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| Napoleon's Forces Crossing the Berezina Wojciech Kossak and Julian Fałat (PD) |
Lecerf had the men up and moving before the sun came up. Much of the army seemed to be in no hurry, but Davout had rousted them out and harried them into moving. Victor's forces were still holding off Wittgenstein, but just barely.
What was left of I Corps was across the river fairly quickly, the men, used to marching in step, were in need of constant reminders not to do so, the rhythmic tread of a body of troops could start a dangerous vibration in the bridge structure.
"Walk like civilians! Come on, pretend you're on a boulevard in Paris! We're looking for a nice café for our morning repast!" Sergeant Blanchard was tireless, going up and down the column, and nearly being shoved into the frigid waters for his troubles.
"Sergeant, stay on this bank. I appreciate your efforts but I don't want to try fishing you out of this soup!" Marais gestured at the Berezina, choked with small ice floes and, increasingly, the bodies of men who had drowned. Many had tried to ford the river and had died in the trying.
"Very well, Sir. Look! There's Lieutenant Leavitt, that's the last of our boys then."
Marais looked, sure enough, it was the erstwhile commander of the ragged survivors of the 57th, hustling the last few men over the bridge. There was another infantry regiment close on their heels.
Lecerf saw this and shouted out, "What regiment?!"
Upon hearing the number, he realized that what was left of I Corps were across. The men behind his brigade belonged to the Viceroy. Italians he supposed, there couldn't be many of them left. They'd been cut off at the Battle of Krasnoi but had fought their way out, leaving many of their number behind.
"Tough bastards there." Marais offered.
"Yes, damned fine men, the sort of men Caesar would be proud of. Get our boys formed up, looks like we've got company!"
The Emperor snapped his glass closed and barked, "Oudinot! Ney!"
"Yes Sire?" The two answered as one.
"Looks like Chichagov has decided to contest the crossing. Can you hold him here while we get the remainder of the army across?"
"Certainly, Sire," Ney answered as the senior of the two, "I don't think he's serious, he has no batteries in position."
"Very well," turning in his saddle he looked to Berthier, "Orders to Eugène, Davout, and Junot, they are to act as a reserve for Ney and Oudinot. As soon as Victor is across, we shall continue the retreat."
Berthier began to write, Napoléon spoke again. "When Victor is across, burn the bridges, let us keep Monsieur Kutuzov off our backs for as long as possible."
The staff sat their horses quietly, one man, Rapp, finally spoke, "Sire, there are forty thousand on the wrong side of the river still."
"Stragglers, camp followers, rabble who have left their Eagles. Let them fend for themselves!" The Emperor nudged his horse into motion, he wanted to check the lines. And he was tired of the staff's constant second guessing.
Davout moved closer to Berthier, "I shall send word across the river, let them have the night to come across. We can burn the bridges on the morrow, the Russians will not advance."
Berthier nodded, "Be quick about it, if the Emperor asks, I shall feign ignorance."
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| Crossing the Berezina River on 29 November 1812 Peter von Hess (PD) |
"Lecerf, take your men forward, Ney needs help!" Maréchal Davout looked ready to fall from his horse. No one had had much rest, but Davout had had less than most.
"The 57th will advance!" Lecerf barked out.
The rapidly diminishing brigade moved forward in column, Davout watched them march off, he raised his hat to them as they went, "Vive le Terrible!"
The men answered with "Vive l'Empereur! Vive Davout!"
Marais' eyes glistened, it felt as though Davout was bidding them farewell. But as their sole surviving drummer tapped out his rhythm, he felt a spring in his step. At least they were advancing, and not running like whipped dogs.
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| Crossing of the Berezina Felician Myrbach (PD) |
Oudinot's troops filed to the rear, Ney's men stepping back carefully, their faces to the Russians who seemed to still be abed as the sun rose.
Lecerf kept the men in formation, some had died in the night of exposure. He believed he had less than 250 effectives still with the Eagle. But these were the hard core, the kind who wouldn't quit, they would stay with the Eagle until death. He heard a voice in the ranks.
"Dear God, the bridges are burning."
Lecerf looked to the river, the bridges were fully alight by now, one had already collapsed. The silent mob who had stayed on the enemy bank only now began to stir, seeing that their path to relative safety was falling into the river.
There was a rush to cross, some ran onto the bridges, only to die either in the flames or in the icy waters of the Berezina. Many were screaming that they were betrayed and cursed the Emperor. Some tried to swim across, they were swept away in the current, screaming for help that would not, could not, come.
"Lazy dogs could have crossed last night, instead they decided to cozy up to their fires and spend the night carousing. Stupid bastards." Sergeant Blanchard spat in their direction.
"Why did they not cross?" Leavitt asked, genuinely puzzled.
Marais answered, "No one to make them, they've all decided to quit. They shall rue that decision, I'm sure."
"If they live long enough," Blanchard said, spitting again.
He had crossed over the night before, he knew of at least ten men of the 57th who had fallen out and decided to try and make it on their own. They had discarded their weapons and shot, many still had the odd souvenir which they hoped to sell once they returned to France.
"You should cross now," he had argued, "you'll find plenty of discarded weapons and ammunition between here and the 57th's bivouac."
"You're a fool Sergeant, we will be in a Russian prison camp while your corpse freezes under the snow. There is no hope comrade, stay with us."
Blanchard had shaken his head and went back. He would not argue with men who thought they were doing the right thing but were, in reality, condemning themselves to death. The Russians would not be taking prisoners, they had no time for that. The stragglers would be left where they had stopped. Perhaps the Cossacks might make sport of them. If they were lucky they would die right there.
Marching back to the east as a prisoner was unlikely, most would die of exposure long before reaching imprisonment.
"Fools," Blanchard hissed as he regained the French bank of the river.
