The Quest of Glory, Marjorie Bowen [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

CHAPTER V # THE RETREAT FROM PRAGUE

The French quitted Prague on the evening of the 16th of December,

leaving only a small garrison in the Hradcany; by the 18th the vanguard

had reached Pürgitz at the crossing of the rivers, and then the snow,

that had paused for two days, commenced towards evening and the cold

began to increase almost beyond human endurance.

 

At first their retreat had been harried by Austrian guns and charges of

the Hungarian Pandours, but the enemy did not follow them far. The

cannon was no longer in their ears; for twenty-four hours they marched

through the silence of a barren, deserted country.

 

The road was now so impassable, the darkness so impenetrable, the storm

so severe, the troops so exhausted that M. de Belleisle ordered a halt,

though all they had for camping-ground was a ragged ravine, a strip of

valley by the river, and, for the Generals, a few broken houses in the

devastated village of Pürgitz.

 

The officers of the régiment du roi received orders to halt as they

were painfully making their way through the steep mountain paths; they

shrugged and laughed and proceeded without comment to make their camp.

 

It was impossible to put up the tents, both by reason of the heavy storm

of snow and the rocky ground; the best they could do was to fix some of

the canvas over the piled gun carriages and baggage wagons and so get

men and horses into some kind of shelter.

 

No food was sent them, and it was too dark for any search to be made. It

was impossible to find a spot dry enough to light a fire on. The men

huddled together under the rocks and rested with their heads on their

saddles within the feeble protection of the guns and carts.

 

The officers sat beneath a projecting point of rock, over which a canvas

had been hastily dragged, and muffled themselves in their cloaks and

every scrap of clothing they could find; behind them their horses were

fastened, patient and silent.

 

“I am sorry,” said M. de Vauvenargues, “that there are so many women

and feeble folk with us.”

 

“Another of M. de Belleisle’s blunders,” answered the Colonel calmly.

“He should have forced them to remain in Prague.”

 

“There was never a Protestant,” remarked Lieutenant d’Espagnac, “who

would remain in Prague at the mercy of the Hungarians.”

 

The other officers were silent; it seemed to them vexatious that this

already difficult retreat should be further hampered by the presence of

some hundred of refugees—men, women, and children, French travellers,

foreign inhabitants of Prague, Bavarians who wished to return to their

own country, Hussites who were afraid of being massacred by the

Pandours.

 

M. de Vauvenargues had it particularly in his mind; he had seen more

than one dead child on the route since they left Prague. Eger was still

many leagues off and both the weather and road increasing in severity

and difficulty.

 

“I wonder if Belleisle knew what he was doing,” he remarked

thoughtfully.

 

M. d’Espagnac laughed; his soaring spirits were not in the least cast

down. He had just managed, with considerable difficulty, to light a

lantern, which he hung from a dry point of rock. Its sickly ray

illuminated the group and showed features a little white and pinched

above the close wrapped cloaks; but Georges d’Espagnac bloomed like a

winter rose. There was no trace of fatigue on his ardent countenance; he

leant back against the cold grey rock under the lantern and began to hum

an aria of Glück’s that had been fashionable when he last saw Paris. His

hair was loosened from the ribbon and half freed from powder; it showed

in streaks of bright brown through the pomade.

 

“There will be no moving till dawn,” said M. de Biron with an air of

disgust. The snow was beginning to invade their temporary shelter.

 

Another officer spoke impatiently.

 

“There must be food—many of our men have not eaten since they started.

How many men does M. de Belleisle hope to get to Eger in this manner?”

 

There was no answer: the blast of heavy snow chilled speech. Some faint

distant shouting and cries were heard, the neighing of a horse, the

rumble of a cart, then silence.

 

Georges d’Espagnac continued his song; he seemed in a happy dream.

Presently he fell asleep, resting his head against the shoulder of the

other lieutenant. M. de Biron and the second captain either slept also

or made a good feint of it. The Marquis rose and took the lantern from

the wall; it was unbearable to him to sit there in the darkness, amid

this silent company, while there was so much to do outside. The thought

of his hungry men pricked him. The food wagons must have overlooked

them. It was surely possible to find some member of the commissariat

department. The army could not have reached already such a pitch of

confusion.

 

He stepped softly from under the canvas. To his great relief he found

that the snow had almost ceased, but the air was glacial. As he paused,

endeavouring to see his way by means of the poor rays of the lantern,

his horse gave a low whinny after him. The Marquis felt another

pang—the poor brutes must be hungry too. He began to descend the rocky

path; he was cold even through his heavy fur mantle, and his hands were

stiff despite his fur gloves. The path was wet and slippery, half frozen

already, though the snow had only lain a moment.

 

In every crevice and hole in the rocks the soldiers were lying or

sitting; many of them were wrapped in the tent canvases and horses’

blankets; here and there was a dead mule with a man lying close for

warmth, or a wounded trooper dying helplessly in his stiffening blood.

The Marquis saw these sights intermittently and imperfectly by the

wavering light of his lantern. He set his teeth; after nine years’

service he was still sensitive to sights of horror.

 

When he reached the level ground by the river that was the principal

camping ground, he stopped bewildered amidst utter confusion.

 

There were neither tents, nor sentries, nor outposts, merely thousands

of men, lying abandoned to cold and hunger, amidst useless wagons of

furniture; and as the Marquis moved slowly across the field he saw no

other sight than this.

 

What might lie beyond the range of his lantern he could not tell, but

all he could see seemed abandoned to despair.

 

A man leading a mule knocked up against him; he also held a feeble

lantern; his dress and the chests the mule carried showed him to be a

surgeon.

 

“This is a pitiful sight, Monsieur,” he said. “Most of the wagons were

lost in that storm yesterday, and how am I to work with nothing?” He

lifted his shoulders and repeated, “with nothing?”

 

“Is there no food?” asked the Marquis.

 

“In Pürgitz, yes—but who is to distribute it on such a night?”

 

“We are like to have worse nights. Is M. de Belleisle in Pürgitz?”

 

“And some regiments. They are in luck, Monsieur.”

 

M. de Vauvenargues stood thoughtfully, and the surgeon passed on. Two

officers rode up on horseback, attended by a soldier with a torch; the

Marquis accosted them.

 

“Messieurs, I am Vauvenargues of the régiment du roi,” he said. “We

are encamped up the ravine, and there is no provision for men or

horses—”

 

By the light of the torch he recognized in the foremost officer M. de

Broglie, whose bright hair gleamed above a pale face.

 

“Maréchal,” he added, “I do not know how many will be alive by the

morning.”

 

“M. de Vauvenargues!” exclaimed the General, with a faint smile. “I am

helpless—absolutely helpless. The food wagons have not come up—some, I

believe, are lost.”

 

The Marquis looked at him