Shortly after the dreadful scene at the Beresina, Napoleon left his once grand army, now nothing but a confused rabble of all arms and followers mixed up. His superb cavalry were nearly all dismounted. Of guns they had but few. Murat, who now commanded, had nothing but horse-flesh to feed his starving followers with, and but little of that. The Cossacks of the Don were hovering all around them, hacking at all stragglers. No mercy was shown by these infuriated savages. Napoleon was now travelling through Poland, almost at lightning speed, on two rough sledges, accompanied with but three followers. He dashed through Germany, changing horses every twenty miles. The monster was not yet satisfied. He had not been the cause of enough misery. He carried the dreadful news to Paris of the destruction of his once Grand Army. He made (or tried to make) the Government believe that his army had conquered Russia, that it was still unconquerable, and that they were still superb. He acknowledged that nearly all his cavalry and artillery were destroyed by the extreme cold. He demanded 500,000 more men. “I will then,” he said, “give Alexander a few battles on the plains of Germany, and all will be restored. I have to thank England for all the misery which has overtaken us; but I will lay London in ashes yet.” He had yet to learn that London was to him sacred ground; that its people openly acknowledged daily the saving power of the great Architect of the Universe. He permitted the tyrant to go thus far, and no further; to show us and our children’s children, in days to come, the finger of His love: “I will be your God, and ye shall be my people. Fear not.” To go into all the desperate fights which took place after Napoleon’s departure, I could not. Murat kept picking up strong detachments of all arms that had been left to keep the communication open.
The invincibility was all thrashed out of Murat’s dejected, half-frozen, half-starved, half-clad followers. The heroic Marshal Ney (an Irishman) still commanded the rear guard. Four times it melted away, and as often this exemplary soldier re-formed another. At the gate of Wilna this unconquerable soldier, a prince and a Marshal of France, fought as a grenadier (which he was) with a musket. When called upon to surrender he exclaimed, “A Marshal of France may die, but never surrender.”[42] Such was the heroic Ney. History has not preserved a nobler instance of humanity than that displayed by the Emperor Alexander and his brother Constantine, at Wilna. The condition of the wounded and prisoners, till the arrival of Alexander, was horrible beyond conception. Huddled together in hospitals without fire, water, medicine, beds, or even straw, there they lay in hundreds, with their limbs shattered, or in the last stage of disease. Hundreds died every day, their bodies thrown out of the windows by those in attendance; but their places were immediately filled up by multitudes of others, who crawled or were carried into these abodes of wretchedness to draw their last breath, cursing him who had been the cause of all their misery. Hard biscuit, and but little of that, was all they had for food; their only drink was snow, carried to them by their comrades. The putrid smell of above six thousand bodies, which lay unburied, was unbearable. Into these hidden dens of living, tombs, the Emperor Alexander and his brother immediately on arrival entered. Steps were at once taken to stop these horrors; the dead putrefied bodies were at once collected, and burned or buried. They amounted to the astounding number of seventeen thousand, lying dead about the streets and hospitals. The total number that succumbed at Wilna was upwards of thirty thousand in a few weeks. This was the termination of a campaign of unexampled dangers and glory to the Russian arms, by deeds of unprecedented Christian mercy to a fallen foe. The wreck of the once grand army re-crossed the Niemen, and left the Russian territory, on the 13th December, 1812—about 20,000 of rag-tail, bob-tail, miserable wretches. It must have been humiliating to the remains of the Old Guard (about 800 strong) to be pursued by a detachment of Cossacks. But my readers must know that five-sixths of this motley army had never seen Moscow, or been within hundreds of miles of it. The last stand was made at the bridge of Kowno, by the rear-guard, under the intrepid Ney. He fired the last shot that drove his pursuers back; threw all spare arms into the Niemen, and retired with honour, covered with blood and mud, and black with powder; his clothing all in tatters, and his good sword still reeking with the blood of a Cossack. In that state, the hero presented himself to General Dumas, who was lying wounded a few miles from the frontier. “Who are you?” said the General, as he entered into the sick chamber. “I am the rear-guard of the grand army. I have fired the last musket shot on the bridge of Kowno, and have thrown into the river the last of our arms. I am Marshal Ney.”[43] When the truth came out, the grand army was accounted for as follows:—Killed in action, 130,000, including officers; taken prisoners, 48 generals, 5,000 officers, and 190,000 men. Nearly all the wounded were either taken or died; 132,000 officers and men died of fatigue and starvation; yet to add 110,000 Poles, killed or died of starvation and cold; 35,000 Austrians, and 18,000 Prussians—wings of the host—never were near Moscow, and not much engaged, retired to their own country. This nearly brings up the grand total, about 20,000 of the wreck being added. The Russian loss was as heavy, if not heavier, than that of the enemy. The noble lines of Johnson, on Charles XII., seem a poetic prophecy of the far greater catastrophe on Napoleon. By a few alterations they become descriptive of his fate:—
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No joys to him pacific sceptres yield; War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field; Behold! surrounding kings their powers combine, And some capitulate, and some resign. Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain; “Think nothing gained,” he cries, “till nought remain On Moscow’s walls till Gothic standards fly, And all be mine beneath the Polar sky.” The march begins in military state, And nations on his eye suspended wait; Stern famine guards the solitary coast, And winter barricades the realms of frost. He comes—not want and cold his course delay; Hide, blushing glory, hide the Moskwa’s day; The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands, And shows his miseries in distant lands; Condemned a needy suppliant to wait, While ladies interpose and slaves debate. His fall was destined to a barren strand, A petty fortress and a sea-girt land; He left a name, at which the world grew pale To point a moral, and adorn a tale. |
Madame de Staël has well said that Providence never appeared so near human affairs as in this memorable year 1812. There was, as far as human eye could see, a special outpouring of Divine wrath. We see in Napoleon the greatness and weakness of puny man, his highest glory, and yet nothingness against the arm of the Great Geometrician of the universe.
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The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.—Shakespeare. |
It was in order to crush us as a nation that precipitated Napoleon and his host into the famine guarded wilds of Russia. Thousands, yea, hundreds of thousands of the working classes in this God-defended isle, will hardly be able to fathom the terrible calamities of the horrors of war in the retreat from Moscow, the only difference being most of the Russian sick and wounded returned to their colours, as they were nursed in the bosom of their friends. But even this terrible blow was not enough to subdue the great conqueror. Russia had been kept in the field by our inexhaustible funds. Arms, with all kinds of warlike stores, were shipped off to Russia by wholesale by us; and, but for the indomitable pluck of our forefathers, the whole of the continent of Europe would have been at the conqueror’s feet. Prussia was willing to strike for her independence, but she was powerless—she was bankrupt. All her main fortifications, with her capital, were in the hands of the enemy. Napoleon had boasted, after the crush at Jena, that he would make the princes and nobles of Germany beg their bread. Poor struggling Prussia was held by an iron grasp. Military contributions, which were extracted under pain of instant death, from its unhappy people during the year 1812, would exceed belief if it were not attested by authentic documents: 482,000 officers and men, and 80,000 horses, traversed Prussia’s whole extent. More than half this immense force were quartered above three months on the poor inhabitants; they were like a cloud of locusts, devouring all they could lay their hands upon, shooting all that dared to oppose them. We would say fervently, “God protect our beloved isle from the ravages of war.”
Our forefathers knew all this and far more, and had made up their minds that if they had to die, some one else should die with them. They would not die from tyranny, but sword in hand. It is not generally known that at the commencement of this terrible war in 1792, we raised in this glorious Old Isle of Freedom, by the operation of the ballot, 800,000 men, not for offensive warfare, but for defensive; and mind, our united population then was only about 15,000,000. But to proceed: In east Prussia alone, the enemy demanded and took by force 22,700 cattle, horses 70,000, carts and waggons 13,349. The weekly cost of one corps alone (Janot’s, 70,000 strong) was 200,000 crowns, or £50,000 sterling, the rest of the army being in proportion. These enormous contributions were exclusive of the war indemnity of 640,000,000 francs, which was rigidly exacted. In addition to all the above, the following was demanded and taken by force:—200,000 quintals[44] of rye, 24,000 of rice, 48,000 of dried vegetables, 200,000 bottles of brandy, 2,000,000 bottles of beer (I think I hear some one remark, they were a thirsty lot), 400,000 quintals of wheat, 650,000 of hay, 750,000 of straw, 6,000,000 pecks of oats, 44,000 oxen, 15,000 cavalry horses, 600,000 quintals of powder, 60,000 of lead, 3,600 waggons, harnessed, with drivers; hospital and field equipage for 20,000 men (sick and wounded). The Germans may well be vindictive, knowing all this and far more; for their wives and daughters were treated in such a manner that pen refuses to record it. If the unfortunate peasant or husband remonstrated, he was at once shot. They may well, I say, have thrown their scabbards away, determined to conquer or die. At Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden, Leipsic, and a number of other fields, they fought with desperation. At Lutzen and Bautzen, thousands of the Prussians, Landwehr[45] (Militia), fought heroically in the clothing in which they came from the plough tail. Their loss was very heavy, but they died to try and save the honour of their mothers, their wives, and their sisters. Here we see the majestic might which slumbers in the peasant’s arm; their heroism was worthy of veteran soldiers; 15,500 Prussians fell, and 25,000 French lay upon the bloody field of Bautzen. “What!” said the spoilt child of fortune, “after such a butchery, will these Prussian rustics not leave me a nail? No results? no prisoners? no guns? Why, they rise from the dust. When will this be done. When will it end?”[46] It was on this field that the heroic Marshal Duroc[47] fell. The great conqueror was melted to tears. Taking the hand of his dying old comrade and pressing it to his heart: “Duroc,” said the great conqueror, “there is another world, where we shall meet again.” Memorable words, reader, wrung by anguish even from the child of infidelity. Again he exclaimed, “Another such victory, and I am undone.” No one dared to approach him. When appealed to for some urgent orders about the pursuit of the Allies, his answer was: “All to-morrow.” Murmurs, regrets, and despair were heard even among the most resolute. The Allies, backed up by British gold, arms, and munitions of war, here determined to fight it out to the bitter end; they might die, but not yield. The hero of Inkermann, Sir G. Cathcart, was in the thick of both battles. His conduct was the admiration of the Emperor Alexander. But at Lutzen and Bautzen the conqueror again fastened victory to the French eagle. The two fields cost him 40,500 officers and men. The undisciplined, raw material of Germany nobly faced Napoleon’s veterans. They made good use of the arms our people sent them. As soon as it was found out that Germany had made up its mind in earnest to fight for its liberty, old England at once gave the right hand of fellowship to the fatherland. They could but die; all they wanted was arms and money; and in two short months (from 18th March to 18th May) we sent to Germany, with a free heart, the following, besides keeping up Russia, Spain, and Portugal:—
| Field-pieces with carriages, complete | 218 |
| Muskets and bayonets | 124,119 |
| Swords | 34,443 |
| Sets of uniform complete, with overcoats | 150,000 |
| Boots and shoes | 175,000 |
| Blankets | 114,000 |
| Linen shirts | 85,000 |
| Gaiters | 87,190 |
| Sets of accoutrements | 90,000 |
| Knapsacks, complete (with all necessaries) | 63,000 |
| Caps and feathers | 100,000 |
| Pairs of stockings (wool) | 69,624 |
| Pounds of biscuits | 702,000 |
| Pounds of beef and pork | 691,000 |
And at the same time, we advanced Russia nearly £2,000,000 sterling. Austria, Prussia, and the smaller German States, Spain and Portugal, were again at this time assisted with the nice little sum of nearly £10,000,000 sterling more. And it must be remembered that at this date our population was only 18,000,000: yet we had an army of 753,375, all voluntarily enlisted for life, or twenty-one years, or as long as required, with a fleet that was well manned, that had and could bid defiance to the world in arms: with a Native army in India of 201,000. It was a death-struggle. Old England was the leader, and our forefathers came out in their true colours, determined to die hard. For humanity’s sake, I would advise foreigners to let the Lion in the Briton slumber; for if once roused, I have not the slightest hesitation in asserting that, with our present population in the British isles alone—now nearly 40,000,000—we could put into the field, and keep more men there, than any single State in Europe would like to face. That same invincible spirit is still in the Briton that stood by them on the fields of Albuera and Inkermann. It would be more profitable to die with honour in defence of our homes and those we love so well, than to be treated as the Germans were from 1806 to 1813. The reader need not be at all astonished at the huge armies the Germans keep up at present. If they have to die, they are going to do so sword in hand; but there will be a lot of broken heads, bloody noses, and wooden legs, among their foes. But again, shortly after the terrible battle of Bautzen, an armistice was signed by Napoleon and the Allies. It was nothing but a blind to gain time to bring up his reinforcements from the Rhine. In the meantime the Allies were not idle. Napoleon was trying all he could to get Austria to join his standard, but the star of England again prevailed. It was plain to all that the days of Austerlitz and Jena were past: there was now unity. We at once assisted Austria with 100,000 stand of arms, and accoutrements, and £10,000,000 sterling, to put her army in motion. Old Marshal “Forward!” (Blücher) had said long before this “that if Germany wanted their freedom, they must do as England had done from the first—rise to a man and fight for it.” And the old hero said to his king, “We must stick to them, and never stop combating until the enemy are routed out of the Fatherland.” He said what he meant, for he never sheathed his victorious sword until the great conqueror was hurled from power. Wellington’s victories, one after another, in the north of Spain and south of France had roused the whole German people. Napoleon might well say, “What a war! we shall all leave our remains here.” The fact is, the British, side by side with the heroic boys of the Green Isle, had set Europe an example; the benevolent hand of our forefathers had touched the Germans in a vital point. They said, “If a nation of bankers and shopkeepers can beat the conquering legions and roll them up on every field, so will we, or die in the attempt.” But we had again to assist the Continent to strike the fetters off. Russia, Austria, and Prussia again received as a loan, at one per cent., £3,000,000 each: Spain, and Portugal, £2,000,000 each: Sweden, £2,000,000: and Sicily, £600,000 sterling, besides warlike stores. And our own forces were augmented to 1,107,000 men in arms, with upwards of 1,000 ships of war, manned by 140,000 seamen and 31,000 marines; for our big cousins must kick up a row with us, thinking of taking Canada from us. But they came off second best, although millions of money were lavished, and thousands of men fell on both sides.
At this time, Warren Hastings was carrying on a war on a large scale in India, and slice after slice was being added to our dominions out there; and yet our population was only 18,052,044. Europe owes a debt of gratitude to old England; her liberty was the fruit of British liberality. The vast hosts which stemmed the torrent of conquest on the Elbe, and rolled it back to the gates of Paris, were armed, clothed, and paid by this nation,—this glorious old nation, that is second to none; that some short-sighted, weak-kneed old women—knaves—would fain make their children believe is going down the hill. We again would advise those who talk so loudly about our defenceless state, not to make fools of themselves. We shall not, I think, be found wanting more than our grandfathers were. And those that do not understand the true Briton, we would advise them to read a wee bit, or for ever hold their peace. Let our naval strength be doubled, if necessary. It is far better to be ready, not imbecile, in our vital point. We can do without butcher’s bills. We feel confident that our navy would hold their own. But let us proceed. Napoleon had once more collected a vast host around his standards on the plains of Dresden. The great conqueror once more throws down the gauntlet at the feet of Russia, Austria, Prussia, and Sweden. His army was composed of 467,947 infantry, 50,900 cavalry, 1,536 guns, with 35,000 artillerymen; in garrison strongholds, 80,300—total at Napoleon’s command 634,174, besides strong armies in the south of France. And in garrison he had yet upwards of 1,200,000 men to back him up; so that it required something more than short-sighted, weak-kneed old women to pull him from his exalted pinnacle. The Allies had in the field 721,383 men, with 1801 guns. All these forces were depending upon Mr. and Mrs. Bull’s inexhaustible long stocking. The terrible battle of Dresden was fought; it lasted two days. It is not my intention to describe it. Courage had done its best. But this rascal, Napoleon, was one too many for the Allies. He once more nailed victory to the French Eagle. It was not a crushing blow. The Allies retired from the field in good order. This was the last battle[48] on a grand scale the great conqueror ever won. The fruits of the victory were 13,000 prisoners (nearly all Austrians), 26 cannon, 18 standards, while 40,000 men lay in ghastly piles all over the bloody field. In the suburbs of Dresden the sight was heart-rending, dead and wounded lying in heaps, just as if eighty guns and ammunition waggons had dashed over them. Reader, these are some of the glories of war! Only a few days afterwards, the bloody field of Clum was fought.[49] The slaughter was terrible, for the numbers engaged. The enemy lost 18,000 men, 60 guns, 300 ammunition waggons, two eagles, and 5000 prisoners. This was an awkward blow, coming, as it did, from an army just defeated at Dresden.