The Great White Army

by Max Pemberton

As we first saw it, the Bérézina did not appear to be a formidable river. It ran beneath a sky heavy with cloud and through a marsh, of which the thaws of recent days had made nothing but a treacherous bog.

When it first came into view there were some thousands of the Fusiliers and Chasseurs of the Guard encamped upon its eastern bank. A drizzle of snow fell, and it was clear that the waters of the river had begun to flow with some rapidity. Little waves lapped the marshy shore; great blocks of ice went careering here and there as though they were monstrous fish at play. The wind moaned dismally and the damp searched our very bones.

Of shelter there was none, save that of a few miserable huts upon the hillside and of a low farmhouse, which the general's staff now occupied. Luckily for us, we took possession of one of the former, and there I left Valerie with Monsieur d'Izambert and his daughter, while I myself rode on to the river to get what tidings I could. These, to be sure, were not of ill-omen, and the fact that they were not so is to be set down to the bravery of the gallant fellows who were then working for our salvation.

Never in all the story of a retreat can there be a more glorious page written than that which told of our own pontonniers on this famous day of November.

Let me tell you in brief words that, despite the bitter cold, the snow which beat upon their faces and the icy water of the river, they plunged boldly into the stream, and stood there, often working up to their necks, that the bridge which should save the army might be built. The feat has been made light of by subsequent writers; yet here I bear witness that a nobler thing was never done, nor any task achieved so heroically in all the years of His Majesty's victories.

Imagine it, my friends, and think upon our situation.

We knew that the Russians were to the north and the south of us. The ancient bridge below Borisoff had been cut. If we could not ford this icy stream, then death or the horrors of a Russian prison awaited us. Our one hope was this determined band of ten, who offered their own lives upon the altar of our safety and plunged into the river that they might win it for us.

Hour by hour we watched them with feverish eyes. Even the Emperor came down to the place, and with his own hand served wine to those heroes who were winning life for him. One by one the pontoons were moored, and the gap between the coveted shores made narrower.

To me it seemed as though it were a race between Fate and the fortunes of France. I saw the river rising every hour; the moaning wind became a dreadful thing to hear as the day waxed and waned. And ever through the terrible hours the snow fell pitilessly and the ice gathered and crashed in the torrent which lashed the pontoons.

Would our fellows win by nightfall, or was all indeed lost? I answered the question for myself when, at sunset, the triumphant cries of the fusiliers announced that a communication with the opposite shore was established, and I saw the Guard ride over, their trumpets blaring and their eagles proudly proclaiming their victory.