Surviving Borodino
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Surviving Borodino
Written By
Shaun Parker
*****
Published By:
Surviving Borodino
Copyright © 2012 Shaun
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This is a work of fiction but is based on true events in the aftermath of the battle of Borodino - Sept 7 1812. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination but are based on fact and true events.
This is an excerpt from a substantial book the author is writing about surviving Borodino and events after the battle and so feedback and support would be greatly appreciated so I can improve the main novel during its creation.
Historical Story
*****
This is a short story that is taken from research for the upcoming book Palais Borodino. Imagine for one minute you are incapacitated in a place of complete desolation, surrounded by carcases, bodies and the debris left from a battle that resulted in 50,000 dead human beings and 30,000 dead horses. The carnage and misery was only surpassed by the gruelling challenge for survival for the wounded left behind on the battlefield. The upcoming book, Palais Borodino, covers this living hell in gripping detail and this story – Surviving Borodino - is just a tiny pinch lifted from the upcoming book. Please leave feedback to enable me to improve my first novel.
*****
Surviving Borodino
Jean peaked out from behind leather curtains and looked pensively to the sky. The night had seemed longer than any he had endured so far. He rolled out of his stinking bed and onto the damp wooden planks that he mockingly referred to as his ‘veranda’. This veranda kept him out of the mud each morning. He pulled himself on to his knees and raised his eyes to the heavens. There was a change afoot and the depressive grey skies had given way to an endless clear blue ceiling that had not a cloud in it.
The wind was keen but there was a certain sharpness with it. Jean knew that whilst the blue sky was a welcome change the distinct drop in temperature meant Winter was on its way. He had no idea how the forthcoming season could be survived out here in the wasteland they named “Palais Borodino”.
Jean had always held on to the belief that ‘The Grand Armee’ would return for those unfortunates like him who were left on the battlefield with their wounds. Now his strong sense of patriotism as well as his hope was now waning fast. After struggling for survival for four weeks since the finish of the Battle of Borodino only a few survivors were left to endure a gruelling existence. Each morning they would drag, crawl and shuffle to the Palais to congregate and work out the plan for the day. Now his friends were dwindling in numbers, those left were arriving later each day, the night was claiming them one by one.
For the surviving French soldiers the danger in the early days after the battle was from cut-throat Cossacks, wounded Russian soldiers and local peasants. Disease and stench had driven away those who were most able bodied. The battleground had fallen much quieter now and the Cossacks and peasants had not been seen for two weeks. This hell on earth still held onto a couple of belligerent wounded Russian soldiers and a ritual cat and mouse conflict between the two factions kept the battle of Borodino alive in a very grotesque fashion.
Jean looked at his hands, they were skilled hands and had saved many lives in his work as a surgeon, once they were manicured and always clean, now the creases in his skin were engrained with dirt. His nails were also black and his fingers and palms had splits in the skin from weathering.
Though the night had been cold Jean knew the coming Winter would eventually plummet the temperature to 30 below. Unless the French army returned they would all die out here in the wasteland. The chill in the wind made Jean shudder, snapping him out of his self-pity for a moment and he decided to head for the fire pit to await his colleagues. He shuffled to his right on the veranda to where he kept his chariot, he had made it from a set of wheels he had found in the ruins of a sutlers wagon. Three short planks trailed from the axle to the ground behind which gave him an easy sloping platform to shuffle himself onto.
Once kneeling on his trusty chariot, Jean turned the wheels and slowly made his way to the fire-pit for the daily debate over who does what. A sudden heavy blow to the side of Jean’s head tipped him off balance and his chariot listed to one side, tipping him into the mud.
Blood poured from the wound, bringing with it a warm sensation as it spilled down his cheek and momentarily he was dazed. He was unable to focus on anything. As he lay in the mud he felt the cold sensation of dirty water seeping past his collar and down his neck.
Hysterical laughter brought him to his senses and a shout rang out across the wasteland.
“Hey Frenchy, how’s that for your morning bath?”
This ridicule was delivered in broken French with a distinct Russian accent.
“I bet you needed a good wash you filthy French peasant, ha ha.”
The voice belonged to le Toto, a Russian soldier they called ‘louse’.
“Damn that louse,” Jean proclaimed in a complete rage. There was no thought for his head wound, only his beloved chariot.
“My chariot, my chariot!” he exclaimed over and again. “le Toto, if my chariot is broken I will find you and cut your throat,” he screamed.
Le Toto laughed even louder.
“How’s your head Frenchy? It was already big and fat and now it has a large egg shape on it! Ha ha, I haven’t laughed like this in ages. Now you better watch out each morning Frenchy, watch out in case I am waiting as I have plenty more rocks.”
Jean rolled onto his back with his knees in the air. Staring into the sky, for a moment the sky caught his attention and held it for a few seconds. The endless blue, it went on forever. How he wished he could fly. Fly home. Fly over to le Toto and cut his throat. Fly away from this half-life. Not for the first time he looked with anguish and a sense of loss at his damaged legs. He looked at the stumps where his feet used to be. Jean was once a very fit and great runner, now he had stumps wrapped in horse hide. ‘Stinking useless stumps’ he thought over and over.
Jean’s, gaze was drawn back to the sky. It calmed him enough to make him aware of the pain in his head. He regained composure from the half madness that had momentarily taken his mind, lately he had noticed that all in the Palais were succumbing to periods of temporary insanity.
“Hey Frenchy, I need to get busy now. I have discovered wine and preserves, enough for many people. I am taking it back to my luxury bedroom and am hiding it so you will not find it. Ha ha, I will think about you as I drink fine wine peasant boy, Viva La Francais you cripple!”
“Go to hell you bastard Moscow louse. Your stinking pit is no different to mine only smaller and full of maggots. You are as ugly on the inside as you are on the outside. In fact, you look like a monster, a demon”. Jean shouted more insults but the Russian was now quiet. Jean rolled over and onto his knees. He was covered in sloppy brown mud which stank of carcases and the dead. He recalled the heavy rains two weeks back and the rivers of maggots that flowed through Palais Borodino’s tracks; a welcome but disgusting source of protein that had been delivered to them without the hours of scavenging such a feast would normally warrant.
Suddenly, Jean remembered his chariot. ‘Oh god, please let it be in one piece’ he said to himself. Kneeling, he stood the trusty chariot up thanking god it was ok. He pushed it to firmer ground and climbed aboar
d. Gingerly, he scanned the locale looking for le Toto or any sign of where he had been. All of the soldiers in Palais Borodino had learnt to know every little feature and where everything should be in their own territory. Anything that was moved, missing or altered usually meant trouble, scavengers, looters or even wild animals. Jean spotted some old cases from a sutler waggon which had been moved and stood on their ends. They were nearly 100 feet away by his reckoning.
“How the hell did that Russian pig get me from there with a rock?”
Jean didn’t know it then but le Toto’s real name was Yakov. He was, by trade, a woodcutter and had huge arms from felling trees. Yakov was from a small village to the North of Moscow. He was not a trained soldier but had been conscripted into the Russian army as Napoleon had neared the city. Yakov had suffered terrible injuries from an explosion during the battle; his left leg was crippled, part of his left arm was badly burnt and an eye was missing. Yakov’s euphoria in hitting Jean with just one throw had already subsided. Without knowing it, Jean had hurt the Russian far more than any rock he could throw back at him.
Yakov used to be a big handsome man, he had never settled down but still had his youth and was a big hit with the ladies in Moscow despite being of lowly origins. Now he was stuck out here in the carnage of burnt wagons and rotting