MARTEAU AND BAL-Arrêt RIDE

Of this young Marteau and old Bullet Stopper, plodding along at the best speed they could get from their horses, knew nothing.  The old grenadier was laconic by nature, and his habit of silence had become intensified by his years of subordination and service.  The young officer was wrapped in his own thoughts.  Knowing, as they did, every foot of the way, the two were able to find short cuts, take advantage of narrow paths over the hills and through the woods, which would have offered no passage to the army, even if they had been aware of it.  They reached Sezanne hours before Marmont’s advance, long before the cavalry even.

Baiting their horses, and getting a welcome meal at the inn-the town itself had as yet suffered nothing from the ravages of the Cossacks, being too strong for raiding parties-and refusing to answer questions, and paying no attention to wondering looks of the inhabitants, they rode out again.  Their way through the marshes of St. Gond was dreadful.  If only the weather would change, the ground would freeze, how welcome would be the altered conditions.  But the half snow, the half rain, still beat down upon them.  Their poor beasts were almost exhausted.  They broke the ice of the Grand Morin river to get water for the horses and themselves, and, not daring to kindle a fire, for they were approaching the country occupied by Bluecher, they made a scanty meal from their haversacks.

They had found the farmhouses and chateaux deserted, evidences of hasty flight and plunder on every side.  The Cossacks had swept through the land beyond the town.  The people who could had fled to Sezanne, or had gone westward hurriedly, to escape the raiders.  In the ruined villages and farms they came across many dead bodies of old women, old men and children, with here and there a younger woman whose awful fate filled the old soldier and the young alike with grim and passionate rage.

“Yonder,” said Marteau, gloomily pointing westward through the darkness, “lies Aumenier and my father’s house.”

“And mine,” added Bullet-Stopper.

There was no need to express the thought further, to dilate upon it.  It had been the Emperor’s maxim that war should support war.  His armies had lived off the country.  The enemy had taken a leaf out of his own book.  Even the stupid could not fight forever against Napoleon without learning something.  The allies ate up the land, ravaged it, turned it into a desert-lex talionis!

Marteau’s father still lived, with his younger sister.  Old Bullet-Stopper was alone in the world but for his friends.  What had happened in that little village yonder?  What was going on in the great chateau, so long closed, now finally abandoned by the proud royalist family which had owned it and had owned Marteau and old Bullet-Stopper, and all the rest of the villagers, for that matter, for eight hundred years, or until the revolution had set them free?

Plunged in those gloomy thoughts the young officer involuntarily took a step in the direction of that village.

“On the Emperor’s service,” said the grenadier sternly, catching his young comrade by the arm.  “Later,” he continued, “we may go.”

“You’re right,” said Marteau.  “Let us move on.”

Whether it was because the roads really were in a worse condition because of that fact that they ran through marshy country, or whether it was because the men were worn out and their horses more so, they made the slowest progress of the day.  They plodded on determinedly through the night.  The two weaker horses of the four finally gave way under the strain.  Husbanding the remaining two with the greatest care, the two soldiers, passing through the deserted villages of St. Prix, on the Little Morin, and Baye, finally reached the great highroad which ran through Champaubert, Vauxchamps and Montmirail, toward Paris, and which, owing to a northward bend of the river, crossed the country some leagues to the southward of the Marne.

Day was breaking as they reached the edge of the forest bordering the road, and from a rather high hill had a glimpse of a wide stretch of country before them.  Fortunately, while it was still raw and cold, the sun came out and gave them a fair view of a great expanse of rolling and open fields.  A scene of great animation was disclosed to them.  The road was covered with squadrons of green-coated Russian cavalry, evidently just called to the saddle, and moving eastward at a walk or slow trot.  They looked like the advance guard of some important division.  There was a low, rolling volume of heavy sound coming from the far north, and in the rising sun they thought they could distinguish in that direction smoke, as from a battlefield.  The sound itself was unmistakable to the veteran.

“Cannon!” he said.  “Fighting there.”

“Yes,” answered Marteau.  “The Emperor said that the Prussians and Russians were pressing the Duke of Tarentum, Marshal Macdonald.”

“But what have we here?” asked old Bal-Arrêt, shading his eyes and peering at the array on the near road.

A division of Russians, coming from a defile to the right, had debouched upon a broad plateau or level upon the edge of which the little village of Champaubert straggled forlornly.  The Cossack horsemen and the Russian cavalry had cleaned out Champaubert.  There were no inhabitants left to welcome the Russian division, except dead ones, who could offer no hospitality.

The division was weary and travel-stained, covered with mud, horses dead beat; the cannon, huge, formless masses of clay, were dragged slowly and painfully forward.  It was evident that the commander of the division had doubled his teams, but the heavy guns could scarcely be moved, even by twice the number of horses attached.  The poor brutes had no rest, for, as fast as one gun arrived, both teams were unhitched and sent over the road to bring up another.  A halt was made on the plateau.  It was evident to the experienced eyes of the watchers that a camp was about to be pitched.  The two men stared in keen interest, with eyes alight with hatred.  What they had seen in the country they had just passed intensified that hatred, and to the natural racial antagonism, fostered by years of war, were now added bitter personal resentments.

“That’s one of old Marshal Forward’s divisions,” said the grenadier, referring to Bluecher by his already accepted name, “but what one?”

“Russians, by the look of them,” answered Marteau.

“You say well.  I have seen those green caps and green overcoats before.  Umph,” answered Bullet-Stopper, making for him an extraordinarily long speech, “it was colder then than it is now, but we always beat them.  At Friedland, at Eylau, at Borodino, aye, even at the Beresina.  It was the cold and hunger that beat us.  What wouldn’t the guard give to be where we are now.  Look at them.  They are so sure of themselves that they haven’t thrown out a picket or sentries.”

In fact, neither Bluecher nor any of his commanders apprehended any danger whatsoever.  That Napoleon would dare to fall on them was unthinkable.  That there could be a single French soldier in their vicinity save those under Macdonald, being hard pressed by Yorck, never entered anybody’s head.

“What Russians are they, do you think?” asked Marteau of his comrade.

“How should I know?” growled the other.  “All Russians are alike to me, and -”

Marteau, however, had heard discussions during the time he had been on duty in Napoleon’s headquarters.

“That will be Sacken’s corps, unless I am very much mistaken,” he said.

“And those up yonder toward Epernay, where the firing comes from?” asked the grenadier.

Marteau shook his head.

“We must find out,” was the answer.

“Yes, but how?”

“I don’t know.”

“There is only one way,” continued Bal-Arrêt.

“And that is?”

“To go over there, and -”

“In these uniforms?” observed the young officer.  “We should be shot as soon as we should appear, and questioned afterward.”

“Yes, if there was anything left to question,” growled the grenadier.  “The Russians will do some scouting.  Perhaps some of them will come here.  If so, we will knock them on the head and take their uniforms, wait until nightfall, slip through the lines, find out what we can, and go back and tell the Emperor.  It is very simple.”

“Quite so,” laughed the young officer; “if we can catch two Russians, if their uniforms will fit us, if we can get through, if we can find out, if we can get back.  Do you speak Russian, Bal-Arrêt?”

“Not a word.”

“Prussian?”

“Enough to pass myself through I guess, and -”

“Hush,” said the young man, as three Russians suddenly appeared out of a little ravine on the edge of the wood.

They had come on a foraging expedition, and had been successful, apparently, for, tied to a musket and carried between two of the men was a dead pig.  How it had escaped the Cossack raiders of the day before was a mystery.  They were apparently coming farther into the forest for firewood with which to roast the animal.  Perhaps, as the pig was small, and, as they were doubtless hungry, they did not wish their capture to be widely known.  At any rate, they came cautiously up a ravine and had not been noticed until their heads rose above it.  They saw the two Frenchmen just about as soon as they were seen.  The third man, whose arms were free, immediately presented his piece and pulled the trigger.  Fortunately it missed fire.  If it had gone off it might have attracted the attention of the Russian outposts, investigations would have been instituted, and all chance of passing the lines there would have been over.

At the same time he pulled the trigger he fell like a log.  The grenadier, who had thrust into his belt a heavy knife, picked up from some murdered woodsman on the journey, had drawn it, seized it by the blade, and, with a skill born of olden peasant days, had hurled it at the Russian.  The blade struck the man fairly in the face, and the sharp weapon plunged into the man to the hilt.  He threw up his hands, his gun dropped, he crashed down into the ravine stone dead.  The next second the two Frenchmen had seized the two Russians.  The latter were taken at a disadvantage.  They had retained their clutch on the gun-sling carrying the pig, and, before they realized what was toward-they were slow thinkers both-a pair of hands was clasped around each throat.  The Russians were big men, and they struggled hard.  A silent, terrible battle was waged under the trees, but, try as they would, the Russians could not get release from the terrible grasp of the Frenchmen.  The breath left their bodies, their eyes protruded, their faces turned black.

Marteau suddenly released his prisoner, who dropped heavily to the ground.  To bind him with his own breast and gun straps and belt was a work of a few moments.  When he had finished he tore a piece of cloth from the coat of the soldier and thrust it into his mouth to gag him.  The grenadier had a harder time with his enemy, who was the bigger of the two men, but he, too, mastered him, and presently both prisoners lay helpless, bound and gagged.  The two Frenchmen rose and stared at each other, a merry twinkle in the eyes of old Bullet-Stopper, a very puzzled expression in those of the young soldier.

“Well, here’s our disguise,” said the old soldier.

“Quite so,” interposed the officer.  “But what shall we do with these two?”

“Nothing simpler.  Knock them in the head after we have found out what we can from them, and -”

But Marteau shook his head.

“I can’t murder helpless prisoners,” he said decisively.

“If you had seen what they did to us in Russia you wouldn’t have any hesitation on that score,” growled the grenadier.  “I had comrades whom they stripped naked and turned loose in the snow.  Some of them they buried alive, some they gave to the wolves, some they burned to death.  I have no more feeling for them than I have for reptiles or devils.”

“I can’t do it,” said the younger soldier stubbornly.  “We must think of some other way.”

Old Bullet-Stopper stood frowning, trying to think of some argument by which to overcome these foolish scruples, when an idea came to his friend.

“About half a mile back we passed a deserted house.  Let’s take them there and leave them.  There will probably be ropes or straps.  We can bind them.  They will be sheltered and perhaps somebody may come along and release them.”

“Yes, doubtless somebody will,” said the grenadier gravely, thinking that if somebody proved to be a peasant their release would be an eternal one, and glad in the thought.  “Very well, you are in command.  Give your order.”

At Marteau’s direction the straps around the feet of the men were loosened, they were compelled to get up; they had been disarmed, of course, and by signs they were made to march in the required direction.  Casting a backward glance over the encampment, to see whether the absence of the three had been noticed, and, discerning no excitement of any sort, Marteau followed the grenadier and the two prisoners.  Half a mile back in the woods stood the hut.  It was a stoutly built structure, of logs and stone.  A little clearing lay around it.  For a wonder it had not been burned or broken down, although everything had been cleaned out of it by raiders.  The door swung idly on its hinges.  The two Russians were forced to enter the hut.  They were bound with ropes, of which there happened to be some hanging from a nail, the door was closed, huge sticks from a surrounding fence were driven into the ground against it, so that it could not be opened from the inside, and the men were left to their own devices.

As neither Frenchman spoke Russian, and as the Russians understood neither French nor Prussian, conversation was impossible.  Everything had to be done by signs.

“I wouldn’t give much for their chance, shut up in that house in this wood,” said the grenadier, as the two walked away.

“Nor I,” answered Marteau.  “But at least we haven’t killed them.”

The two Frenchmen now presented a very different appearance.  Before they left the hut they had taken off their own great coats, the bearskin shako of the grenadier, and the high, flat-topped, bell-crowned cap of the line regiment of the officer.  In place of these they wore the flat Russian caps and the long Russian overcoats.  Bal-Arrêt might serve for a passable Russian, but no one could mistake Marteau for anything but a Frenchman.  Still, it had to be chanced.

The two retraced their steps and came to the ravine, where the dead Russian lay.  They had no interest in him, save the grenadier’s desire to get his knife back.  It had served him well, it might be useful again.  But they had a great interest in the pig.  Their exhausted horses were now useless, and they had thought they would have to kill one to get something to eat.  But the pig, albeit he was a lean one, was a treasure indeed.  To advance upon the Russian line in broad daylight would have been madness.  Darkness was their only hope.  Reaching down into the ravine, the grenadier hoisted the body of the poor pig to his comrade, and the two of them lugged it back far in the woods where it was safe to kindle a fire.  With flint and steel and tinder, they soon had a blaze going in the sequestered hollow they had chosen, and the smell of savory roast presently delighted their fancy.  They ate their fill for the first time in weeks be it remarked.  If they only had a bottle of the famous wine of the country to wash it down they would have feasted like kings.

“So far,” said the grenadier, when he could eat no more, “our expedition has been successful.  If those youngsters down at Nogent could only smell this pig there would be no holding them.”

“I think it would be well to cook as much of it as we can carry with us.  I don’t know when we may get any more.”

“That is well thought on,” agreed the old soldier.  “Always provide for the next meal when you can.”

“And, with what’s left, as we can’t be far from the hut, we’ll give those two poor Russians something to eat.”

“You’re too tender-hearted, my lad,” said Bullet-Stopper, his face clouded, “ever to be a great soldier, I am afraid.”

On an expedition of this kind rank was forgotten, and the humble subordinate again assumed the rôle of the advisor.  Marteau laughed.

“Rather than let them starve I would knock them in the head,” he said.

“That’s what I wanted to do,” growled the other savagely.

When it came to the issue, however, he really did respect the rank of his young friend.  Accordingly, pieces of the roast pig were taken to the hut and placed in reach of the prisoners, who were found bound as before and looking very miserable.  Yet there was something suspicious in their attitude.  The old grenadier turned one of them over and discovered that one had endeavored to free the other by gnawing at the ropes.  Not much progress had been made in the few hours that had elapsed, but still it was evident that the rope would eventually be bitten through and the men freed.  He pointed this out to his officer.

“Better finish them now,” he said.

But Marteau shook his head.

“It will take them all day and night to get free at that rate; by that time we will be far away, and it will be too late.”

“But if they should tell what they have seen?”

“What can they tell?  Only that two Frenchmen fell upon them.  No, let them be.  Set the food on the floor here.  If they get hungry they can roll over toward it and eat it.”

The gags had been taken out of the mouths of the men.  If they did give the alarm there would be none to hear them, save perhaps a French peasant passing that way, and at his hands they would meet short shrift.

Having stuffed their haversacks full of roast pig, they retraced their steps and reached the edge of the clearing.  It was noon by this time, so much of the day had been spent in the various undertakings that have been described, but the Russians were still there.  Evidently they intended to encamp for the day and rest.  Probably it was part of the program.  These would move on, presumably on the morrow, and another division of the army would come up and take their places.  The firing still continued on the horizon.

Marteau, who had a soldierly instinct, divined that the cavalry, which had long since disappeared to the westward, would try to outflank Macdonald, perhaps get in his rear, and this Russian division would move up and join Yorck’s attacking force.  The whole proceeding was leisurely.  There was no especial hurry.  There was no use tiring out the men and fighting desperate battles when maneuvering would serve.

The two made a more careful investigation and discovered that trees led across the road about half a mile to the left, and, although the roads were filled with galloping couriers and many straggling men and small commands, yet they decided that by going to the edge of the wood that touched the road and watching their opportunity they could get across unnoticed.

While they stared deliberating a squadron of cavalry, not of Cossacks, but of Russian cuirassiers left the camp and moved off down the cross-road that led to the south and west-the road, indeed, that led to the Chateau d’Aumenier.  The officer in command rode in front and with him were several civilians, at least, while they were covered with heavy fur cloaks, no uniform was visible, and among the civilians was one unmistakably a woman.  A Frenchman always had an eye for a woman.  The party was too far away to distinguish features, but the two men noted the air of distinction about the party and the way the woman rode her horse, the deference that appeared to be paid to her, and they wasted no little time in wondering what might be toward.  However, no explanation presenting itself to their minds, and, the matter being of no great importance after all, they turned their attention to the business in hand.

Working their way through the trees they reached a little coppice close to the road.  They lay down on the ground back of the coppice, wormed their way into it, and waited.

“Here we part,” said Marteau.  “There are but two of us.  We must get all the information we can.  I will find out what division this is in front of us, and I will go back along the road to the eastward and ascertain where the other divisions are, and by nightfall I will return to Sezanne to report to the Emperor.”

“And what am I to do?” asked the grenadier.  “Remain here?”

“You will cross the road and proceed in the direction of the firing.  Find out, if you can, how the battle goes, what troops are there, what Marshal Macdonald is doing, and at nightfall retrace your steps and hasten back to Sezanne.”

“Where shall I meet you?”

“Let me think,” answered Marteau.  “I shall first go east and then west, if I can get around that division ahead yonder.  Let us take the road to d’Aumenier.  I will meet you at the old chateau at ten o’clock, or not later than midnight.  There is a by-road over the marsh and through the forest by the bank of the river to Sezanne.”

“I know it.”

“Very well, then.  It is understood?”

Old Bullet-Stopper nodded.

“The road is clear,” he said.  “Good luck.”

The two men rose to their feet, shook hands.

“We had better go separately,” said Marteau.  “You have the longer distance.  You first.  I will follow.”

The officer watched the old grenadier anxiously.  He passed the road safely, ran across the intervening space, and disappeared in a little clump of fruit trees surrounding a deserted farmhouse.  The young man waited, listening intently for the sound of a shot or struggle, but he heard nothing.  Then he turned, stepped out into the road, saw it was empty for the moment, set his face eastward, and moved across it to see what he could find out beyond.