The Memoirs of Colonel Gerard Vreilhac by Anel Viz

Author:Anel Viz [Vreilhac, The Memoirs of Colonel Gerard]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Chapter Seven

At first the news was more than encouraging; it was excellent. Our forces advanced quickly into the interior of Russia. The great Battle of Borodino ended in a stalemate, but when it was over General Kutuzov withdrew his troops, leaving Moscow undefended. Thibaud wrote us an ecstatic letter from the Russian capital dated 14 September, the day our troops entered Moscow. It told of golden domes reflecting the sunlight, stately pastel palaces, and an unearthly quiet in the streets. It was the last letter we received. No one we knew with a relative in our Army in Moscow heard anything. Wild rumors began to circulate in Paris.

In November news reached us that our troops had withdrawn from Moscow, and two weeks later that apparently the Grand Armee would leave Russia altogether. Nobody could guess what it all meant. Surely we had won the war, since we had taken Moscow, but we heard nothing about a peace treaty or a Russian surrender. Then, at the beginning of January the Emperor returned to France alone, clearly dissatisfied with the results of his expedition, and in early spring the first starving, frost-bitten remnants of his once proud Army staggered into Paris. Laurent and Thibaud were not among them. Those who had survived the Russian invasion told stories of harassment on the part of the Austrians, of massive desertions among our Prussian and German troops, and of tens of thousands of French soldiers who perished on their way home.

We had no news until the beginning of summer, when we received a letter from Laurent, who never wrote. He had managed to get as far as Pilsen, but he was suffering from pneumonia and could go no farther. He had nowhere to stay and could not afford to buy medicine. He barely had enough money for food. He begged us to send some before he starved to death. His letter made no mention of Thibaud. I immediately procured a horse and set out to bring him back to Paris. I told Stephane where I was going. Knowing that Laurent was the love of my life, he gave me twenty gold napoleons from his purse. I stopped along the road only to eat a hasty meal or catch a few hours’ sleep. My horse collapsed a few leagues before I reached Nurnberg, and I made the rest of the journey by coach.

After much searching, I found Laurent lying on the straw under a horse blanket in the stables behind an inn. He was dressed in rags and burning with fever, delirious and coughing up blood. I demanded the innkeeper give us his best room, paying a week in advance, and had him light a fire in the stove and heat a basin of water while I carried Laurent upstairs and put him to bed. Then I had him bring a steaming bowl of beef broth and sent him for a doctor. I cut Laurent's tattered uniform his body and burned it in the stove, and then sponged him with water from the basin.

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