to the field of some terrible contest, and the suburbs, where the thickest of the fight took place, presented a frightful picture of war, not a house entire. It seems they were unroofed for the convenience of the attacking party, or set on fire, an operation which took up a very short space of time, thanks to the energetic labours of about 50 or 60,000 men. Indeed, fire and sword[160] had done their utmost—burnt beams, battered doors, not a vestige of furniture or window frames. I cannot give you a better idea of the quantity of shot, and consequent number of beings who must have perished, than by assuring you that on one front of a house about the extent of our home, and which was not more favoured than its neighbours, I counted between 2 and 300 bullet marks. I was leaning against a bit of broken wall in a garden, which appeared to be the doorway to a sort of cellar, taking a sketch, when the gardener came up and gave me some particulars of the fight. He pointed to this cave or cellar as the place of shelter in which he and 44 others had been concealed, every moment dreading a discovery which, whether by friend or foe, they looked upon as equally fatal. Fortunately the foe were the discoverers. Upon the termination of the battle, which had been favourable to the Allies, in came a parcel of Russians upon the trembling peasants. Conceiving it to be a hiding-place for French soldiers, they rushed upon them, but finding none, satisfied themselves with asking what business they had there, and turning them out to find their way through blood and slaughter to some more secure place of shelter. A small mill pool had been so completely choked with dead that they were obliged to let off the water and clean it out. With Sir Charles Stuart's dispatches cut out of the Macclesfield Paper we ascended the Cathedral, and from thence, as upon a map, traced out the operations of[161] both armies. Soissons is half surrounded by the Aisne, and stands on a fine plain, upon which the Russians displayed. Buonaparte, in one of his Bulletins, abuses a governor who allowed the Allies to take possession of the town when he was in pursuit, thus giving them a passage over the river, adding that had that governor done his duty the Russians might have been cut off. In England this was all voted "leather and prunello" and a mere vapouring opinion of the Emperor's, but as far as I could observe he was perfectly right, and had the governor been acting under my orders I question much whether I should not have hanged him. In looking about we were shewn a sort of town hall, with windows ornamented with the most beautiful painted glass you ever saw—nice little figures, trophies, landscapes, &c.—but a party of Russians had unfortunately been lodged there, and the glass was almost all smashed. I procured a specimen, but alas! portmanteaus are not the best packing-cases for glass, and in my possession it fared little better than with the Cossacks. However, if it is pulverised, I will bring it home as a Souvenir....
From Soissons to Laon the country is uninteresting except from the late events. With the exception of the first view of the plain and town of Laon, we passed village after village in the same state of ruin and dilapidation. Chavignon, about 4 miles from Laon, seemed, however, to have been more particularly the object of vengeance; it was throughout[162] nearly a repetition of the suburbs of Soissons. Laon rises like a sort of Gibraltar from a rich and beautiful plain covered with little woods, vineyards, villages, and cornfields; the summit is crowned with an old castle, the town with its Cathedral towers and a parcel of windmills. Buonaparte had been extremely anxious to dislodge the allies; for two days made a furious and almost incessant attack, which was fortunately unsuccessful owing, to speak in French terms, to la petite trahison, in plain English, the bravery of the Russians, who not only withstood the repeated shocks, but pursued the enemy all the way to Soissons, every little copse and wood becoming a scene of contest, and the whole plain was strewed with dead. Since quitting Rouen I do not recollect any town at all to be compared with Laon either in point of scenery without or picturesque beauty within; it is one of the most curious old places I ever saw—Round Towers, Gateways, &c. We took up our quarters at an odd-looking Inn, with the nicest people we had met with for some time. They spoke with horror of the miseries they had undergone in this Inn, not much larger than Cutts' at Wilmslow; they had daily to feed and accommodate for upwards of two months 150 Russians of all descriptions, and this at a moment when provisions were, of course, extremely dear. The landlord's daughter with two friends were imprisoned, actually afraid of putting their noses beyond the keyhole; luckily they could make artificial flowers, and two of them drew remarkably[163] well; a favourite dog of the landlord's was their companion. A Cossack had one day taken him by the tail with the firm intent to put him on the kitchen fire, the bare recollection of which kindled all our host's anger, and he declared that had his poor dog been roasted, though he well knew the consequence, he should have shot the Cossack; fortunately the dog escaped, but as his Master assured me, never smelt or heard a Cossack's name mentioned afterwards without popping his tail between his legs and making off with the utmost speed. Both at this place and at Soissons we met with people with whom Davenport[80] had lodged, and in both places he has established a character which reflects the highest credit on his activity, humanity, and generosity. He was no idle spectator; he went about endeavouring by every means in his power to alleviate the miseries of war by protecting persons and property, and by administering to the wants of the sick and wounded of every description....
On the 16th we quitted Laon for Berry au Bac, passing through Corbeny and close to the heights of Craon, upon which a battle was fought which might be considered as the coup de grâce to the French. The Emperor commanded in person; he talked nearly half an hour with the Postmaster, whom he summoned before him; if the man spoke truth, his conversation appears to have been rather childish. After asking many questions about the[164] roads and country, he vented a torrent of abuse against the Russians, upon whom he assured the Postmaster it was his intention to inflict summary punishment, and, indeed, according to the French translation of the business, he actually did so, tho' I never could find out that any other of the Imperial troops remained to enjoy the victory on these said heights, saving and except the wounded and killed; one spot was pointed out where in one grave were deposited the remains of 3,000....
In this village of Corbeny there had been sad devastation; but it was at Berry au Bac that we were to see the superlative degree of misery. This unfortunate little town had been captured 7 times—4 times by the Russians, 3 times by the French; their bridge, a beautiful work of 3 arches, only completed in December, was blown up March 19. The houses fared no better; whole streets were annihilated—chiefly for the sake of burning the beams for fire-wood by the Russians—but the walls were in great measure knocked over by the French, for what other purpose than wanton cruelty I could not learn. Pillage and violence of every description had been excessive. Some of the inhabitants died of pure fright; a gentleman-like-looking man assured me his own father was of the number. Even here the Cossacks were complimented for their comparative good behaviour, while the French and the Emperor were justly execrated—"Plait à Dieu" said a poor man who stood moaning over the ruins of his cottage, "Plait à Dieu, qu'il soit mort, et qu'on n'entendît plus de Napoléon";—the old woman, his wife, told me they only feared the Cossacks when they were drunk. An old Cossack had taken up his quarters with them—"Ah c'était un bon Viellard; un bon Papa."
