Berezina as the Guards continued to fire at the unyielding mob.
Gradually, some awareness of the danger on the bridge began to filter back through the crowd and at last those still on the eastern bank began to draw back, slowly giving ground as they retreated towards the streets where they had been waiting shortly before. The captain ordered his men to cease fire and they advanced, bayonets lowered, keeping a short distance from the retreating crowd. At length they reached the end of the bridge and spread out, forcing the crowd away. It was no easy task, as many had perished in the crush and their bodies lay heaped on the ground around the bridgehead.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ Berthier exclaimed as he stared ashen-faced at the scene. Below the bridge several bodies were caught up in the trestles. A few individuals were still alive, clinging to the posts, calling for help. Nothing could be done for them and within minutes the icy water caused the last of them to relinquish his grip. ‘What a massacre. What did they think they were doing?’
‘Panic,’ said Napoleon. ‘We can expect more of that in the hours ahead. Make sure that the ends of the bridges are well guarded, and the routes leading to them as well. See to it at once.’
As the light faded the engineers repaired the gap and began the grim task of dragging the bodies away from the end of the other bridge to clear the route leading on to it. Once the last of the soldiers had crossed the bridge and only Victor’s corps remained on the eastern bank, General Eblй did his best to get some of the civilians and stragglers across. But night had fallen and there were flurries of snow in the bitterly cold air, and many refused to stir from the warmth of their fires.
In the early hours,Victor informed Napoleon that the Russians were beginning to push forward against his entire line. The sound of cannon fire increased in volume and soon even the distant sound of musket fire could be heard from the Emperor’s headquarters. Dawn brought a fresh fall of snow with thick flakes swirling about the crossing and mercifully muffling the sounds of fighting from where the rearguard was struggling to hold back the enemy.
‘How is the vanguard doing?’ Napoleon asked Berthier.
‘They have reached the end of the causeway and deployed to guard it from flank attacks, sire. Ney’s men are holding the southern approaches to the crossing and the rest of the army is advancing along the causeway.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been lucky the Russians haven’t pressed us more closely.’
‘Indeed. Time to call in Victor. Inform Eblй he is to fire the bridge the moment the rearguard is across.’
‘Yes, sir, and what of the civilians?’
‘They will have to cross as best they can before the bridges are destroyed.’
Throughout the day, the engineers and the first formations from Victor’s corps tramped over the bridges, together with a steady stream of non-combatants. The fighting drew ever closer to the river and as the light began to fade General Eblй took a speaking trumpet and called across the water to the silent mass still huddled about the fires on the far side.
‘The bridge will be cut within the next few hours! I beg you to cross while you can!’
Napoleon shook his head as few seemed to heed Eblй’s warning. ‘They had their chance,’ he told himself softly.
As the sun set into a blood-red haze on the horizon,Victor reported to Napoleon. He had not shaved or slept in days and looked haggard.
‘The enemy will reach the bridge within the hour, sire. I have no horses left for my remaining guns. The crews have been ordered to fire off their remaining rounds, spike the guns and fall back. There are three battalions holding the edge of the village. They will follow as soon as the order is given.’
‘You have done well, Marshal.’
‘My men have done all they could, sire. But the Russian guns will be in range of the bridge at any moment.’
‘I see.’ Napoleon stared across the river into the gathering gloom. ‘Then don’t delay. Give the order now.’
‘Yes, sire.’
As Victor returned across the river the engineers were hurriedly coating the timbers of the bridges with pitch, and the acrid smell made Napoleon’s nose wrinkle as he waited for Victor and the last of his men to fall back. Then they appeared, trotting down the street and over the smallest bridge, a company at a time. The last battalion retreated facing the enemy, and then hurried over. Last of all came Victor himself, sword in hand until he reached the western bank and sheathed it.
A silence fell over the scene as the last of the engineers abandoned their brushes and pots of pitch, and then Eblй raised his speaking trumpet again.
‘For the love of God! Escape while you still can!’
The civilians seemed to be too exhausted and lethargic to respond, and Eblй sadly lowered the speaking trumpet and gestured to his men to proceed with their orders. Torches were applied to the pitch and the flames licked out along the length of the bridges as the fire quickly caught and spread.
There was a drone through the air and a howitzer shell burst amongst the crowd in a bright flash. At once they struggled to their feet and ran for the bridges. More shells burst amongst them with lurid explosions of red and orange, the shell fragments cutting down scores of the tightly packed bodies at a time. The fugitives made for the bridges, trying to protect their faces from the flames as they ran towards the far bank. A few made it across, some on fire which the engineers hurriedly smothered. Others, blinded by the heat, stumbled over the edge and fell into the river. Some were desperate enough to plunge into the water, but few were strong enough to wade or swim across and the cold killed them before they reached the western bank. Flames reached high into the evening sky, reflected in the surface of the river, and the crackling and bursting of wood was accompanied by shrill screams of panic from the mob trapped on the far side.
Bit by bit, the planking and trestles collapsed into the water and, as the fire began to die down, the crowd fell silent and stared in numbed horror at the ruined bridges. The Russians had ceased fire as soon as they saw that most of the French had escaped and a terrible quiet fell over the scene.
The imperial headquarters had already set off down the causeway. Napoleon took one last look at Studienka and then climbed on to his mount. With a click of his tongue he urged the horse into a trot and made his way alongside the survivors of Victor’s corps, heading towards Vilna.
Chapter 37
The haggard remnants of the French army was stretched out along the road to Vilna. The snow fell steadily, drifting against the last of the abandoned vehicles, and the corpses of men and horses, until they were mercifully covered over, hiding the dead and the detritus of the army from those who still lived.
A handful of units remained together, mostly for self-protection rather than through discipline or any sense of duty. They marched with bayonets fixed, with little ammunition remaining in their haversacks, warily watching the surrounding countryside for any sign of the Cossacks who were following the column. Occasionally the horsemen would attack, with a sudden series of war cries as they dashed from concealment to rush any defenceless French soldiers, or civilians. They did not bother to discriminate between the two as they cut them down and then searched the corpses for anything of value. The Cossacks had learned to leave the formed units alone and often stood by, within musket range, letting them shuffle past.
Once again the snow had compacted and frozen so that the passage of the Grand Army was marked by a long, winding gleam of ice that was treacherous underfoot. The temperature continued to fall and had not risen above freezing since they had left the nightmare of the Berezina river behind them. The nights were bitter and dawn, when it came, was bleak. Any men, horses or equipment left in the open were covered in a heavy rime of frost. Increasingly, those who could not find shelter for the night did not survive to see the dawn. Only that morning, Napoleon had passed a peculiar scene by the side of the road. A soldier, a woman and two children were sitting around the remains of a small fire, built in the lee of a crumbling wall. They sat, cross-legged, wrapped in blankets, the children leaning into their mother with their heads resting against her, as if asleep. But they were unaturally still, and Napoleon stopped to look at them.
‘Frozen to death,’ he muttered as he stared into their white faces, wondering at the peaceful expressions on all four. ‘Frozen to death,’ he repeated in horror, before spurring his horse forward again.
