The Burning Of Moscow

From west to east across Europe had marched the army of the great

conqueror, no nation daring to draw a hostile sword, none venturing to

place an obstacle in its path. Across Russia it had marched almost as

triumphantly, breaking irresistibly through the dams of armed men in its

way, sweeping onward with the strength and majesty of fate. At length it

had reached the heart of the empire of the czars, and before it lay

d splayed the ancient capital of the Muscovite kings, time-honored

Moscow.



This great city was revealed to the eyes of the weary soldiers with the

suddenness of a mirage in the desert. Throughout that day an

interminable outreach of level country had seemed to spread before them,

dreary, uninviting, disheartening. Now, from the summit of a hill, their

triumphant eyes gazed suddenly upon the roofs and spires of a mighty

city, splendid, far-reaching, stretching far across the plain that lay

revealed before their eyes. It seemed to them truly as if the hand of a

magician had touched the desert, and caused this city to spring up

across their path.



It was a remarkable spectacle that met their gaze. Here were visible

what seemed hundreds of gilded domes and shining spires, thousands of

habitations rich with varied colors, a strange compound of palaces and

cottages, churches and bell-towers, woods and lakes, Western and

Oriental architecture, the Gothic arches and spires of Europe mingled

with the strange forms of Byzantine and Asiatic edifices. Outwardly, a

line of monasteries flanked with towers appeared to encircle the city.

Centrally, crowning an eminence, rose a great citadel, from whose towers

one could look down on columned temples and imperial palaces, embattled

walls crowned with majestic domes, from whose summits, above the

reversed crescent, rose the cross, Russia's emblem of conquest over the

fanatical sectaries of the East. It was the Kremlin which they here

beheld, the sacred centre of the Russian empire, the ancient

dwelling-place and citadel of the czars.



A wild cry of wonder and triumph burst from the soldiers who had first

reached the summit of the hill. "Moscow! Moscow!" they shouted, their

imaginations strongly excited by the magnificent spectacle. This cry

lent wings to those behind them. In crowding hosts the eager soldiers

rushed up the long slope, all ranks mingling in their burning desire to

gaze upon that great city which was the goal of their far-extended

march. Deep were the emotions, intense the joy, with which they gazed on

this dazzling vision, with all its domes and spires burning in the warm

rays of the sun. Napoleon himself, who hastened to the spot, was struck

with admiration, and new dreams of glory doubtless sprang up in his soul

as he stood gazing with deep emotion on what must have seemed to him the

key of the East, the gateway to conquests never yet surpassed by man.

Little did he dream that it was ruin upon which he gazed, the fatal

turning-point in his long career of victory. Still certain of his

genius, still confident in his good fortune, he looked forward to new

conquests which would throw those of the past into the shade, and as his

eyes rested on that mighty city of the czars, the intoxication of glory

filled his soul.



The conqueror gave but little time to these dreams. The steps to realize

them must be taken. Murat was bidden to march forward quickly and to

repress all disorders which might break out in the city. Denniee was

ordered to hasten and arrange for the food and lodging of the soldiers.

Durosnel received orders to communicate with the authorities, to calm

their fears, and to lead them to the conqueror, that he might receive

their homage. Fancying that the inhabitants awaited his coming in

trembling fear, Napoleon halted until these preliminaries should be

arranged, before making his triumphant entry into the conquered capital

of Muscovy.



Murat, at the head of the light cavalry, galloped rapidly forward,

quickly reaching the bridge over the Moskowa. Here he found a rear-guard

of the Russian army, in rapid retreat. The meeting was not a hostile

one; Murat rode to the Russian line, and asked if there was an officer

among them who spoke French. A young Russian immediately presented

himself, and asked him what he wanted.



"Who is the commander of this rear-guard?" he asked.



The Russian pointed to a white-haired officer, who wore a long cloak of

fur. Murat advanced and held out his hand. The officer took and pressed

it warmly.



"Do you know me?" asked the Frenchman.



"Yes," answered the Russian, courteously; "we have seen enough of you

under fire to know you."



A short colloquy succeeded, during which Murat could not keep his eyes

from the officer's fur cloak, which looked as if it would be very

comfortable in a winter bivouac. The Russian, noticing his looks, took

off the mantle and offered it to him, begging him to accept it as a

present from an admiring foe. Murat courteously accepted it, and in

return presented the officer with a beautiful and valuable watch, which

was accepted in the same spirit of courteous good-will.



The Russian officer now joined his men, who were filing rapidly away,

and Murat rode onward into the streets of the captured city, his staff

and a detachment of cavalry accompanying him. Through street after

street he passed, here finding himself moving between rows of narrow

wooden houses, there through avenues bordered by palatial residences,

which rose from rich and ample gardens, but all silent and seemingly

deserted.



The city was there, but where were the people? Solitude surrounded him.

Not an inhabitant was to be seen. It seemed a city of the dead. Into

Berlin, Vienna, and other capitals had the French army entered, but

never had it seen anything like this utter solitude. The inhabitants, so

the surprised soldiers fancied, must be cowering in terror within their

houses. This desolation could not continue. Moscow was known as one of

the most bustling cities in Europe. As soon as the people learned that

no harm was meant them, the streets would again swarm with busy life.

Hugging this flattering opinion to his soul, Murat rode on, threading

the silent city.



Ah! here were some of the people. A few distracted individuals had

appeared in the streets. Murat rode up to them, to find that they were

French, belonging to the foreign colony of Moscow. They begged piteously

for protection from the robbers, who, they said, had become masters of

the town. They told Murat more than this, destroying the pleasant

picture of a submissive and contented population with which he had

solaced his mind. The population had fled, they said; no one was left in

the city except a few strangers and some Russians who knew the ways of

the French and did not fear them. In their place was a crew of thieves

and bandits whom the Count of Rostopchin had let loose on deserted

Moscow, emptying the prisons and setting these convicts free to ravage

the city at their will.



Further evidence of this disheartening story was soon forthcoming. When

the French approached the Kremlin they were saluted by a discharge of

musketry. Some of the villanous crew had invaded the capitol, seized on

the guns in the arsenal, and were firing on the invaders. A few minutes

settled this last effort in the defence of Moscow. The citadel was

entered at a charge, several of the villanous crew were sabred, and the

others put to flight. The French had the town, but it was an empty one,

its only inmates being thieves and strangers.



The next morning, September 15, 1812, Napoleon made his triumphal march

into Moscow, at the head of his conquering legions. But for the first

time in his career of victory he found himself in the streets of a

deserted city, advancing through empty avenues, to whose windows the

tread of marching feet called not an eye to witness the triumph of

France. It was a gloomy and threatening impression which was experienced

by the grand army in its progress through those silent and lifeless

streets. The ancient city of the czars seemed a body without a soul.



But if the people were gone, their dwellings remained. Moscow was taken,

with all its palaces and treasures. It was a signal conquest. Napoleon

hastened to the Kremlin, mounted to the top of the lofty tower of Ivan,

and from its height looked with eyes of pride on the far-extending city.

It was grand, that vision of palatial mansions, but it was mournful in

its silence and gloom, the tramp of soldiery its only sound, the flutter

of multitudes of birds--ravens and crows, which haunted the city in

thousands--its only sign of life. Two days before Moscow had been one of

the busiest cities in the world. Now it was the most silent. But the

conqueror had this satisfaction, that while abandoned like other Russian

towns, it was not burned like them, he might find here winter-quarters

for his army and by mild measures lure the frightened people back to

their homes again. Comforted with this hopeful view, Napoleon descended

the stairs again, filled with confidence and triumph.



His confidence was misplaced. Disaster lowered upon the devoted city. On

the day succeeding his entrance a column of flame suddenly appeared,

rising from a large building in which was stored an abundant supply of

spirits. The soldiers ran thither without thought of alarm, fancying

that this was due to some imprudence on the part of their own men. In a

short time the fire was mastered, and a feeling of confidence returned.



But immediately afterwards a new fire broke out in a great collection of

buildings called the Bazaar, in which were the richest shops of the

city, filled with costly goods, the beautiful fabrics of Persia and

India, and rare and precious commodities from all quarters of the world.

Here the flames spread with extraordinary rapidity, consuming the

inflammable goods with frightful haste, despite the frantic efforts of

the soldiers to arrest their progress. Despairing of success, they

strove to save something from the vast riches of the establishment,

carrying out furs, costly wines, valuable tissues, and other precious

treasures. Such as remained of the people of the town aided in these

efforts, in the natural desire to save something from the flames.



Until now all this seemed ordinary accident, and no one dreamed that

these fires were the result of hostile design. They were soon to learn

more of the unconquerable determination of the Russians. During the

following night the wind rose suddenly, and carried the flames of the

burning Bazaar along several of the most beautiful streets of Moscow,

the fire spreading rapidly among the wooden buildings, and consuming

them with alarming rapidity.



But this was not the most disturbing indication. Rockets were seen in

the distance, ascending into the air, and immediately afterwards fire

broke out in a dozen quarters, and hired bandits were seen carrying

combustibles at the end of long poles, and seeking to extend the empire

of the flames. A number of these were arrested, and under threat of

death revealed a frightful secret. The Count of Rostopchin had ordered

that the great city of Moscow should be set on fire and burned, with as

little heed for the immense loss involved as he would have had in

ordering the burning of a wayside village.



The news filled the whole army with consternation. Waiting till the wind

had risen, the ferocious count had sent up his signal-rockets to order

the work to begin. He had done more. On running to the pumps to obtain

water to extinguish the flames, there were none to be found. They had

been removed and the fire-extinguishing apparatus destroyed in

preparation for this incendiary work.



Napoleon, alarmed and incensed, ordered that all caught in the act of

firing buildings should be executed on the spot. The army was directed

to use every effort to extinguish the flames. But the high wind set all

their efforts at defiance. It increased in fury and varied in direction,

carrying the conflagration over new quarters. From the Kremlin could be

seen vast columns of fire, shooting from building to building, wrapping

the wooden structures in lurid sheets of flame, sweeping destruction

forward at frightful speed. The roar of the flames, the explosions that

from time to time took place, the burning fragments which filled the

air, borne on the wings of the wind, all went to make a scene as grand

and fearful as human eye has ever gazed upon. To Napoleon and his men,

who saw their hopes of safe and pleasant winter-quarters thus vanishing

in flame, it must have been a most alarming and disquieting spectacle.



After blowing for some hours from the north-west, the wind shifted to

the south-west, and the conflagration invaded new regions of the city.

The Kremlin, hitherto out of the range of the flames, was now in danger.

Fiery sparks, borne by the wind, fell on its roof and in its court-yard.

The most frightful danger of the whole night now threatened the

imperilled army. In the court-yards of the Kremlin had been placed more

than four hundred wagons of ammunition; in its arsenal were a hundred

thousand pounds of powder. Should the flames reach these, Napoleon and

his guards would be blown into the air.



All who were near him pressed him to hasten from this imminent peril.

General Lariboisiere begged him to fly, as a duty which he owed to his

army. Officers who came in from the streets reported that it was almost

impossible to pass through the avenues of the town, and that delay would

increase the danger. To remain where they were much longer might render

escape impossible.



Napoleon, convinced by these words, left the Kremlin, after some

twenty-four hours' possession of this old palace of the czars, and

descended to the quay of the Moskowa, where he found his horses awaiting

him. Mounting, he rode through the fire-invaded streets towards the

north-west, but with no little difficulty and danger, for the flames

from the other quarters of the city were now spreading here.



The wind seemed steadily to increase in violence, torrents of smoke,

cinders, and sparks were driven down into the streets; sheets of flame

seemed to bend downward as if to sweep the ground; on every side the

troops were flying for their lives, on every side the conflagration

pursued them; it was through imminent peril that the grand army, which

on the morning before had marched so triumphantly into that abandoned

city, now succeeded in gaining a safe location outside, whence they

could look back in despair on that hell of flames in which their dearest

hopes were being consumed.



A small number of the inhabitants who had remained concealed in their

houses now came out, carrying away with them what treasures they most

esteemed; in some cases, women their children, men their aged parents;

many of them barely saving their clothes, and disputing the possession

of even these with the band of robbers whom Rostopchin had let loose,

and who, like spirits of evil, danced with glee in the midst of the

terrible conflagration which had been kindled by their hands.



So ended one of the most startling events in history,--the burning of a

great city to dispossess a victorious foe. It proved successful. When

Napoleon left the Kremlin on that fearful night he began his downward

career. The conflagration, it is true, did not drive him at once from

Moscow. He lingered for more than a month amid its ruins, in the vain

hope that the czar would ask him for terms of peace. But the czar kept

silent, the city was untenable for winter-quarters, and retreat became

imperative. When, at length, the grand army marched, winter marched with

it,--a winter such as even Russia had rarely seen. Napoleon had delayed

too long. The north gathered its forces and swooped upon his shivering

ranks, with death in its blasts. The Russians, recovering from their

losses, rushed upon his freezing columns, pouring destruction upon them

as they marched. All was at an end. The great victor's tide of success

had definitely turned. He had entered Russia with nearly half a million

of men; hardly a tenth part of this great army followed him from that

fatal land.