Narrow Escape in Russia

The Tragic Crossing of the Berezina

Excerpt from Paul Austin's
1812: The Great Retreat
(Part 2)


Several hours of this Dantesque nightmare must be endured if one's to get across. But slowly, very slowly, Commissary Kergorre sees, the bridge is coming closer: "My two furs had been torn off in strips, only my greatcoat remained. Three times it was taken off my shoulders. It was my salvation. I kept it at peril of my life. Three times I halted to put my arms back into it. A few people in the midst of this crush were still holding on to a horse."

He too loses a friend -- a Monsieur Pichault -- in the mob. They can only exchange a last parting glance. From time to time great surges go through the crowd. A series of shocks turns Griois' pony round so that it's facing in the wrong direction; and there -- so it seems, for more than an hour -- he sits with his back to the bridge "in this desolating position which finally took away all hope".

    Once on the bridges timbers,
    men are finding that it's not too difficult
    to get to the other side.

But then he catches sight of his regimental sergeant-major, a man named Grassard. Tall, young and vigorous, he no longer has either horse or effects, only a konya. But when, finally, he hears his colonel shouting, he turns it round, gets to him, and "bridle in one hand and sabre in the other, he began pushing forward, shoving aside or overthrowing everything in his way". Griois' own sabre has snapped in half.

But though he's "a miserable scarecrow" with hardly strength enough to hold it in his hand, he does his best to co-operate: "The crowd was so dense one couldn't see the ground, and it was only from how my beast, more or less sure of itself, was putting its feet down that I could judge whether it was walking on earth or corpses."

Suddenly he's thrown off into the wreckage of an overturned wagon. But, to his own amazement, by a convulsive effort finds himself back again in the saddle, unharmed! As they at last approach the bridge "the overturned or abandoned vehicles, the horses raising their heads amid the debris that was crushing them, the corpses -- all this seemed like an entrenchment impossible to surmount".

But then some of the pontoniers, still faithfully at work repairing the bridge, notice his gunner's uniform and help him to get up on to it. And his pony, in turn, is the means of helping a cantiniere who's carrying her child in her arms, and who clings to its tail: "What a weight fell from me as I crossed it! My feeling was like that of a condemned man who'd been pardoned on his way to execution. On the bridge itself I was almost alone, so congested was its access. It was hardly above the water, in such fashion that the corpses being carried by the current were held up there among the ice-floes. A great number of horses whose riders had drowned came and leant their heads against its table and stayed there as long as they had strength to. They garnished one side of the bridge for almost its whole length."

At the far end Griois is effusively thanked by the cantiniere, who insists on sharing her last remaining bit of sugar with him. "I reproach myself for having accepted it."

To reach the bridge has taken Kergorre two hours and now his last strength is giving out: "If the struggle had lasted another quarter of an hour I'd have gone under. Despite the cold my face was bathed in sweat. I was no more than two paces from the bridge. I put out my hand. I begged those in front of me to lend me theirs. I gripped one of the trestles...but I'd overlooked human egoism. People just looked at me and passed on. A raging horse which had been thrown down was the last obstacle. Finally Providence came to my aid. A violent shock threw me over this horse. And in an instant he had ten people on top of him, pounding his head and belly. As for me, I was thrown between him and the bridge. I was saved. The bridge was a bit higher than my stomach. Gathering the little strength I had left, I threw myself at it and managed to clamber up. Since there were no dead men or horses on it, people were passing along it in an orderly fashion, like a big crowd does when it's in a hurry."

    Dusk has put an end to the fighting
    along the eastern ridge...
    All that remains now is for
    Victor's men to effect their retreat.

There, at the far end of the bridge stands Sergeant Bourgogne, shivering with fever. Ever since yesterday evening he's been stationed there by his colonel to direct any of the Fusiliers-Grenadiers' stragglers: "At its outlet was a marsh, a slimy, muddy place, where many of the horses sank and couldn't get out again. Many men, too, who were being dragged into the marsh by the weight of the others, sank down exhausted when left to themselves and were being trampled by others coming on from behind."

Bourgogne tries to dissuade a corporal named Gros-Jean from going back to the left bank to look for his brother. Points out "how many dead and dying were already on the bridge and preventing others from crossing by clutching their legs, so that they were all rolling together into the Berezina, appearing for a moment amid bits of ice, only to disappear altogether and make way for others."

But Gros-Jean won't listen. Handing Bourgogne his pack and his musket, he says "there are plenty of muskets on the other side". At that moment he fancies he sees "his brother on the bridge, struggling to clear himself a path through the crowd. So, listening only to the voice of despair, he climbed over the dead bodies of men and horses which blocked the way from the bridge and pushed on. Those he met first tried to thrust him back; but he was strong, and succeeded in reaching the unfortunate man he'd taken for his brother."

But alas, it isn't. Nothing daunted, Gros-Jean reaches the far end only to be knocked down at the water's edge; trampled on; almost falls in. He clutches a cuirassier's leg, "who, in turn, grabbed another man's arm. Hindered by a cloak over his shoulder, he staggered, fell, and rolled into the Berezina, dragging after him Gros-Jean and the man whose arm he was holding."

Even so, Gros-Jean manages to clamber up by his knees on to a horse that's floating against the bridge; and by and by some engineers, hearing his shouts, throw him a rope, "and thus from one support to another, over dead bodies and lumps of ice, he was drawn over to the farther side. I didn't see him again."

Once on the bridge's timbers, men are finding that it's not too difficult to get to the other side, albeit followed by "benedictions" from the less fortunate ("kill him" -- "stick a f*****g bayonet in that brigand's guts!" -- "fire a shot into his arse!" "chuck that f*****g mongrel into the water!" etc.).

Von Suckow too is getting close: "Hardly had I climbed up on this mass of men and horses than I saw at a glance there were a few corpses that had been thrown down on to the first ice-floes. Anyway those poor fellows had all been drowned."

The bridge itself, he sees, is "built of such pitiable materials that it was swaying to and fro in so terrifying a fashion that at any moment one expected to see it collapse. I despaired utterly of being saved. It was my first and only fit of discouragement throughout the campaign." And still, as they'd done yesterday and the day before, the military police are striking out to right and left with the flats of their swords. Finding himself standing on a horse -- "it was a chestnut" -- that's lying on its side, panting convulsively, von Suckow gets another violent shove from behind, and almost falls to "share the fate of this poor beast. At that moment I mentally said good-bye to the joys and sufferings of this earth, yet involuntarily stretched my arms out before me. My hand desperately clutched the collar of a blue cape. The man who was wearing it -- a French cuirassier officer of prodigious stature who still had his helmet on his head -- was holding an immense cudgel and using it with utmost success, pitilessly striking out at all who came too close to him. After long admiring this man's efficiency in shaking off all troublesome neighbors, I had only one thought: "You're not going to quit this fellow." And not relinquishing my lucky hold on the collar I let myself be taken in tow by its wearer."

But the cuirassier notices what's happening: "To get rid of me he had recourse to his cudgel, whirling it about behind him. But his efforts were to no avail. Seeing the blows as they came, I did my utmost to avoid them without letting go of his collar -- so adroitly, he didn't once touch me. Seeing he wasn't getting anywhere like this, he ceased whirling his stick and adopted a new tactic, letting out formidable oaths. And when this didn't work either, he says to me: "Monsieur, I adjure you, let go of me, for if you don't we're both lost.'"

But Suckow only holds on all the tighter. And, with the cuirassier swearing and cursing and trying to shake him off, reaches the bridge. Finally, realizing they'll never get on to it like this, von Suckow lets go of the cuirassier's mantle -- jumps for it, and finds himself up to his knees in the icy water. "Even today, sitting by my stove, I shiver when I think of it." By and by he too scrambles up on to the bridge.

But now the short day's ending. Dusk has put an end to the fighting along the eastern ridge. All that remains now is for Victor's men to effect their retreat. At about 8 p.m. "illumined by the enemy's shellfire" Eble -- it's his sixth night without sleep -- and his pontoniers and some gunners (among them Chambray's unit) begin clearing "a kind of trench" through the rampart of corpses and dead horses encumbering access to the bridge.

    By about 5 or 6 a.m.
    all of Victor's IX Corps has crossed
    except for Fournier's cavalry...
    mostly Baden hussars who're to bring up the rear.

While the military police stave off the mob, Captain Francois, approaching with the 30th Line, now numbering only 143 men, sees "horses, baggage, artillery trying to cut a path. A terrible struggle begins among these despairing men. I, who love extraordinary things, was horrified by this scene. To all the noise was added the whistling of round shot, the explosion of shells and ammunition wagons."

As the 7th Light cut a way through the mob and approach the bridge, Sergeant Bertrand too sees "a spectacle of such horror" as his pen, even after half a century, will almost refuse to describe: "scattered heads, arms, legs, a bloody slush!" What's more, such survivors as are closest to the "trench" try to thrust themselves in among the ranks.

But to yield to them out of mere humanity, the officers realize, will be to wreck everything: "First and foremost we had to save everyone still grouped around the flag. Our salvation lay at the tips of our bayonets. Just as our column is passing very close by this mass of victims, I hear my name being called out, and in this sad confusion see the wife of one of the regiment's NCOs, holding her dying child in her arms. This sight made the most atrocious impression on me I've ever felt. Always I shall have before my eyes the expression on this mother's face, with her lost and supplicating look. But my duty as a soldier, though it tore my heart in two, came before all feelings of commiseration. In any other circumstance I'd have given my life to save this woman and her child. May God be my judge! All these unfortunates remained in the enemy's power."

Ordered to take the place of the NCO bringing up his company's rear, he's just hurrying back to do so, when one of General Gerard's ADCs, taking him for a runaway, smacks his face. Bertrand, of the 7th Light Infantry, raises his musket to his cheek and his finger's on the trigger, when he tumbles to the misunderstanding. Even when they get to the bridge his men see two horses are blocking it and want to heave them into the water: "But being told they belonged to superior officers, we didn't; but the poor beasts were driven on with bayonet jabs. At last here we are on the bridge. The flooring having given way on one side, we were marching along a very steep slope. Several of us fell into the water. I saw some of them going by on enormous ice-floes, trying to reach the other shore, among others an officer who, stricken by another ice-floe, vanished under the waves. However, some others were luckier." A staff officer has indicated the assembly point on the other side; but at roll call the 7th Light have trouble lighting their fires.

Bertrand goes to his colonel to report the smack in the face he'd received: "He'd already been informed about it, and sent me, together with an adjutant-major, to the ADC who, having said how sorry he was, shook my hand, saying: "let's forget it, my old comrade, and let's close our ranks, because tomorrow we'll be needing them."

Although Captain Francois' wounds have "reopened and begun to bleed again", he too manages somehow to get through and rejoin his division: "My comrades had thought I was one of those crushed underfoot. They made me share their black soup and the regimental surgeon-major dressed my wounds for the first time since I'd left Moscow."

On the bridge, without even noticing it, he has lost his blue cape with silver clasps. And even when his servant -- for 48 hours they've lost touch -- turns up and "bursts into tears, seeing me saved yet again" he's failed to save any of his horses, "which didn't surprise me. But one of them had been carrying twelve soup spoons, thirteen forks, a ladle for stew, a soup ladle, a pair of silver spurs and a large sum in rubles. In the morning a soldier brought me my konya, albeit stripped of its bags."

    And still Eble hasn't given the order.
    His tendermindedness is saving many a life.

Even when they've got across, the refugees are by no means always out of trouble. At Brillowo, Castellane, on mission from Napoleon's headquarters, sees "men of I Corps using violence to strip them of their packs. I forced two of them to cough up. They'd taken a strag-gler's portmanteau. The latter told me what was in it. Making them open it I furiously hit the thieves, who pretended the portmanteau was their property, with the flat of my sword."

By about 5 or 6 a.m. all of Victor's IX Corps has crossed, except for Fournier's cavalry, now only 200 out of 600 troopers, mostly Baden hussars, who're to bring up its rear. Eble's been ordered to fire the bridge at 7 a.m. or even earlier, and has already had inflammable materials placed on the bridge's transverse logs, ready to be ignited at the first sign of the Russians approaching.

An order he has passed on to Colonel Seruzier, another Colonel of horse artillery from the III Cavalry Corps, telling "to break the bridges and blow them up as soon as Victor's corps and such vehicles as had been preserved should have reached the other side. I was charged to hasten the latters' crossing; and I put all possible firmness and celerity into this mission." Eble pays a last visit to the stragglers huddled or asleep round their bivouac fires. Urges them for the last time to bestir themselves while there's still time.

During the night Roman Soltyk, a Polish artillery officer attached to Imperial Headquarters, had seen "staff officers being repeatedly sent to these unfortunates to urge them to cross the bridges at once. But these orders and threats were in vain. No one stirred. Most had fallen into such apathy that they listened indifferently to the words being addressed to them." "We knew the Russians were getting close," Seruzier goes on, "but I couldn't get the drivers of the baggage, the cantinieres or the vivandieres to listen to reason. In vain I told them everyone would be saved if only there was a little order; that their safety depended on crossing at once, and that our troops" salvation would depend on the bridges being broken. Only a few crossed with their light vehicles. The greater number lingered on the left bank."

Some distance from the other bank Le Roy pauses to bind up his frost-bitten foot in some rags and bits of string:

"Daylight appeared on the horizon. The wind was still very strong; but the snow wasn't falling any longer. A few cannon shots and a fusillade were heard to our left, on the side where the Emperor and his Guard were. I was surprised by the deathly silence reigning on this side of the river."

The musketry volleys are coming from the Brill Farm Wood, where Tchitchakov's men are tentatively -- very tentatively indeed -- returning to the attack. "Seeing the dense line of marauders hastening on up the hillside," Le Roy, not doubting that the "rearguard was at grips with the enemy", gets going again.

Now it's past 7 o'clock. And still Eble hasn't given the order. His tender-mindedness is saving many a life. Among others Jomini's [who would survive to become one of history's leading writer's on military theory]. Suffering, like Griois, from bronchial fever, he'd managed yesterday evening to squeeze himself and his two ADCs, Liebart and Fivaz, into one of Studianka's three remaining timber cottages, occupied by Eble and his staff. And found some straw to sleep on.

But now morning -- in the shape of a Russian shell -- awakens Jomini by setting fire to it. Where's everyone gone? Where's Eble? Have they abandoned him? Held up under his arms by Fivaz and Liebart, the future great writer on the so-called art of war, too, makes for the bridge. And already the crush has recommenced and when at last Jomini, who had previously been acting Governor of Smolensk, reaches it he's pushed off into the ice-floes. In front of him a cuirassier's riding a konya. Gaining sudden strength from some quinine he's been taking, Jomini clambers up on to its rump and seeing some Bavarian infantry crossing, calls out to them -- in French -- in German -- but is ignored by everyone -- until an NCO he'd known at Smolensk reaches him down his musket and hoists him up, enabling Liebart to help him over to the opposite bank.

Seruzier's position is becoming anguished. Eble has waited and waited. Now it's long past 7 a.m. Eight o'clock passes, and still he waits: "Again the enemy appeared, the danger was growing from minute to minute."

The first enemy units, even so, are only Cossacks, and they, as usual, are much more interested in plunder than in forcing the bridges: "It was then the drivers of the vehicles still on that bank realized what danger they were in. But it was too late! The carts, carriages and artillery wagons carrying the wounded got jammed at the bridge's entrance. Men began cutting their way through at bayonet point. Several men flung themselves into the water to swim across -- and perished. The enemy, who was saluting us with cannon fire, sent us any amount of shells and put the finishing touches to the disorder. The jam destroyed all hope of getting across. A mob of men and women were going to be sacrificed. But it was certainly their own fault."

Already Bourgogne, at the bridge's western end, has seen "numbers jumping into the water, but not one was reaching the shore. I saw them all in the water up to their shoulders. Overcome by the terrible cold, they were all perishing miserably. On the bridge was a sutler carrying a child on his head. His wife was in front of him, crying bitterly. I couldn't stay any longer, it was more than I could bear. Just as I turned away, a cart containing a wounded officer fell from the bridge, together with its horse."

Eble can no longer put off the fatal moment. Seruzier: "It was only at the last extremity, i.e., when the Russian guns were harassing me from all sides, that I, with keen regret, decided to carry out General Eble's order, which was the Emperor's."

Fuzes and powder trains under the transverse planks are fired. And the bridge bursts into flames. Bourgogne turns away from the scene of horror that follows. As the flames leap up a howl goes up from the far bank, the like of which no one who hears it will ever forget. Even on the Zembin road, several miles away, Louise Fusil, once actress in Moscow and now a refugee, hears "a scream, a single cry from the multitude. Undefinable, it still resounds in my ears every time I think of it. All the unfortunates who'd been left on the other bank were falling, crushed by the Russian army's grapeshot. Only then did we grasp the extent of the disaster."

Tragically, ironically, the Berezina -- at last, but too late -- has begun to freeze over: "But the ice not bearing, it broke, swallowing up men, women, horses, carriages. A beautiful woman, caught between two ice-floes as in a vice, was seen clutching her child in her arms. A musket butt is held out to give her something to hang on to. But soon she's swallowed up by the very movement she's making to grasp it. General Lefebvre [the Marshal's son], who wasn't exactly tender-minded, was pale as death. He kept repeating: "Oh, what a dreadful disaster! And those poor people who've been left there under the enemy's fire.'"

To Colonel Seruzier it's "the most afflicting spectacle anyone could see. The Cossacks flung themselves on these people who'd been left behind. They pillaged everything on the opposite bank, where there was a huge quantity of vehicles laden with immense riches. Those who weren't massacred in this first charge were taken prisoner and whatever they possessed was falling to the Cossacks."

From somewhere in the vicinity of the Brill Wood, the Polish Captain Turno, no less appalled, sees "whole ranks of desperate men being pushed onwards by masses of other unfortunates coming on behind", hears "their piercing screams"...witnesses "the terror of those being hit by enemy round shot...ammunition wagons and shells exploding in the midst of this shouting, groaning mob. My heart was torn with grief. The Russians, who've crowned the high ground beyond, are sowing terror and death amid the 10,000 sick or wounded soldiers and a multitude of carriages or wagons, most thrown on top of one another and broken."

Looking back from the high ground towards Zembin, Le Roy sees the guns' smoke as they fire, but -- so violent is the whining of the north wind -- hears no explosions. Taking refuge in a half-demolished house, he looks out over the narrow space of a mile and a half, half of it taken up by the river, and is sure "a clever painter, had he been at my side at that moment, could have made a beautiful picture! He'd have painted a still-life. Trees laden with hoar frost, snow and icicles. In the foreground the village of Weselovo. In the background, between white-powdered conifers, would be seen perfidious Bashkirs, waiting keenly for a favorable moment to throw themselves on their prey. The river itself would play the chief role and, at a pinch, could represent Acheron, the river of Hades in the fable. The damned on the left bank. The elect on the right."

Lithograph by J. Damel depicts the continuing retreat of Napoleon's ragged army after Berezina, here straggling through the streets of Vilna, almost back to the starting point of the campaign six months before.

Yet the elect, Le Roy muses, are hardly happier than the damned, except insofar as "the latter have the repose of nothingness, while a large part of the elect would succumb to the same fate". Even as he drags himself toward Zembin, looking everywhere for Guillaume and Jacquet, no other sound strikes his ear except that terrible howl of despair. And there it'll go on resounding, he says, "for thirty years; and, I feel, until my natural heart is extinguished".

About the author:

Paul Britten Austin advanced from cabin boy to Radio Officer in the British merchant marine in World War II. After the war he moved to Sweden and married Swedish novelist Margareta Bergman, sister of the famous film director. Austin, awarded a Swedish knighthood of the Order of the North Star and an honorary Doctorate of Literature, has written a score of books on various subjects in both English and Swedish, including the article on Marshal Oudinot for David Chander's anthology Napoleon's Marshals.

More 1812 Berezina Crossing

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