On the seventeenth, the Russians—ninety thousand strong—staged an attack on the road to Krasnoi, severing the Grande Armée in two, putting at risk the Beauharnais Corps. Napoléon sent the Young Guard back to fend off the attackers. Jan Michał and Tadeusz stayed close to each other as they descended into the swarm of men and weapons. In all of the young men, reserves of energy and mettle seemed to come from places that had seemed hollow only minutes before. Like Jan Michał and Tadeusz, they longed to see Poland again, hungered to embrace mothers and sisters again. They longed to live their lives.
The Young Guard pushed into an open area littered with Russians laid out on the snow, apparently wounded or dead. At a given signal the Russians jumped to their feet and started firing into the Young Guard, who turned their horses aside in order to make a half loop around their attackers. They had heard about this favorite stratagem of the Russians. Experiencing it served only to motivate them further. And so they killed, ultimately routing the Russians in this contingent—but at the cost of a good many Young Guard, friends of Jan Michał and Tadeusz. No sooner had they claimed victory than they turned to see the Old Guard, the sixteen thousand “immortals,” riding to protect Davout’s corps at yet another point of attack. Jan Michał said a quick prayer for Paweł.
The Old Guard lived up to their legend, repelling the Russians, just as the Young Guard had met expectations, and the army trudged on—through Dubrovno, then farther west, happily discovering that the bridges over the River Dnieper had not been destroyed. They crossed safely, coming to Orsha.
One third of their forces had been left behind, dead and dying.
Paweł found Jan Michał and Tadeusz billeted in a large stable with many of the Young Guard, all in spirits revived by the Russian rout, a decided thaw in the temperature, and decent food rations that included a little brandy and vodka.
“We’re going into a peaceable Latvian area,” Paweł said, raising a toast to a group of ten or twelve youths. “We’re done with Russian citizens from here on out. No more angry partisans wishing to hack off our heads in lieu of those of their own nobles.”
A little cheer went up. All of them had passed fallen French stragglers on the road who begged to be finished off before they were found by human wolves. Only occasionally had they been obliged.
“And the Cossacks, Major?” someone asked.
“Ah, we’ll have their lances tickling our sides for a good while longer.”
“Well, in these temperatures,” Tadeusz said, “at least we can sleep at night without fear of not waking up!” Several soldiers spoke up in affirmation.
“The thaw is not all good news, gentlemen,” Paweł said. “You see, the Orsha citizens tell us that the River Beresina, which is usually well frozen over at this time of year, has thawed with the milder weather. A week earlier and we could have safely crossed on the ice.”
“What about the bridges at Borisov, Major?” Jan Michał asked.
“Our own spies tell us the Russians will get to them before us.”
“And destroy them, of course,” Jan Michał muttered, his face dark. Paweł did not deny it. He was sorry to have been the lever by which the Young Guards’ optimism escaped. He didn’t go so far as to tell them that three massive Russian armies held them virtually surrounded against a raging river. They would learn that soon enough.
The long, cold, and arduous march to Borisov—by way of Toloczyn and Bobr—commenced, nonetheless. The Grande Armée navigated much of the way through massive forests of unusually tall birches on a road made of pine timbers elevated enough for the way to be seen in the snow. It seemed that they were moving slowly toward self-destruction. Napoléon, who traveled ahead by a few miles, ordered all official documents, as well as the tri-colors, burned to cinders. Word got about that he now believed his guiding star had deserted him. It seemed so, thought Paweł, but more than that, the emperor’s military genius had evaporated into the thin, cold air of a Russian winter. General Winter.
Jan Michał and Tadeusz, still gently urging their horses, intermittently walking them, passed thousands of French soldiers, mostly infantry, who stumbled along dumbly, their eyes, like their bodies—iced over. More and more, the road became blocked with stalled carts and dying horses. Traffic slowed even as the temperature dropped and the North wind increased its frigid fury. They fell more than a day’s march behind Paweł’s legion. “Maybe we should take a rest,” Tadeusz called, nodding to groups of men who were making bivouacs under the birches, feeding their fires with wood from the broken carts for the roasting of horseflesh.
“No!” Jan Michał spat, scarcely able to put down the temptation himself. He knew that many of these good men, warmed and fed, would lie down in the snow and sleep, never to rise again. Tadeusz looked longingly at the fires, then nodded in submission to his brother. He understood.
Upon reaching Borisov, Paweł learned that French forces under General Dąbrowski had been forced to abandon the defense of the bridgehead. This came at the hands of Russian General Cziczaków, a Pole. Napoléon ordered General Oudinot’s corps to recapture the bridge, and although they were successful in routing the enemy, the bridges had been put to the torch.
But Lady Fortuna had saved a small smile for the little emperor. It was the revelation in the form of a note that arrived on 23 November. In coming to Napoléon’s aid from Wilno, west of the River Beresina, French General Corbineau had bribed a peasant to point out a secret ford in the river near the village of Studienka. The bit of luck revived Napoléon’s genius. He ordered General Elbé’s four hundred-man engineering team to erect two bridges on the eighty-five-yard-wide site, to be completed on the twenty-sixth. Then he himself knitted the wool that went over the Russians’ eyes by ordering a series of feints that misled and confused.
When one bridge was completed on the twenty-sixth, the Eighth Regiment of Polish lancers crossed first, putting to flight Cziczaków’s Cossacks. General Oudinot’s and General Ney’s corps crossed next, forming up as potential protection against the Russian army on the left bank under General Cziczaków. Finished that afternoon, the second bridge was larger and allowed for the transport of the artillery. Crossings continued all day and all night.
In the early afternoon of the twenty-seventh, Paweł crossed with Poniatowski and the Old Guard, and from the heights on the left bank he watched as the Imperial Guard passed with Napoléon’s battered carriage, followed by the Young Guard. He let out a little sigh when he caught sight of Jan Michał and Tadeusz, unsteady on their feet as they walked their horses, but a sight for sore eyes just the same.
Discovering what the French were about, Cziczaków initiated the last battle of the campaign on the morning of the twenty-eighth, coming down hard on the left bank, wave after wave, upon the allied forces. Fighting raged on the right bank, as well, with General Victor’s rearguard repelling the enemy for a second day so that the crossings could continue. The battle continued—with advantages passing from one side to the other and back again—until dusk, at which time Cziczaków withdrew his forces. Napoléon claimed victory although French losses numbered in the thousands.
Paweł, never one to count his kills as some did, still felt his pulse running fast at the thought of winning. He gave thanks that he had come through it unhurt and wondering at the dark irony that all of the surviving Poles coalesced to face an enemy that was led by a Pole. Giving credit where it was due, he would well remember the French—especially the cuirassiers led by General Ney who were responsible for two thousand casualties—but without the Poles that fought and died that day, the retreat would have ended in defeat. Generals Dąbrowski, Kniąziewicz, and Zajączek all sustained wounds; Zajaczek, amputation of a leg. Prince Poniatowski, too, suffered a leg injury and had to relinquish his command to Marshal Ney.
After dark, Paweł searched out the Young Guard. Knowing they had suffered significant losses, he prepared himself for bad news.
At last he found a few faces he remembered from that night in the stable
at Orsha. None of them had any post-battle knowledge of the Stelnicki brothers. His ebbing hopes seemed justified.
Paweł went then to the rise above the river where the wounded were laid out on the hill, like a prone audience in an ampitheatre. A handful of surgeons and orderlies worked among a thousand men. He walked the width of the rise, moved down a few rows, then walked back, peering into faces either full of pain or numbed by it.
“Major Potecki!” someone called. Paweł recognized Jan Michał’s voice at once. A little thrill ran through him. Michał was alive! Paweł saw the waving figure in the dark now, and moved fifteen parallel paces, then down two rows of men.
“Michał!” Paweł’s first impulse was to embrace Jan Michał, and having done so, he immediately held the young man at arm’s length, fearing he had done further injury.
“I’m fine,” Jan Michał said, reading Paweł’s expression. “A bit bruised from a fall off my horse.”
“Thank God !” Paweł cried. “And Tadek?”
“Right here,” Jan Michał said, his eyes directing Paweł’s down.
Tadeusz stared up from his position on the ground. In the dark, his face seemed as white as the snow. “I was hoping you’d say hello to me, too, Major.” He attempted a laugh.
“Tadek!” Paweł dropped to his knees. “What is it?”
“My leg,” Tadeusz said. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” Jan Michał scoffed. “Nothing is relative. He took a ball in the lower calf.”
“I tell you it’s nothing.”
“Has the surgeon seen it?”
“An orderly has,” said Jan Michał. “He’s fourth or fifth in line for the surgeon to come by.”
“And when it’s gone, I’ll be as good as new.” The pain went out of his eyes for a moment. “We beat him back—Cziczaków, yes?
“That we did!”
“I was this close to him,” Tadeusz said, stretching out his arms. “This close—and then I took the ball in my leg.—I could have killed the turncoat!”
Paweł chuckled. “Damned inconvenient, Tadek. Forget about him.”
“He’s a traitor to his country. He’s—he’s immoral.”
“There is no morality in war, Tadek. There is only kill or be killed.”
“And I should have liked to have killed him!”
“In any case, we’ll be away tomorrow. Even now the rearguard is crossing the bridges. Enough talk for now.” Paweł stood. “Michał, don’t let the surgeon start until I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Jan Michał’s quizzical expression spoke his question for him.
“I’m going for a bottle of brandy I have squirreled away. Good stuff!”
“Major?” Tadeusz asked, pain in his voice. “I’ll ride tomorrow. I’ll be fine. I won’t go in the wounded wagons.”
Paweł smiled. “We’ll see how you do, my friend.”
Walking away, Paweł prayed that Tadek would be up to riding in the morning. He knew that there were no wagons for the wounded; only caissons and Napoléon’s carriage had been allowed to cross the rickety bridges. All other vehicles were being abandoned and burned. He cringed to think what would happen to the thousands of stragglers and wounded left behind. No plans had been made for them. They would be left to the Cossacks. It was as he had told Tadek: there was no morality in war.
The next morning Jan Michał pushed Tadeusz up onto his horse. “All right, Tadek?”
“Yes, I can do it—How far to Wilno?”
“About a hundred sixty miles.” Jan Michał saw Tadek wince but say nothing. “The major came by while you were sleeping. I told him we’d be fine.”
“He’s left already? When did the order come?”
“Last night. There’s been a steady stream ever since.”
“And the Young Guard?”
“Gone. That is, those that survived the battle.”
“And you just let me sleep?”
“You needed it, Tadek.”
“Dog’s blood!—So we’ll be last now?”
“Not if we get a move on.” Jan Michał and Tadeusz entered into the battered remnants of the Grande Armée now as it proceeded away from the Beresina, utilizing a wooden causeway raised above a extensive area of marshland. Here and there a temporary bridge had to be thrown down, but everyone counted it a small miracle that the Russians had not destroyed the causeway. Had they done so, Jan Michał mused, the allies’ escape might never have been possible.
Tadeusz remained quiet for a long time. Jan Michał knew he felt the effects of the surgery and the brandy. After the operation, the doctor had taken Jan Michał aside, telling him that he had not gotten all the shrapnel and cautioned them to get to a good surgeon soon. In time Jan Michał would have to pass that news on to his brother.
Jan Michał had not slept at all the previous night. There was more cause for alarm than his brother’s operation. He had sat at his brother’s side watching Victor’s rearguard cross the bridge in the early morning hours. Napoléon’s genius had won the day, but the losses had been staggering.
During the night the wind was such that he could hear General Elbe on the far side of the river urging the stragglers and wounded who could walk to cross the bridge immediately because it was going to be blown to bits. The Grande Armée was not about to allow the Russians access for pursuit.
By morning, however, most of the stragglers, apathetic or dazed, had kept to their campfires, ignoring Elbe’s advice. It was only at 9 a.m., when the explosions began, that they came to their senses and a crush of ten thousand rushed the bridges. Many were burned to death, and many more drowned as the bridge collapsed into the water with a great hissing sound, like some blazing blacksmith’s tool being immersed in water.
The thirty thousand remaining stragglers awaited their fate at the hands—and lances—of the Cossacks. There was nothing to be done for them. Pushing down an impulse of nausea that licked at the back of his throat, Jan Michał turned away from the sight.
Travel through the heavy snow now was tediously slow, more so now because of a few empty ammunitions wagons that were now carrying the seriously wounded. Jan Michał heard some of them begging to be finished off, so great was their pain, so dark their prospects. The thaw had retreated and General Winter returned victorious. Temperatures, night or day, did not rise above zero. The crimson sun offered no heat. The sides of the road were strewn with frozen corpses, and near Zembin, Jan Michał and Tadeusz stopped to stoke the dying embers of a fire that had been built by eight soldiers who had since fallen asleep—and frozen to death. Already some of them had had their boots and coats stolen. Jan Michał had to push several bodies aside to gain access to the fire for himself, his brother, and the horses.
Getting Tadeusz off the horse and on again with a minimum of pain proved such an ordeal that Jan Michał mentally noted he would not attempt it unnecessarily. The horses were weak with cold and hunger, too, so they stayed only long enough for Jan Michał to melt some snow in a stew pot he found, adding to it a crumbled biscuit and a sliver of dried horsemeat. Nothing was to be found at the site for the horses.
Setting off now, the brothers were a pair among small bands of soldiers and a few camp followers that had not lost their nerve at the Beresina crossing.
Some thirty hours after leaving the Beresina, they came to Pleszenice—a distance of a mere twenty-five miles. Neither brother spoke of the pace they had been reduced to. Here, at least, at a peasant’s hut they found—for a price—shelter and food for themselves and their horses.
Jan Michał went out after the meal and returned an hour later with a pair of crutches.
“Who the hell are those for?” Tadeusz asked, indignant.
“Well, they’re not for me.”
“I don’t need them. Carrying crutches will set me apart as a straggle!”
“We aren’t far off from that.”
“Oh? And you blame me? Why don’t you just go on, then?
“Listen, Tadek. With my help you can hop fairly we
ll, but you’re still in pain. You may need these.”
“The pain will go away.”
“The surgeon said he didn’t think he got it all. You may as well know, Tadek, that you’re going to need anther operation—soon.”
The color drained out of Tadeusz’ face. “You took good time to tell me.”
Jan Michał shrugged. “If you weren’t so stubborn, I wouldn’t have told you until we got to Wilno. Now, you’re going to practice on these before we leave.”
“Damn!” Tadeusz said through clenched teeth. He pushed himself up from his chair and took the crutches. Jan Michał pulled the chair to the corner of the room, making room for his brother’s first clumsy attempts with the crutches. He found himself absently feeling for the gold ring his mother had given him for his first Holy Communion, the ring he had used to buy the crutches.
During the night, Jan Michał kept jerking awake from the recurring dream in which he and Tadek were sleeping in the snow—and would go on sleeping forever.
Their journey continued in the morning as they joined the ranks of others that had stayed the night in the village. Once on the road, however, the numbers of those who had fallen to the wayside seemed to have increased. General Winter had conquered most of those they passed, but some had been slain by marauding Cossacks, too.
The next day at dusk, they were not far from Ilia and had just sighted the steeple of the parish church when Jan Michał’s horse gave way beneath him, collapsing and dying on the spot. It came as no real surprise, and Jan Michał did now what he had to do. He worked mechanically, hacking away at the poor animal’s emaciated haunches, carving steaks that could feed him and Tadeusz, as well as be used as barter in the village ahead. He caught what blood he could in his regulation saucepan and once the cutting was done, helped Tadeusz down into a ravine where a fire others had left behind would warm their blood and horseflesh soup.
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