distinct with footprints yet
of many a mighty marcher gone that way.
there are many who overlook the fact that in northern lands, more especially in such plains as lithuania, courland, and poland, travel in winter is easier than at any other time of year. the rivers, which run sluggishly in their ditch-like beds, are frozen so completely that the bridges are no longer required. the roads, in summer almost impassable—mere ruts across the plain—are for the time ignored, and the traveller strikes a bee-line from place to place across a level of frozen snow.
louis d'arragon had worked out a route across the plain, as he had been taught to shape a course across a chart.
“how did you return from kowno?” he asked barlasch.
“name of my own nose,” replied that traveller. “i followed the line of dead horses.”
“then i will take you by another route,” replied the sailor.
and three days later—before general rapp had made his entry into dantzig—barlasch sold two skeletons of horses and a sleigh at an enormous profit to a staff officer of murat's at gumbinnen.
they had passed through rapp's army. they had halted at konigsberg to make inquiry, and now, almost in sight of the niemen, where the land begins to heave in great waves, like those that roll round cape horn, they were asking still if any man had seen charles darragon.
“where are you going, comrades?” a hundred men had paused to ask them.
“to seek a brother,” answered barlasch, who, like many unprincipled persons, had soon found that a lie is much simpler than an explanation.
but the majority glanced at them stupidly without comment, or with only a shrug of their bowed shoulders. they were going the wrong way. they must be mad. between dantzig and konigsberg they had indeed found a few travellers going eastward—despatch-bearers seeking murat—spies going northwards to tilsit, and general yorck still in treaty with his own conscience—a prominent member of the tugendbund, wondering, like many others, if there were any virtue left in the world. others, again, told them that they were officers ordered to take up some new command in the retreating army.
beyond konigsberg, however, d'arragon and barlasch found themselves alone on their eastward route. every man's face was set towards the west. this was not an army at all, but an endless procession of tramps. without food or shelter, with no baggage but what they could carry on their backs, they journeyed as each of us must journey out of this world into that which lies beyond—alone, with no comrade to help them over the rough places or lift them when they fell. for there was only one man of all this rabble who rose to the height of self-sacrifice, and a persistent devotion to duty. and he was coming last of all.
many had started off in couples—with a faithful friend—only to quarrel at last. for it is a peculiarity of the french that they can only have one friend at a time. long ago—back beyond the niemen—all friendships had been dissolved, and discipline had vanished before that. for when discipline and a republic are wedded we shall have the millennium. liberty, they cry: meaning, i may do as i like. equality: i am better than you. fraternity: what is yours is mine, if i want it.
so they quarrelled over everything, and fought for a place round the fire that another had lighted. they burnt the houses in which they had passed a night, though they knew that thousands trudging behind them must die for lack of this poor shelter.
at the beresina they had fought on the bridge like wild animals, and those who had horses trod their comrades underfoot, or pushed them over the parapet. twelve thousand perished on the banks or in the river; and sixteen thousand were left behind to the mercy of the cossacks.
at vilna the people were terrified at the sight of this inhuman rabble, which had commanded their admiration on the outward march. and the commander, with his staff, crept out of the city at night, abandoning sick, wounded, and fighting men.
at kowno they crowded numbly across the bridge, fighting for precedence, when they might have walked at leisure across the ice. they were no longer men at all, but dumb and driven animals, who fell by the roadside, and were stripped by their comrades before the warmth of life had left their limbs.
“excuse me, comrade? i thought you were dead,” said one, on being remonstrated with by a dying man. and he went on his way reluctantly, for he knew that in a few minutes another would snatch the booty. but for the most part they were not so scrupulous.
at first d'arragon, to whom these horrors were new, attempted to help such as appealed to him, but barlasch laughed at him.
“yes,” he said. “take the medallion, and promise to send it to his mother. holy heaven—they all have medallions, and they all have mothers. every frenchman remembers his mother—when it is too late. i will get a cart. by to-morrow we shall fill it with keepsakes. and here is another. he is hungry. so am i, comrade. i come from moscow—bah!”
and so they fought their way through the stream. they could have journeyed by a quicker route—d'arragon could have steered a course across the frozen plain as over a sea—but charles must necessarily be in this stream. he might be by the wayside. any one of these pitiable objects, half blind, frost-bitten, with one limb or another swinging useless, like a snapped branch, wrapped to the eyes in filthy furs—inhuman, horrible—any one of these might be desiree's husband.
they never missed a chance of hearing news. barlasch interrupted the last message of a dying man to inquire whether he had ever heard of prince eugene. it was startling to learn how little they knew. the majority of them were quite ignorant of french, and had scarcely heard the name of the commander of their division. many spoke in a language which even barlasch could not identify.
“his talk is like a coffee-mill,” he explained to d'arragon, “and i do not know to what regiment he belonged. he asked me if i was russki—i! then he wanted to hold my hand. and he went to sleep. he will wake among the angels—that parishioner.”
not only had no one heard of charles darragon, but few knew the name of the commander to whose staff he had been attached in moscow. there was nothing for it but to go on towards kowno, where it was understood temporary head-quarters had been established.
rapp himself had told d'arragon that officers had been despatched to kowno to form a base—a sort of rock in the midst of a torrent to divert the currents. there had then been a talk of tilsit, and diverting the stream, or part of it towards macdonald in the north. but d'arragon knew that macdonald was likely to be in no better plight than murat; for it was an open secret in dantzig that yorck, with four-fifths of macdonald's army, was about to abandon him.
the road to kowno was not to be mistaken. on either side of it, like fallen landmarks, the dead lay huddled on the snow. sometimes d'arragon and barlasch found the remains of a fire, where, amid the ashes, the chains and rings showed that a gun-carriage had been burnt. the trees were cut and scored where, as a forlorn hope, some poor imbecile had stripped the bark with the thought that it might burn. nearly every fire had its grim guardian; for the wounds of the injured nearly always mortified when the flesh was melted by the warmth. once or twice, with their ragged feet in the ashes, a whole company had never awakened from their sleep.
barlasch pessimistically went the round of these bivouacs, but rarely found anything worth carrying away. if he recognized a veteran by the grizzled hair straggling out of the rags in which all faces were enveloped, or perceived some remnant of a garde uniform, he searched more carefully.
“there may be salt,” he said. and sometimes he found a little. they had been on foot since gumbinnen, because no horse would be allowed by starving men to live a day. they existed from day to day on what they found, which was, at the best, frozen horse. but barlasch ate singularly little.
“one thinks of one's digestion,” he said vaguely, and persuaded d'arragon to eat his portion because it would be a sin to throw it away.
at length d'arragon, who was quick enough in understanding rough men, said—
“no, i don't want any more. i will throw it away.”
and an hour later, while pretending to be asleep, he saw barlasch get up, and crawl cautiously into the trees where the unsavoury food had been thrown.
“provided,” muttered barlasch one day, “that you keep your health. i am an old man. i could not do this alone.”
which was true, for d'arragon was carrying all the baggage now.
“we must both keep our health,” answered louis. “i have eaten worse things than horse.”
“i saw one yesterday,” said barlasch, with a gesture of disgust; “he had three stripes on his arm, too; he was crouching in a ditch eating something much worse than horse, mon capitaine. bah! it made me sick. for three sous i would have put my heel on his face. and later on at the roadside i saw where he or another had played the butcher. but you saw none of these things, mon capitaine?”
“it was by that winding stream where a farm had been burnt,” said louis.
barlasch glanced at him sideways.
“if we should come to that, mon capitaine....”
“we won't.”
they trudged on in silence for some time. they were off the road now, and d'arragon was steering by dead-reckoning. even amid the pine-woods, which seemed interminable, they frequently found remains of an encampment. as often as not they found the campers huddled over their last bivouac.
“but these,” said barlasch, pointing to what looked like a few bundles of old clothes, continuing the conversation where he had left it after a long silence, as men learn to do who are together day and night in some hard enterprise, “even these have a woman dinning the ears of the good god for them, just as we have.”
for barlasch's conception of a deity could not get further than the picture of a great commander who in times of stress had no leisure to see that non-commissioned officers did their best for the rank and file. indeed, the poor in all lands rather naturally conclude that god will think of carriage-people first.
they came within sight of kowno one evening, after a tiring day over snow that glittered in a cloudless sun. barlasch sat down wearily against a pine tree, when they first caught sight of a distant church-tower. the country is much broken up into little valleys here, through which streams find their way to the niemen. each river necessitated a rapid descent and an arduous climb over slippery snow.
“voila,” said barlasch. “that is kowno. i am done. go on, mon capitaine. i will lie here, and if i am not dead to-morrow morning, i will join you.”
louis looked at him with a slow smile.
“i am tired as you,” he said. “we will rest here until the moon rises.”
already the bare larches threw shadows three times their own length on the snow. near at hand it glittered like a carpet of diamonds, while the distance was of a pale blue, merging to grey on the horizon. a far-off belt of pines against a sky absolutely cloudless suggested infinite space—immeasurable distance. nothing was sharp and clearly outlined, but hazy, silvery, as seen through a thin veil. the sea would seem to be our earthly picture of infinite space, but no sea speaks of distance so clearly as the plain of lithuania—absolutely flat, quite lonely. the far-off belt of pines only leads the eye to a shadow beyond, which is another pine-wood; and the traveller walking all day towards it knows that when at length he gets there he will see just such another on the far horizon.
louis sat down wearily beside barlasch. as far as eye could see, they were alone in this grim white world. they had nothing to say to each other. they sat and watched the sun go down with drawn eyes and a queer stolidity which comes to men in great cold, as if their souls were numb.
as the sun sank, the shadows turned bluer, and all the snow gleamed like a lake. the silver tints slowly turned to gold; the greys grew darker. the distant lines of pines were almost black now, a silhouette against the golden sky. near at hand the little inequalities in the snow loomed blue, like deeper pools in shallow water.
the sun sank very slowly, moving along the horizon almost parallel with it towards two bars of golden cloud awaiting it, the bars of the west forming a prison to this poor pale captive of the snows. the stems of a few silver-birch near at hand were rosy now, and suddenly the snow took a similar tint. at the same moment, a wave of cold seemed to sweep across the world.
the sun went down at length, leaving a brownish-red sky. this, too, faded to grey in a few minutes, and a steely cold gripped the world as in a vice.
louis d'arragon made a sudden effort and rose to his feet, beneath which the snow squeaked.
“come,” he said. “if we stay, we shall fall asleep, and then—”
barlasch roused himself and looked sleepily at his companion. he had a patch of blue on either cheek.
“come!” shouted louis, as if to a deaf man. “let us go on to kowno, and find out whether he is alive or dead.”
