The battles of the world

by J. Douglas Borthwick

Nothing was heard but the heavy tramp of his squadrons as he passed along, for a deserted and abandoned city was the meagre prize, for which such unparalleled efforts had been made. As night drew its curtains over the splendid capital, Napoleon entered the gates, and immediately appointed Mortier governor. In his directions, he commanded him to abstain from all pillage. For this, said he, you shall be answerable with your life. Defend Moscow against all, whether friend or foe. The bright moon rose over the mighty city, tipping with silver the domes of more than 200 churches, and pouring a flood of light over 1000 palaces, and the dwellings of 300,000 inhabitants. The weary army sunk to rest; but there was no sleep for Mortier’s eyes.

Not the gorgeous and variegated palaces and their rich ornaments, nor the parks and gardens, and oriental magnificence that everywhere surrounded him, kept him wakeful, but the ominous foreboding that some dire calamity was hanging over the silent capital. When he entered it, scarcely a living soul met his gaze, as he looked down the long streets; and when he broke open the buildings, he found parlors, and bedrooms, and chambers all furnished and in order, but no occupants. The sudden abandonment of their homes, betokened some secret purpose yet to be fulfilled. The midnight moon was sailing over the city, when the cry of “Fire!” reached the ears of Mortier; and the first light over Napoleon’s falling empire was kindled, and the most wondrous scene of modern time commenced,—the burning of Moscow. Mortier, as governor of the city, immediately issued his orders, and was putting forth every exertion, when, at day-light, Napoleon hastened to him. Affecting to disbelieve the reports that the inhabitants were firing their own city, he put more rigid commands on Mortier to keep the soldiers from their work of destruction.

The marshal simply pointed to some iron covered houses that had not yet been opened, from every crevice of which smoke was issuing like steam from the sides of a pent up volcano. Sad and thoughtful, Napoleon turned toward the Kremlin, the ancient palace of the Czars, whose huge structure rose high above the surrounding edifices.

In the morning, Mortier, by great exertions, was enabled to subdue the fire. But the next night, at midnight, the sentinels on watch, on the lofty Kremlin, saw below them the flames bursting through the houses and palaces, and the cry of “Fire!” “Fire!” passed through the city. The dread scene had now fairly opened. Fiery balloons were seen dropping from the air, and lighting upon the houses; dull explosions were heard on every side from the shut up dwellings, and the next moment a bright light burst forth, and the flames were raging through the apartments. All was uproar and confusion. The serene air and moonlight of the night before, had given way to the driving clouds, and a wild tempest that swept with the roar of the sea over the city. Flames arose on every side, blazing and crackling in the storm, while clouds of smoke and sparks, in an incessant shower, went driving toward the Kremlin. The clouds themselves seemed turned into fire, rolling in wrath over devoted Moscow. Mortier, crushed with the responsibility thus thrown over his shoulders, moved with his young guard amid this desolation, blowing up the houses, and facing the tempest and the flames, struggling nobly to arrest the conflagration. He hastened from place to place amid the blazing ruins, his face blackened with the smoke, and his hair and eyebrows seared with the fierce heat. At length, the day dawned, a day of tempest and of flame; and Mortier, who had strained every nerve for 36 hours, entered a palace, and dropped down with fatigue.

The manly form and stalwart arm, that had so long carried death into the ranks of the enemy, at length gave way, and the gloomy marshal lay and panted in utter exhaustion. The day was one of tempest; and when night again enveloped the city it was one broad flame, wavering to and fro in the blast.

The wind had increased to a perfect hurricane, and shifted from quarter to quarter, as if on purpose to swell the sea of fire, and extinguish the last hope. The fire was approaching the Kremlin, and already the roar of the flames and the crash of the falling houses, and the crackling of burning timbers, were borne to the ears of the startled Emperor.

He arose and walked to and fro, stopping and convulsively gazing on the terrific scene. Murat, Eugène, and Berthier rushed into his presence, and on their knees besought him to flee; but he still clung to that haughty palace, as if it were his empire. But at length the shout, “The Kremlin on fire!” was heard above the roar of the conflagration, and Napoleon reluctantly consented to leave. He descended into the street with his staff, and looked about for a way of egress, but the flames blocked every passage. At length they discovered a postern gate, leading to the Moskwa, and entered it, but they had only entered still further into the danger. As Napoleon cast his eyes around the open space, girdled and arched with fire, smoke, and cinders, he saw one single street yet open, but all on fire.

Into this he rushed, and amid the crash of falling houses, and raging of the flames, over burning ruins, through clouds of rolling smoke, and between walls of fire, he pressed on; and at length, half suffocated, emerged in safety from the blazing city, and took up his quarters in the imperial palace of Petrousky, nearly three miles distant.

Mortier, relieved from his anxiety for the Emperor, redoubled his efforts to arrest the conflagration. His men cheerfully rushed into every danger. Breathing nothing but smoke and ashes,—canopied by flame, and smoke, and cinders,—surrounded by walls of fire that rocked to and fro, and fell with a crash amid the blazing ruins, carrying down with them red hot roofs of iron,—he struggled against an enemy, that no boldness could awe, or courage overcome.