Everybody who has read Ségur, and those who have not had better begin immediately, knows how these fifteen hundred men were swept away by Kutusow’s artillery; how Ney in person headed the next charge; and how, after losing more than half his division, he retreated towards Smolensko, made a flank movement, again returned southwards, and at last struck the Dnieper, and crossed it with the remnant of his force, without a bridge, and on blocks of floating ice, to find, upon the further bank, Platoff and his Cossacks, with their Scythian tactics and sledge-mounted artillery, to which he had no cannon to oppose,—the six guns wherewith he had audaciously returned the fire of Kutusow’s tremendous batteries having been left, of course, on the north bank of the river. But, after braving and escaping from the whole Russian army, Ney was not to be intimidated by a horde of ill-disciplined savages; and he forced his way, fighting incessantly, to the neighbourhood of Orcha, where Eugene received him with open arms. There are only five short days’ marches from Smolensko to Orcha; but in that little section of the long and terrible retreat, Ney, whilst losing thousands of men daily, gathered enough laurels to shade the brows of half a dozen heroes. We do not envy the feelings of those, be they Russians, English, or of what country they may, who can read, without profound emotion and admiration, the history of Marshal Ney during the Russian campaign, and especially during its latter and most disastrous portion. When those who previously ranked as the bravest gave in—when pride and thirst for glory were obliterated by extremity of suffering, and by the instinct of self-preservation—when the soldier’s most powerful incentives, discipline, honour, and gain, were forgotten and lost sight of, and even the iron veterans of the Old Guard, no longer sustained by their Emperor’s presence, renounced the contest and lay down to die—when his fellow-marshals, with rare exceptions, showed weariness and discouragement, and even the stern Davoust complained that the limits of human suffering were exceeded,—where was Ney, what was his aspect, what his words and actions? In rear of the army, a musket in his hand, a smile of confidence on his lips, the fire of his great soul and of his own glory flashing from his eyes, he exposed his life each minute in the day, as freely as ever he had done when he had but life to lose, before his valour had given him riches and rank, family and fame. Surely, so long as valour is appreciated, the name of Ney will be borne in glorious remembrance. And surely those men who subsequently pronounced his sentence of death, must since have sometimes felt remorse at their share in the untimely fate of so great a warrior. “I have saved my eagles!” joyously exclaimed Napoleon, when he learned, at two leagues from Orcha, that Ney was safe, although he brought with him but the ghost of his fine division. “I would have given three hundred millions to avoid the loss of such a man.” Although Napoleon, in some things the most magnificent charlatan upon record, dealt largely in speeches of this sort, we may believe that in this instance the cry came from the heart. What would the Emperor have said, had he then been told that three years later, on the 7th December 1815, the anniversary of one of those days when Ney so bravely breasted the Muscovite torrent, an execution would take place in an alley of the Luxemburg gardens, and that there, by sentence of a French chamber and the bullets of French soldiers, a premature end would be put to the glorious career of him he had surnamed the Bravest of the Brave!
Previously to the junction of Ney and Eugene, Colonel Rasinski, whilst reconnoitring in the gray of the morning, falls in with a sledge containing three persons muffled in furs, whom he at first takes for Russians, but who prove to be Ludwig and his two companions. Upon the occasion of so happy a meeting, M. Rellstab is of course profuse in tears and embraces; Jaromir and Boleslaw are summoned to assist at the jubilee, and thenceforward the three Poles, the two Germans, Bianca, her waiting-maid Jeannette, and the faithful Willhofen, keep together as far as Wilna, save and except those amongst them whom death snatches by the way. The party is soon increased by an infant, the daughter of Colonel Regnard, and of a French actress, of which Bianca takes charge. Here again the author of “1812” has made good and effective use of an incident thus briefly recorded by Ségur.
“At the gates of the town (Smolensko) an infamous act struck all witnesses with a horror that still survives. A mother abandoned her son, a child of five years old; in spite of his cries and tears she repulsed him from her overloaded sledge, wildly exclaiming that ‘he had not seen France! he would not regret it! But as to her, she knew France! she must see her country again!’ Twice did Ney have the poor child replaced in its mother’s arms, thrice she threw it upon the frozen snow. But amongst a thousand instances of sublime and tender devotedness, this solitary crime was not left unpunished. This unnatural parent was herself abandoned upon the snow, whence her victim was raised and confided to another mother. At the Beresina, at Wilna, and Kowno, the orphan was seen, and he finally escaped all the horrors of the retreat.”
In the romance the child is first fostered by a wounded veteran, and a compassionate canteen woman, but is separated from them when traversing the Dnieper, and receives the tenderest care from Bianca. On the northern bank of the Beresina we find the principal personages of the tale assembled, at the moment when the Russian cannon pour their murderous contents into the dense mass of fugitives, and these, crowding to the bridge, fall by hundreds into the water. A round-shot suddenly shatters the front of the vehicle in which Bianca, her maid, and the child are seated. The scene that ensues is spiritedly and naturally told.
“The frightened horses reared furiously, and would have upset the carriage had not the pole and fore-axle been in splinters. Willhofen sprang forward to hold them; Ludwig and Bernard hurried to his assistance. With streaming hair, Jeannette had already leaped from the cart, and Bianca, unconscious of what she did, followed her example, still closely clasping the infant.
“‘Is it alive?’ cried a voice, and at the same moment she felt herself seized from behind. She turned, and Regnard stood before her, his right arm in a sling: he had just made his way through the crowd of carts. ‘Oh! I have you then at last,’ he tenderly exclaimed, kissing and caressing his child as she lay in the arms of Bianca, who, stunned with terror and the recent shock, scarce thought of wondering at his unexpected appearance.
“‘You here, colonel?’ cried Bernard. ‘How and whence came you?’
“‘From the fight up yonder,’ replied Regnard. ‘’Tis awful work; our fellows stand like the walls of Troy, but all must soon be overthrown, for the Russians bury us under their bullets.’
“‘Did you see Rasinski? Is he alive? And Boleslaw and Jaromir?’
“‘They fight like lions, like devils, those Poles; but it’s all in vain, we cannot hold out another hour. And this defile over the bridge looks about as tempting as the jaws of hell.’