‘Good evening, Colonel Gerard,’ said he. ‘We have been highly honoured by General Massena’s staff: Major Cortex one day, Colonel Duplessis the next, and now Colonel Gerard. Possibly the Marshal himself may be induced to honour us with a visit. You have seen Duplessis, I understand. Cortex you will find nailed to a tree down yonder. It only remains to be decided how we can best dispose of yourself.’
It was not a cheering speech; but all the time his fat face was wreathed in smiles, and he lisped out his words in the most mincing and amiable fashion. Now, however, he suddenly leaned forward, and I read a very real intensity in his eyes.
‘Colonel Gerard,’ said he, ‘I cannot promise you your life, for it is not our custom, but I can give you an easy death or I can give you a terrible one. Which shall it be?’
‘What do you wish me to do in exchange?’
‘If you would die easy I ask you to give me truthful answers to the questions which I ask.’
A sudden thought flashed through my mind.
‘You wish to kill me,’ said I; ‘it cannot matter to you how I die. If I answer your questions, will you let me choose the manner of my own death?’
‘Yes, I will,’ said he, ‘so long as it is before midnight to-night.’
‘Swear it!’ I cried.
‘The word of a Portuguese gentleman is sufficient,’ said he.
‘Not a word will I say until you have sworn it.’
He flushed with anger and his eyes swept round towards the saw. But he understood from my tone that I meant what I said, and that I was not a man to be bullied into submission. He pulled a cross from under his zammara or jacket of black sheepskin.
‘I swear it,’ said he.
Oh, my joy as I heard the words! What an end––what an end for the first swordsman of France! I could have laughed with delight at the thought.
‘Now, your questions!’ said I.
‘You swear in turn to answer them truly?’
‘I do, upon the honour of a gentleman and a soldier.’ It was, as you perceive, a terrible thing that I promised, but what was it compared to what I might gain by compliance?
‘This is a very fair and a very interesting bargain,’ said he, taking a note-book from his pocket. ‘Would you kindly turn your gaze towards the French camp?’
Following the direction of his gesture, I turned and looked down upon the camp in the plain beneath us. In spite of the fifteen miles, one could in that clear atmosphere see every detail with the utmost distinctness. There were the long squares of our tents and our huts, with the cavalry lines and the dark patches which marked the ten batteries of artillery. How sad to think of my magnificent regiment waiting down yonder, and to know that they would never see their colonel again! With one squadron of them I could have swept all these cut-throats off the face of the earth. My eager eyes filled with tears as I looked at the corner of the camp where I knew that there were eight hundred men, any one of whom would have died for his colonel. But my sadness vanished when I saw beyond the tents the plumes of smoke which marked the head-quarters at Torres Novas. There was Massena, and, please God, at the cost of my life his mission would that night be done. A spasm of pride and exultation filled my breast. I should have liked to have had a voice of thunder that I might call to them, ‘Behold it is I, Etienne Gerard, who will die in order to save the army of Clausel’ It was, indeed, sad to think that so noble a deed should be done, and that no one should be there to tell the tale.
‘Now,’ said the brigand chief, ‘you see the camp and you see also the road which leads to Coimbra. It is crowded with your fourgons and your ambulances. Does this mean that Massena is about to retreat?’
One could see the dark moving lines of waggons with an occasional flash of steel from the escort. There could, apart from my promise, be no indiscretion in admitting that which was already obvious.
‘He will retreat,’ said I.
‘By Coimbra?’
‘I believe so.’
‘But the army of Clausel?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘Every path to the south is blocked. No message can reach them. If Massena falls back the army of Clausel is doomed.’
‘It must take its chance,’ said I.
‘How many men has he?’
‘I should say about fourteen thousand.’
‘How much cavalry?’
‘One brigade of Montbrun’s Division.’
‘What regiments?’
‘The 4th Chasseurs, the 9th Hussars, and a regiment of Cuirassiers.’
‘Quite right,’ said he, looking at his note-book. ‘I can tell you speak the truth, and Heaven help you if you don’t.’ Then, division by division, he went over the whole army, asking the composition of each brigade. Need I tell you that I would have had my tongue torn out before I would have told him such things had I not a greater end in view? I would let him know all if I could but save the army of Clausel.
At last he closed his note-book and replaced it in his pocket. ‘I am obliged to you for this information, which shall reach Lord Wellington to-morrow,’ said he. ‘You have done your share of the bargain; it is for me now to perform mine. How would you wish to die? As a soldier you would, no doubt, prefer to be shot, but some think that a jump over the Merodal precipice is really an easier death. A good few have taken it, but we were, unfortunately, never able to get an opinion from them afterwards. There is the saw, too, which does not appear to be popular. We could hang you, no doubt, but it would involve the inconvenience of going down to the wood. However, a promise is a promise, and you seem to be an excellent fellow, so we will spare no pains to meet your wishes.’
‘You said,’ I answered, ‘that I must die before midnight. I will choose, therefore, just one minute before that hour.’
‘Very good,’ said he. ‘Such clinging to life is rather childish, but your wishes shall be met.’
‘As to the method,’ I added, ‘I love a death which all the world can see. Put me on yonder pile of fagots and burn me alive, as saints and martyrs have been burned before me. That is no common end, but one which an Emperor might envy.’
The idea seemed to amuse him very much. ‘Why not?’ said he. ‘If Massena has sent you to spy upon us, he may guess what the fire upon the mountains means.’
‘Exactly,’ said I. ‘You have hit upon my very reason. He will guess, and all will know, that I have died a soldier’s death.’
‘I see no objection whatever,’ said the brigand, with his abominable smile. ‘I will send some goat’s flesh and wine into your hut. The sun is sinking, and it is nearly eight o’clock. In four hours be ready for your end.’
It was a beautiful world to be leaving. I looked at the golden haze below, where the last rays of the sinking sun shone upon the blue waters of the winding Tagus and gleamed upon the white sails of the English transports. Very beautiful it was, and very sad to leave; but there are things more beautiful than that. The death that is died for the sake of others, honour, and duty, and loyalty, and love––these are the beauties far brighter than any which the eye can see. My breast was filled with admiration for my own most noble conduct, and with wonder whether any soul would ever come to know how I had placed myself in the heart of the beacon which saved the army of Clausel. I hoped so and I prayed so, for what a consolation it would be to my mother, what an example to the army, what a pride to my Hussars! When De Pombal came at last into my hut with the food and the wine, the first request I made him was that he would write an account of my death and send it to the French camp. He answered not a word, but I ate my supper with a better appetite from the thought that my glorious fate would not be altogether unknown.
I had been there about two hours when the door opened again, and the chief stood looking in. I was in darkness, but a brigand with a torch stood beside him, and I saw his eyes and his teeth gleaming as he peered at me.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘It is not yet time.’
‘You stand out for the la
st minute?’
‘A promise is a promise.’
‘Very good. Be it so. We have a little justice to do among ourselves, for one of my fellows has been misbehaving. We have a strict rule of our own which is no respecter of persons, as De Pombal here could tell you. Do you truss him and lay him on the fagots, De Pombal, and I will return to see him die.’
De Pombal and the man with the torch entered, while I heard the steps of the chief passing away. De Pombal closed the door.
‘Colonel Gerard,’ said he, ‘you must trust this man, for he is one of my party. It is neck or nothing. We may save you yet. But I take a great risk, and I want a definite promise. If we save you, will you guarantee that we have a friendly reception in the French camp and that all the past will be forgotten?’
‘I do guarantee it.’
‘And I trust your honour. Now, quick, quick, there is not an instant to lose! If this monster returns we shall die horribly, all three.’
I stared in amazement at what he did. Catching up a long rope he wound it round the body of my dead comrade, and he tied a cloth round his mouth so as to almost cover his face.
‘Do you lie there!’ he cried, and he laid me in the place of the dead body. ‘I have four of my men waiting, and they will place this upon the beacon.’ He opened the door and gave an order. Several of the brigands entered and bore out Duplessis. For myself I remained upon the floor, with my mind in a turmoil of hope and wonder.
Five minutes later De Pombal and his men were back.
‘You are laid upon the beacon,’ said he; ‘I defy anyone in the world to say it is not you, and you are so gagged and bound that no one can expect you to speak or move. Now, it only remains to carry forth the body of Duplessis and to toss it over the Merodal precipice.’
Two of them seized me by the head and two by the heels and carried me, stiff and inert, from the hut. As I came into the open air I could have cried out in my amazement. The moon had risen above the beacon, and there, clear outlined against its silver light, was the figure of the man stretched upon the top. The brigands were either in their camp or standing round the beacon, for none of them stopped or questioned our little party. De Pombal led them in the direction of the precipice. At the brow we were out of sight, and there I was allowed to use my feet once more. De Pombal pointed to a narrow, winding track.
‘This is the way down,’ said he, and then, suddenly, ‘Dios mio, what is that?’
A terrible cry had risen out of the woods beneath us. I saw that De Pombal was shivering like a frightened horse.
‘It is that devil,’ he whispered. ‘He is treating another as he treated me. But on, on, for Heaven help us if he lays his hands upon us!’
One by one we crawled down the narrow goat track. At the bottom of the cliff we were back in the woods once more. Suddenly a yellow glare shone above us, and the black shadows of the tree-trunks started out in front. They had fired the beacon behind us. Even from where we stood we could see that impassive body amid the flames, and the black figures of the guerillas as they danced, howling like cannibals, round the pile. Ha! how I shook my fist at them, the dogs, and how I vowed that one day my Hussars and I would make the reckoning level!
De Pombal knew how the outposts were placed and all the paths which led through the forest. But to avoid these villains we had to plunge among the hills and walk for many a weary mile. And yet how gladly would I have walked those extra leagues if only for one sight which they brought to my eyes! It may have been two o’clock in the morning when we halted upon the bare shoulder of a hill over which our path curled. Looking back we saw the red glow of the embers of the beacon as if volcanic fires were bursting from the tall peak of Merodal. And then, as I gazed, I saw something else––something which caused me to shriek with joy and to fall upon the ground, rolling in my delight. For, far away upon the southern horizon, there winked and twinkled one great yellow light, throbbing and flaming, the light of no house, the light of no star, but the answering beacon of Mount d’Ossa, which told that the army of Clausel knew what Etienne Gerard had been sent to tell them.
How the Brigadier Rode to Minsk
Ney held the rearguard at Wyasma (correctly ‘Vyazma’) on 3 November 1812, beginning his celebrated guidance of its retreat. Napoleon with the main army reached Smolensk on 9 November and were forced from loss of troops to abandon the plan to winter there. The remains of the army reached Smolensk by 13 November, with but 41,500 effective troops in the total strength out of the 100,000 who had left Moscow. Ney had only 3000 left of the original 11,000: he had doubled it when he left Smolensk on 17 November. The Russian general Tshitshagov drove the French garrison from Minsk on 16 November: ‘peace having been concluded by Russia with Turkey, Admiral Tchitchagoff commanding the army of Moldavia, had united himself with the corps of Tormassof … the Admiral advanced by rapid marches to seize Minsk, where we had immense magazines, and thereby to preclude the passage of the Berezina.’ (General Raymond de Fézensac, Souvenirs militaires (Paris, 1863)).
I would have a stronger wine to-night, my friends, a wine of Burgundy rather than of Bordeaux. It is that my heart, my old soldier heart, is heavy within me. It is a strange thing, this age which creeps upon one. One does not know, one does not understand; the spirit is ever the same, and one does not remember how the poor body crumbles. But there comes a moment when it is brought home, when quick as the sparkle of a whirling sabre it is clear to us, and we see the men we were and the men we are. Yes, yes, it was so to-day, and I would have a wine of Burgundy to-night. White Burgundy––Montrachet––Sir, I am your debtor!
It was this morning in the Champ de Mars. Your pardon, friends, while an old man tells his trouble. You saw the review. Was it not splendid? I was in the enclosure for veteran officers who have been decorated. This ribbon on my breast was my passport. The cross itself I keep at home in a leathern pouch. They did us honour, for we were placed at the saluting point, with the Emperor and the carriages of the Court upon our right.
It is years since I have been to a review, for I cannot approve of many things which I have seen. I do not approve of the red breeches of the infantry. It was in white breeches that the infantry used to fight. Red is for the cavalry. A little more, and they would ask our busbies and our spurs! Had I been seen at a review they might well have said that I, Etienne Gerard, had condoned it. So I have stayed at home. But this war of the Crimea is different. The men go to battle. It is not for me to be absent when brave men gather.
My faith, they march well, those little infantrymen! They are not large, but they are very solid and they carry themselves well. I took off my hat to them as they passed. Then there came the guns. They were good guns, well horsed and well manned. I took off my hat to them. Then came the Engineers, and to them also I took off my hat. There are no braver men than the Engineers. Then came the cavalry, Lancers, Cuirassiers, Chasseurs, and Spahis. To all of them in turn I was able to take off my hat, save only to the Spahis. The Emperor had no Spahis. But when all of the others had passed, what think you came at the close? A brigade of Hussars, and at the charge! Oh, my friends, the pride and the glory and the beauty, the flash and the sparkle, the roar of the hoofs and the jingle of chains, the tossing manes, the noble heads, the rolling cloud, and the dancing waves of steel! My heart drummed to them as they passed. And the last of all, was it not my own old regiment? My eyes fell upon the grey and silver dolmans, with the leopard-skin shabraques, and at that instant the years fell away from me and I saw my own beautiful men and horses, even as they had swept behind their young colonel, in the pride of our youth and our strength, just forty years ago. Up flew my cane. ‘Chargez! En avant! Vive l’Empéreur!’ It was the past calling to the present. But, oh, what a thin, piping voice! Was this the voice that had once thundered from wing to wing of a strong brigade? And the arm that could scarce wave a cane, were these the muscles of fire and steel which had no match in all Napoleon’s mighty host? They smiled at me. They cheered me. The Emperor laughed a
nd bowed. But to me the present was a dim dream, and what was real were my eight hundred dead Hussars and the Etienne of long ago. Enough––a brave man can face age and fate as he faced Cossacks and Uhlans. But there are times when Montrachet is better than the wine of Bordeaux.
It is to Russia that they go, and so I will tell you a story of Russia. Ah, what an evil dream of the night it seems! Blood and ice. Ice and blood. Fierce faces with snow upon the whiskers. Blue hands held out for succour. And across the great white plain the one long black line of moving figures, trudging, trudging, a hundred miles, another hundred, and still always the same white plain. Sometimes there were fir-woods to limit it, sometimes it stretched away to the cold blue sky, but the black line stumbled on and on. Those weary, ragged, starving men, the spirit frozen out of them, looked neither to right nor left, but with sunken faces and rounded backs trailed onwards and ever onwards, making for France as wounded beasts make for their lair. There was no speaking, and you could scarce hear the shuffle of feet in the snow. Once only I heard them laugh. It was outside Wilna, when an aide-de-camp rode up to the head of that dreadful column and asked if that were the Grand Army. All who were within hearing looked round, and when they saw those broken men, those ruined regiments, those fur-capped skeletons who were once the Guard, they laughed, and the laugh crackled down the column like a feu de joie. I have heard many a groan and cry and scream in my life, but nothing so terrible as the laugh of the Grand Army.
But why was it that these helpless men were not destroyed by the Russians? Why was it that they were not speared by the Cossacks or herded into droves, and driven as prisoners into the heart of Russia? On every side as you watched the black snake winding over the snow you saw also dark, moving shadows which came and went like cloud drifts on either flank and behind. They were the Cossacks, who hung round us like wolves round the flock. But the reason why they did not ride in upon us was that all the ice of Russia could not cool the hot hearts of some of our soldiers. To the end there were always those who were ready to throw themselves between these savages and their prey. One man above all rose greater as the danger thickened, and won a higher name amid disaster than he had done when he led our van to victory. To him I drink this glass––to Ney, the red-maned Lion, glaring back over his shoulder at the enemy who feared to tread too closely on his heels. I can see him now, his broad white face convulsed with fury, his light blue eyes sparkling like flints, his great voice roaring and crashing amid the roll of the musketry. His glazed and featherless cocked hat was the ensign upon which France rallied during those dreadful days.
The Complete Brigadier Gerard Stories Page 31