The winter of 1808 was especially cold throughout Europe. In Spain, Napoleon himself was able to verify this when convincing his troops to cross the port of Guadarrama became a greater feat than that of the Arcole Bridge. The Corsican did not want to waste time pursuing the remains of the Spanish army and, above all, the English corps of General Moore. He was in full retreat from Salamanca and looking for Coruña to re-embark back to the perfidious Albion, aware of the threat of total destruction that weighed on him after the Spanish collapse. The English had to combine the fastest possible march with skirmishes that could delay the French, and thus give their unreliable allies time to reorganize to resist and cover their withdrawal. The emperor of all the French had given Marshal Soult the operations in the northern part of the Peninsula and he was trying to reorganize his own forces, dispersed in different operations, while advancing trying to cut off the English retreat. A few years later, the proud "King Nicholas" would end up fleeing from those Englishmen to the very heart of France, but at that time that was unimaginable.
The place is the Leonese town of Sahagún, between the Cea and Valderaduey rivers, at that time one of the most important milestones on the Camino de Santiago: with a glorious past and splendid heritage, it widely exceeds 2,000 inhabitants and is the site chosen as an advance guard by the two regiments of cuirassiers and French dragoons that occupy the place. The English hussars headed there in a brisk march, only delayed by the blizzards and by the snow that covers all their way from Mayorga —the falls and slips are numerous, although miraculously horses and riders are barely lost. His plan is to attack Sahagún at night and in a quick coup surrender the entire French garrison of General Debelle. The weather conditions and some delay of their own forces make them finally approach the place around dawn on December 21. But his arrival is revealed shortly before and the French rush to leave the city to flee and take the Camino de Carrión de los Condes, where a strong French contingent was stationed. Finally, the English and part of the French ended up meeting face to face on the outskirts of Sahagún, near the Carrión highway. The imperialists still do not know if they are facing the Spanish or the British, and they wait in formation to see what those in front do, starting to shoot from their same position, without moving. The bronze helmets of the French cuirassiers, in Roman style and with their characteristic horsehair, fascinate the English for a few seconds, but without giving much time to contemplate an English officer shouts "Emsdorf and victory!", immediately replicated by 400 they shout and charge forward, sword in hand, through a field of frozen and snow-covered vineyards.
The shock is terrible for the paralyzed French, who fall by the dozens under the blows of the hussars and are slow to react to their aggressiveness. Hand-to-hand fighting ensues and the field becomes a formidable confusion in which even the dark English uniforms are indistinguishable from those of the Hanoverian cuirassiers in French service. But they end up fleeing in a stampede, seeking to join their companions and on their way to Carrión.
My head is exploding and part of my face is on fire. It takes me a few seconds to become aware of time and space, while I feel my face where it hurts and remember the blow that made me fall off my horse and hit the ground headfirst. My next thought is that I am numb with cold, lying on the stone floor of a place I recognize as a small church. Next to me are the bodies of my companions, lying down or reclining here or there, some as if sleeping and others even talking to each other in a low voice; the woes of the mourners have just composed a lamentable melody for the whole painting. Turning my head, I see that a couple of armed Englishmen were stationed guarding the only entrance. As I try to sit up and lean against the wall, the man sitting right next to me notices my awakening and greets me with a friendly little thump. I recognize you then, you are a member of my company. He shivered and hugged himself, rubbing himself for warmth, but he was able to give me a smile and explain that the English had transferred all the wounded and prisoners to that place, the Hermitage of the Virgen del Puente, next to the Valderaduey River.
—Lucky I realized you were alive when I passed you! A fellow helped me carry you here.
I give him a merci bocoup and ask him if he knows what they're going to do with us.
—I don't know, mate, but it's not a bad sign that they brought us here. Although perhaps his plan is for us to freeze to death within these walls...
With a gesture of my suffering and still dull head I agree with him on both counts, and since then I have dedicated myself to shivering as well, stripped as I am of my coat (like my partner). Someone then says out loud that we all stick to each other to keep warm, and each one with their difficulties moves towards one of the corners, until they all form a compact human mass. Those who cannot move remain where they were and none of us have the courage to worry about them. The two guards, with fur coats draped over their shoulders, laugh as they watch us maneuver.
—Vive l'Empereur! one of them yells at us sardonically.
For my sake, he can give cheers to his fucking mother and his cuckolded father, who will surely be as ugly as him. I'm more careful to squeeze as much as I can with my teammates, and I try to stop touching the side of my face where I have the cut. The door opens suddenly and a group of Englishmen enter. At the head is an officer, who in quite passable French shouts at us:
—Come on, I want everything you've got!
The soldiers with him jump on us and start feeling around for things of value. We are carrying pieces of gold and other jewels, the result of the abundant looting that we have been accumulating since we entered Spain. I put everything I have on the ground, but that doesn't free me from being searched by a ruddy Anglais with unbearable onion breath. The comrades loudly protest the bestial manipulation that they do to even the most serious, but no one makes a move to move. The officer now strives fruitlessly to search for treasures in the area of the altar; the poor devil arrives too long after my companions have been there. I end up falling asleep and I suddenly wake up, I don't know how much time later, startled by the butt blows of the English guards who order us to get up and group outside. Those of us who can walk began to trudge through the snow, urged on by a guard of four British hussars, two at the head of the group and two at the rear.
They were marching in the direction of the Cea River and parallel to the town of Sahagún, which they were leaving behind. Upon reaching the vicinity of the riverbank they could see a bridge, towards which they were directed. There were large English forces, warming themselves by some fires that they had been able to light right around the bridge itself. Other prisoners huddled around a couple of campfires that their captors "generously" allowed them to enjoy. At a signal from their guards, those who made up the column rushed to pounce on one of the fires, jostling with their companions.
My bones are finally warming up and I'm able to look around me. The river looks powerful, swollen, with occasional ice chips carried by the current. The ground by which we have come was quite bare until we reached the very bank of the river, where around the bridge and on both sides of the road that came out of it, is the little wood to which they brought us. Here the snow is thicker and from time to time it falls from the branches. Under a group of trees the enemy accumulates his horses, apparently guarded by a pair of hussars covered with blankets, who do not stop pacing from one side to the other, doubtless to keep from getting colder. I'm sure they really appreciate those tall furry hats they wear.
—I'm telling you, it would be better for us if those devils hadn't come near the city because they'll be able to steal what the Frenchies left us. Neither allies nor anything, they give me as much as each other and the king that each one brings us. On top of that, these English are heretics and endowed with an arrogance bigger than their small island. Did you see how those who came to the Plaza Mayor looked at us? What more food do you want us to give you, after having had these others rummage through all our pantries? What they did finish us off with was the wine. And, meanwhile, all these idiots celebrating with them and betting the honor of their daughters. I'm telling you, girl, these are as bad as the others, if not worse, you'd better keep yourself at home as long as they don't leave. Do it, if only to avoid catching pneumonia in this weather that the Lord sends us to punish us even more, after filling everything with foreigners. If someone other than me, your priest, read in this town, you would know that it was not the French but the English themselves who set us on fire at the time of the Civil War between King Henry and the damned Pedro the Cruel. Wretched be the Black Prince and all his mob, to whom the Lord gave just account by making them shit all their black soul outside, while they walked the rest of their miserable lives with their breeches around their ankles. Hey, hey, home! What is this going to look for firewood with which she is mounted around here! It is true that they are no longer heard or seen, but they can return at any time. God willing that they leave definitively and that the Godoyista dogs, who are the worst of all, go with them along the way; It would be the best gift to celebrate the Nativity of Our Lord.
I didn't want to argue with the father and, dodging the hug that threatened me, I preferred to turn around. He would be back in a while without the need to give any further explanations, after all the battle had been yesterday, the party for the English immediately after, and there was barely any trace of either one or the other —some English lagging behind, coming out painfully from some corner or some block, stretching and shaking off his hangover, to gather at one of the gates of the villa to leave. At sixteen I am already capable of knowing what I have to do, without being lectured by a satyr in a cassock, with his hand even looser than his tongue. And we could use a few more branches for the fire, even if they have to be left to dry for a while with as much snow as has fallen. I'll wait a bit so I don't meet the páter again, nor any of those islanders. He would return in the afternoon and spend some time taking a walk outside the city. I pulled the rein of my mule and made it follow me back home.
That madman had jumped into the river and Captain Gordon wouldn't be wasting time looking for him. It was not in his plans to spend another day there, after having been ordered to stay behind and spend the night in the same place, without having been allowed to even participate in the victory party in Sahagún. The Frenchman alone would suffocate (or freeze from the cold). At an order from the captain, the column began to move to cross the bridge and march south to join up with his main force. It had been a beautiful victory, but also a strategic failure in failing to capture the entire French force. Even so, they took a few prisoners (who had been "hunting" all day before) and also a colonel of cuirassiers; and in faith that with the march they would warm up immediately, following the rhythm of the men on horseback.
I don't know how I manage to hold on to some roots and get strength to reach the shore. I need to breathe, my lungs are flooded, I'm exhausted from the effort and I can't stop coughing. I'm drenched, practically frozen, and I don't feel any part of my body (not my facial wound either, look how good). I don't know if my Pyrenean origin and my natural resistance to cold is what keeps me alive, but what is clear to me is that I can't afford to stop anymore. My only chance is not having strayed too far from the area I jumped into the river from. There you may find a fire that someone hasn't bothered to put out, and perhaps some leftover dry clothing and food. By now, the column should be out of sight of the site. With a superhuman effort and between coughs, I start to walk. It doesn't take long (I think) and I already see the bridge. I manage to pick up my pace, I might. I slip on the snow, I stumble, I'm about to find myself in the river again, but I make it. I follow the trail of smoke and find a campfire with some burning embers left (luckily it hasn't snowed or rained again). I have to keep it alive, I search and find a bunch of branches piled to the side and throw a few in to stoke the fire. I'm better off naked than in these wet clothes, I painfully undress and remain naked. I have to get as close as possible to the fire. Taking a look, I see a bundle next to a tree a few meters from the campfire, covered with a blanket. As soon as I warm up a bit, I go over there. Under the blanket is the body of a companion who, apparently, has not survived the night. I am struck by his face of placidity before the caress of death. I mumble an apology to his spirit for exposing him and showing him my privates so brazenly, and take the blanket with me to the fireside. After a while, I stop shivering, and I cough and sneeze less. I blow my nose on one end of the blanket and curl up in it in the warmth of the fire.
When I left the city, leaving behind the Arch of the Monastery of San Benito, I couldn't help noticing the trails of smoke that came from the area of the river, where they say the English set up camp. Curiosity got the best of me to know if they had left anything of value behind and, before I started to collect my branches, I decided to go take a look. I quickened my pace a bit because there wasn't much left until sunset, the afternoons are short these days and I didn't want to find myself outside the town when the light went out. The cold was excruciating, even with my father's sheepskin coat that covered me almost entirely. I arrived at the place and began to rummage through the few remains that had been left.
—Madame, aide-moi, j'ai froid et faim, aide-moi.
Hearing someone speak to me in French I suddenly turned around, terrified. Behind me I found the shadow of a human being, with part of his face disfigured and clutching a blanket around his body, shaking non-stop and alternating coughing and sneezing. She did not appear to be wearing anything underneath her, her legs were bare, and her bare feet sank into a shapeless mass of mud, grass, and snow. I suppressed my first reaction to run out of the place.
—Faim, aide-moi…
The subject kept talking to me while he managed to stick out an arm, also bare, without letting the blanket fall; he repeatedly raised his hand to his mouth in an unmistakable gesture of hunger, while he kept repeating sentences, each time shorter. I should have ended the suffering of that poor devil with the cleaver I carried with me and then run off to Sahagún. He also did not know if there were any more of them around, who could be attracted by the voice of his comrade. But it was impossible for me not to take pity on someone in those conditions, no matter how much he was obviously already more dead than alive.
I only had a piece of onion on me, which I took from my pouch and offered him at arm's length. The man came over, picked it up with trembling hands, and greedily ate it—managing not to drop the blanket. I stared at him until he finished, and then he looked back at me with pleading eyes. He would be about twenty years old (although in his condition she couldn't be sure either) and he didn't exactly provoke the urge to pay him any account for coming to a country to which no one had called him. She felt that a good Christian could not leave him there to die in solitude, but neither could she suddenly appear with a Frenchman in the middle of town and proclaim it on the tower of the church of San Lorenzo. Another possibility was to give notice, or even deliver it to someone (the priest of Santo Tirso?), but he knew what that would mean for the soldier.
In the end I decided without thinking about it anymore. It was almost Christmas Eve, I was a pious Christian, and that shivering wreckage inspired nothing but pity. In my head there was no other plan than to take him to our stable, shelter him in the straw and give him something to eat from our already meager reserves. I pointed my finger at myself and said out loud:
—Mary
I repeated it again and pointed at him.
—François-. He was right to say.
—Okay, Fransuá, we're going to wait for the sun to go down and you're going to get on the mule, cover yourself with the blanket and be quiet until I tell you. And try not to cough too much...
He looked at me blankly, of course. I pointed to the sky and made a gesture trying to explain that we waited, closing my eyes a couple of times. Then I pointed to the mule, then to him, and made a gesture of covering him. Then I gestured for silence, placing my finger vertically in front of my pursed lips, while enunciating a "ssssshhhh." Fransuá nodded quickly and repeatedly with her head, although I suppose that she would not understand practically anything of what I said to her. Then he indicated to me, with gestures, that he wanted to get dressed and pointed with his finger a little further on, where I saw that a fire was still burning weakly. I nodded and he staggered over there. While I waited, I leaned against a poplar tree and grabbed the straps of my mule again (fortunately, during all this speech it hadn't moved from there).
I don't know how much it would take him to put on his clothes and boots (I didn't want to look that way), but it took him a long time to get close again, coughing and clinging to his blanket as greedily as when he was naked. Sunset had already begun and I didn't feel like walking outside the city at night either, so I gestured for him to get on the mule, while I removed the plush that covered the animal's back. When he was close by, I made as if to help him up and he stopped me with one hand:
—Ca-cavalier…
I let him go up by himself, I pushed his back, so that he was lying down as much as possible, and after indicating a new “ssshhhh”, I covered him with his blanket and the plush, which covered him more or less completely . Hopefully, whoever passed me would think that he had given me a good piece of work with the wood...
It didn't take me long to think that it would be better if I didn't meet anyone, the Frenchman couldn't help but cough and sneeze every once in a while. I quickened my pace, crossed the Arco de San Benito and found myself inside the villa. The night was already almost completely closed, the cold unbearable (the wind lacerated the bones even more, as I verified very well during the entire transit through the bare terrain to the urban part). Not a soul was to be seen on the street. After a few minutes, I got to my house. A dim light came from within, but I headed straight for the small stable attached to the adobe and wood construction. I uncovered the Frenchman, who barely managed to raise his face and body a little to look at me with reddish, flooded eyes. I again made a gesture of silence and indicated a hole in the straw, where the cow and the ox left space, which did not even deign to wake up. The soldier painfully got off the mule (he no longer refused my help in doing so) and clung to my arm to get to the right place. He threw himself without further ado, curled up between coughs, allowed me to cover him with what I found and then cover him with straw, leaving only his head outside.
"Merci," he said with difficulty.
I touched his forehead. she was on fire Through the gestures that I improvised at that moment, I wanted to tell him to try to sleep, that I would do the same and that I would come back later. I don't know if he understood me, the truth is that when I left he was already dozing with affected breathing and it seemed that for a moment the coughing subsided. I tied up the mule, closed the door and went home.
My cough has passed, the heat returns to my body, I curl up and let myself be carried away by the drowsiness that traps me. I can't remember ever being more comfortable.
Waiting uneasily for me by the firelight, my parents didn't take long to coax out where I'd been, what I'd done, and who my new friend was. Despite my pleas, my father grabbed a lamp and an ax and headed straight for the stable, while I followed; my mother too, but at some distance, with me. We entered in silence and my father went directly to the place where Fransuá was resting, while the two of us stayed a few meters away. Nothing was heard inside, no sound came from the French and my father came right next to him to observe him. Then he put the ax aside and with his free arm moved it a little, nothing seemed to change. My father stepped to the side, shaking his head in our direction, he raised the lamp better and we could see the painting completely.
About midnight on December 22, two days before Christmas Eve, François Lefort, a native of the beautiful Pyrenean town of Genós and a member of the First Regiment of Provisional Cuirassiers of the Emperor, died in a stable of a modest family home. He did so in silence and peace, wrapped in straw that covered almost his entire body and accompanied by the few animals that shared the stable, including a mule and an ox.
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Iban García del Blanco is a Socialist MEP.
