Farewell | Page 8

voices of their
officers prophesying death on the morrow, and spent the energy
required to cross the swamp in building shelters for the night and
preparing a meal that often proved fatal. The coming death no longer
seemed an evil, for it gave them an hour of slumber before it came.
Hunger and thirst and cold--these were evils, but not death.
At last wood and fuel and canvas and shelters failed, and hideous
brawls began between destitute late comers and the rich already in
possession of a lodging. The weaker were driven away, until a few last
fugitives before the Russian advance were obliged to make their bed in
the snow, and lay down to rise no more.
Little by little the mass of half-dead humanity became so dense, so deaf,
so torpid,--or perhaps it should be said so happy--that Marshal Victor,
their heroic defender against twenty thousand Russians under
Wittgenstein, was actually compelled to cut his way by force through
this forest of men, so as to cross the Beresina with the five thousand
heroes whom he was leading to the Emperor. The miserable creatures
preferred to be trampled and crushed to death rather than stir from their
places, and died without a sound, smiling at the dead ashes of their fires,
forgetful of France.

Not before ten o'clock that night did the Duc de Belluno reach the other
side of the river. Before committing his men to the pontoon bridges that
led to Zembin, he left the fate of the rearguard at Studzianka in Eble's
hands, and to Eble the survivors of the calamities of the Beresina owed
their lives.
About midnight, the great General, followed by a courageous officer,
came out of his little hut by the bridge, and gazed at the spectacle of
this camp between the bank of the Beresina and the Borizof road to
Studzianka. The thunder of the Russian cannonade had ceased. Here
and there faces that had nothing human about them were lighted up by
countless fires that seemed to grow pale in the glare of the snowfields,
and to give no light. Nearly thirty thousand wretches, belonging to
every nation that Napoleon had hurled upon Russia, lay there hazarding
their lives with the indifference of brute beasts.
"We have all these to save," the General said to his subordinate.
"To-morrow morning the Russians will be in Studzianka. The moment
they come up we shall have to set fire to the bridge; so pluck up heart,
my boy! Make your way out and up yonder through them, and tell
General Fournier that he has barely time to evacuate his post and cut
his way through to the bridge. As soon as you have seen him set out,
follow him down, take some able-bodied men, and set fire to the tents,
wagons, caissons, carriages, anything and everything, without pity, and
drive these fellows on to the bridge. Compel everything that walks on
two legs to take refuge on the other bank. We must set fire to the camp;
it is our last resource. If Berthier had let me burn those d----d wagons
sooner, no lives need have been lost in the river except my poor
pontooners, my fifty heroes, who saved the Army, and will be
forgotten."
The General passed his hand over his forehead and said no more. He
felt that Poland would be his tomb, and foresaw that afterwards no
voice would be raised to speak for the noble fellows who had plunged
into the stream--into the waters of the Beresina!--to drive in the piles
for the bridges. And, indeed, only one of them is living now, or, to be
more accurate, starving, utterly forgotten in a country village![*] The
brave officer had scarcely gone a hundred paces towards Studzianka,
when General Eble roused some of his patient pontooners, and began
his work of mercy by setting fire to the camp on the side nearest the

bridge, so compelling the sleepers to rise and cross the Beresina.
Meanwhile the young aide-de-camp, not without difficulty, reached the
one wooden house yet left standing in Studzianka.
[*] This story can be found in /The Country Parson/.--eBook preparers.
"So the box is pretty full, is it, messmate?" he said to a man whom he
found outside.
"You will be a knowing fellow if you manage to get inside," the officer
returned, without turning round or stopping his occupation of hacking
at the woodwork of the house with his sabre.
"Philip, is that you?" cried the aide-de-camp, recognizing the voice of
one of his friends.
"Yes. Aha! is it you, old fellow?" returned M. de Sucy, looking round
at the aide-de-camp, who like himself was not more than twenty-three
years old. "I fancied you were on the other side of this confounded river.
Do you come to