The Officer's Prey tnm-1

by Armand Cabasson

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t really understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘I think those two are sodomites! Now do you understand better?’

  ‘Personally, I don’t have any prejudices against such men.’

  ‘Neither do I, in fact. Only against bad payers.’

  ‘Are you sure of what you’re suggesting about their relationship?’

  ‘No, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’

  Colonel Fidassio was riding some way off from his regiment, as was his custom. He turned pale when he noticed von Stils. Nedroni, who was at his side, immediately galloped up to meet these unwelcome visitors.

  He brought his horse to a halt in front of them, to block their way, saluted politely and said: ‘May I enquire as to the reason for your visit?’

  ‘I am Captain von Stils, from the Saxony Life Guards, and this is Captain Margont from the 84th,’ the Saxon replied in a curt tone of voice. ‘We’ve come to talk to Colonel Fidassio about the debts he’s supposed to have paid us some time ago.’

  ‘I’m extremely sorry but that is impossible. Commanding the regiment occupies all the colonel’s attention.’

  Von Stils turned even redder than from exposure to the sun. ‘It’s a matter of honour, sir! I insist!’

  Nedroni remained courteous but firm. ‘It’s impossible and I’m sincerely sorry. But if you’re willing to leave me a message, it will be delivered in the shortest possible time.’

  ‘A message!’

  ‘Yes, we do have a message,’ Margont intervened. ‘Tell the colonel that we are going to ask General Dembrovsky to order your colonel to receive us immediately.’

  Nedroni was taken by surprise. ‘You aren’t going to pester a general about money problems, surely?’

  ‘Deliver your message by all means,’ said Margont sarcastically before setting off towards the brigadier-general and his aides-de-camp, who were surveying the surroundings through field glasses from the top of a hill.

  ‘Very well,’ Nedroni conceded. ‘Please follow me, but be brief.’

  When they reached Colonel Fidassio he was conversing with a major of the chasseurs. As this officer was French, that was the language the two men were using. The colonel’s face betrayed his dismay.

  ‘Have you deployed your squadrons to protect our flanks?’

  ‘Yes, Colonel,’ the chasseur assured him.

  The major looked puzzled. It was clear that Colonel Fidassio was faced with a difficult choice. The chasseur couldn’t see what the problem was and was cursing himself for his lack of perceptiveness.

  ‘Yes, but aren’t your squadrons too spread out? If they are too spread out they won’t be able to stand up to a large-scale attack at one particular point. Tell your troopers to be at the ready but not too spread out. There needs to be a happy medium between being spread out and grouped together.’

  ‘I’ll transmit your orders immediately, Colonel.’

  ‘Everything in life is a question of a happy medium. “Always a little, never too much!”’

  Always a little, Colonel, never too much, thought Margont.

  The chasseur went away feeling he had not properly understood his instructions. Fidassio seemed to be about to call him back to add or subtract something but he restrained himself. Nedroni’s knuckles were white from holding the reins so tightly.

  ‘Colonel, these two officers wish to speak to you. I told them how overburdened with work you were but they insisted. They quite understand that you can only give them a few seconds.’

  The few seconds in question seemed longer to Fidassio than eternal damnation. His face fell when Margont informed him that he’d been entrusted by the late Lieutenant Sampre with the task of recovering the dead man’s debt. Fidassio explained that he did not have the requisite amount on him but paid each of the two men a down payment of two hundred francs in exchange for a receipt. Fidassio kept looking at Nedroni for help. It’s Nedroni who’s the colonel and Fidassio his shadow, concluded Margont.

  He and von Stils set off again. Margont turned round. Fidassio seemed more downcast than ever as Nedroni talked to him. Nedroni gave the Frenchman a look of hatred. He was angry with him for having guessed his friend’s secret, for discovering that a colonel’s magnificent epaulettes were too heavy for Fidassio’s shoulders and that Nedroni was helping him to bear this glorious burden. ‘Why did my mother want to make me a colonel?’ Fidassio must have lamented to himself. Yes, of course. But also, why had Fidassio gone along with it? It was true, however, that colonels always obeyed generals.

  CHAPTER 23

  AT the end of August the Tsar promoted General Kutuzov to generalissimo and the latter thus found himself in command of the Russian army. Barclay de Tolly had been demoted because the public were exasperated by his successive retreats. The choice of his successor had proved difficult. The Tsar did not like Kutuzov and criticised him for ‘having obeyed too well’. It was no secret that at the battle of Austerlitz, Kutuzov had advised against withdrawing troops from the plateau of Pratzen, the centre of the Austro-Russian position, and sending them to try to break through the French right flank. But despite this advice, the Tsar ordered the manoeuvre, falling into the trap set by Napoleon, who had not given ground on his right flank but had happily broken through the weakened enemy centre. But, because Kutuzov was so popular, the Tsar was forced to choose him. Kutuzov was sixty-six. He was considered an old man because he frequently dozed off – even during councils of war – because his excessive weight made it difficult for him to mount a horse, and because he was lethargic by nature. A pupil of Suvorov, one of the greatest Russian strategists, he had lost an eye during one of the many campaigns he had fought. Caution was one of his watchwords and he loved to give the impression that he was a crafty old fox who said nothing but took in everything.

  Kutuzov was convinced of Napoleon’s superiority and wanted to continue the scorched-earth policy. But now Moscow itself was under threat, Moscow the cradle of the nation! The Russian people were wondering how things could have come to this. Public opinion and the Tsar’s decision had combined to force a confrontation on Kutuzov. Deeply religious and fatalistic, he now considered that a clash between the two armies was a necessary evil. Napoleon would at last have his battle.

  Kutuzov chose an area close to the village of Borodino as the battlefield. Whilst the Russians called the confrontation the battle of Borodino, Napoleon preferred to call it the battle of the Moskva. The Moskva was a river nearby, and although Moscow itself was still more than ninety miles away, calling it the battle of the Moskva made it sound as if they were just outside the city walls. This was in a way correct because if the Russian army were crushed, Moscow would inevitably fall into French hands.

  One hundred and fifteen thousand Frenchmen and allies, and their five hundred and ninety cannon – all that was left of the Grande Armée – were preparing to attack one hundred and fifty-five thousand Russians equipped with six hundred and forty cannon, which were often of larger calibre than the French ones. The Russians had set themselves up along a convex front more than six miles long. The terrain was winding and undulating, interspersed with small woods and bushy ravines, and bordered by forests of pine and birch. The Russian right wing, commanded by Barclay de Tolly, came up to the villages of Borodino and Gorki and their environs. The River Moskva flowed along this side. In the centre was the valley of the Kolocha, a tributary of the Moskva.

  To the rear on a hillock, the Russians had built an entrenchment called the Great Redoubt or the Raevsky Redoubt, named after the general commanding it. This redoubt was the cornerstone of the Russian centre and it was an impressive construction. It extended for more than one hundred and eighty yards and was protected by a wide ditch. An earthwork had been built in front of it and to the sides. To the rear, a gorge, blocked off by a double stockade, enabled the defenders to come and go. Embrasures had been made to allow nineteen cannon to be fired. In addition, General Raevsky had had ‘wolf holes’ dug in front of the p
osition in order to halt a possible cavalry charge. The large number of infantrymen given the task of protecting the Great Redoubt – twenty battalions – had positioned themselves wherever they could: in the Semenovskaya Ravine, on the slope of the hill and to the left of the redoubt, and in the village of Semenovskaya.

  The Russian left, commanded by Bagration, had also been reinforced with fortifications – three redoubts, which were very close to one another. They were dubbed the ‘Three Flèches’. Lastly, large numbers of reserve troops were stationed behind the Russian position.

  Napoleon came face to face with the Russian army on 5 September but the battle did not commence until 7 September. The two armies made good use of this respite to observe each other. The French rounded up as many laggards as possible and awaited the arrival of part of the artillery, whose progress had been impeded by the rain. The Russians were also gathering their troops and fortifying their entrenchments.

  On 6 September the Russians held a spectacular religious ceremony. It consisted of a procession of icons, including the Madonna of Smolensk, which was reputed to make armies invincible. Priests in full ceremonial vestments marched at the head, followed by generals and soldiers singing hymns or saying prayers. Kutuzov, like many others, knelt as the holy images went past. The effect on the Russians was to rouse them to a frenzy. It was no longer a war but a crusade against the devil himself. And, during the night, the large doses of vodka that had replaced the holy water made the troops more euphoric still.

  The Russian plan was essentially defensive: to hold their positions and to bleed the French army dry with their artillery. Decisions would then be made according to the enemy’s actions and reactions. The plan was that General Tuchkov, on the left of the army, would go around the enemy’s right wing to attack it on the flank and to the rear, but that proved unworkable.

  In fact, since the Russian left flank had received reinforcements and was defended by the Three Flèches, Napoleon deduced that it was the weak spot of the Russian strategy. This, then, was where he decided he would try to break through. Initially, Prince Eugène would attack the Russian right as a diversion. He would be ‘content’ to take the village of Borodino, to contain the Russians and to surround the Great Redoubt. Ney, Junot and Murat would attack the centre and Davout and Poniatowski the left flank. When the French right wing had broken through the enemy left, it would fall back on the centre and sweep away everything in its path. These were the plans of the two camps. But nothing went according to plan.

  The night before the battle, the soldiers talked or got drunk. On the French side there was the dull rumble of troops moving around to take up position. Latecomers kept arriving and then going off in search of their regiments.

  The 84th had already taken up its position and was making the most of the night’s respite. Margont was visiting the men of his company, sitting with them around the campfires. Despite the slaughter to come, morale remained high. At last they were going to confront the Russian army! No more marching until they were exhausted or tramping through mud or nearly going mad from hunger … They had faith in Napoleon’s genius and no one doubted that the Russians would be annihilated. Margont was making sure that all was well, giving instructions, reassuring his men … They liked him and were always pleased to make room for him.

  ‘Captain, what runs faster than a galloping horse?’ asked an old corporal whose right eye was permanently watching the left one since a bullet had deformed its socket.

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘A Prussian after the battle of Jena!’

  There were roars of laughter. Margont himself merely smiled. When soldiers told one another this sort of nonsense, they were in a really good mood.

  ‘Begging your pardon, Captain, but what’s that scar on your cheek?’ enquired a soldier who had just about enough teeth left to bite open his cartridges before pouring the powder into the barrel of his musket. If it hadn’t been for his three incisors and one canine, he would have been discharged from the army.

  Margont absently ran his finger along the scar. He didn’t like talking about it.

  ‘Well, let’s just say that like everyone else involved in the Spanish campaign, I brought back a little souvenir …’

  A cuirassier appeared in the light of the campfire. The flicker of its flames was reflected in his breastplate and helmet.

  ‘Do you know where the 5th Regiment of Cuirassiers is?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Easy.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s so simple?’

  At that, all the infantrymen pointed their fingers in different directions and shouted out amidst general laughter: ‘It’s that way!’

  The cavalryman wanted to leave but Margont held his mount by the bridle.

  ‘Where’s your greatcoat? In one of your saddlebags? Roll it up and place it across your saddle in front of your private parts. Because tomorrow when you charge, the Russians will riddle you with bullets. Your breastplate and your helmet will protect your body well but not down there. Your rolled-up greatcoat will prevent you from being castrated. What would your pretty filly think if, after letting her young stud go off to war, she saw only an ugly fat gelding come back?’

  The cuirassier set off without answering.

  Margont got up, gave his apologies and went to the next campfire, despite the request to ‘stay a bit longer’. There, some soldiers were listening to Second Lieutenant Galouche read extracts from the Bible. Margont remembered prayers at Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert. He put his hands together and entwined his fingers, as he used to do. He silently asked Heaven for the battle to cause as little bloodshed as possible, for the Russians to be defeated and for the war to end. And if the Tsar capitulated, then England would be forced to negotiate. Probably. Then at last there would be peace.

  A little further on, Saber was busily cutting the Russian army to pieces. With the aid of a stick he was drawing a plan on the ground for the benefit of his supporters – soldiers who swore by him and already imagined themselves colonels of the future marshal of France. There were arrows in all directions; the Great Redoubt had already fallen – rather too quickly in Margont’s opinion – and the Russian Guard was rushing into this ‘death trap’. Saber had in fact ordered the French right wing to fall back to make the Russians think that there had been a rout on that side. The Russians had been quick to send in all their reserves, including the Guard, to finish smashing through the right enemy flank. Then Saber ordered the cavalry of the Guard to charge at their flank and break up their columns. The Old Guard followed and finished them off. It was obviously very effective in the sand since Saber was energetically wiping out Russian squares and columns. But he was taking no account of the human factor. Even if the Russians actually believed they had broken through the French right, how could anyone be sure the French would not think the same? And if they did, then the left wing and the French centre, thinking the right wing had been routed, would in turn break up in disarray … Any movement towards the rear was dangerous because it very soon led to all sides following suit.

  Piquebois was smoking his pipe some distance from the others. Lying on his back, with a treatise on astronomy resting against his knees and his head on his knapsack, he was gazing up at the sky. His eyes were full of stars.

  ‘Why do you have such a passion for them?’ Margont asked him.

  ‘Because they’re so far away.’

  Margont then caught up with Lefine, who was selling phials containing a greenish liquid. It was his ‘remedy for fear’, an infusion of verbena and eucalyptus. Margont grabbed him by the collar and, when they saw the expression on the sergeant’s face, all his potential customers immediately realised that the product was a swindle.

  ‘Ripping people off again!’ thundered Margont.

  ‘It works. It’s been scientifically proved, Captain. The truth is that you’re against progress.’

  ‘Give me your report instead of adding fuel to the flames.’

  ‘If I had fuel I wouldn’
t waste it, I’d drink it, even if it were lamp oil.’

  Margont let go of Lefine, who made a show of readjusting his collar.

  ‘My men will try to keep an eye on all our suspects during the combat.’

  ‘Excellent, I’m relying on them.’

  ‘Captain, aren’t you afraid?’

  ‘Why? Do you want to sell me that filthy potion of yours?’

  ‘No, seriously …’

  ‘Of course I am. But my fear doesn’t paralyse me and doesn’t ruin my life. So I can consider myself content.’

  Margont walked away. He wanted to sleep for a while. Lefine downed three of his phials in quick succession. He didn’t think it would work, but just in case …

  His heart was pounding. The Russians were here at last! He was convinced that the Emperor was going to see to them in his own way and he already felt sorry for them. While waiting for the general assault, he had just made up a new game that he found very entertaining. The aim was to imagine the worst possible death for Captain Margont. His wishes were then arranged in ascending order of preference.

  For the moment these were the results: For round shot to blow his arm off and for him to lie for hours watching the blood pour out of his stump; for grapeshot to make mincemeat of him; for a blow from a sword to smash his teeth and slash his face from ear to ear; for a hail of bullets to burst open his spleen, liver and bowels; for him to be seriously wounded, unable to move and left behind in a corner of the battlefield feeling the crows pecking his eyes out; for all that to happen at once.

  For him, Margont was a louse he hadn’t yet managed to crush. And if he didn’t disappear, this louse would end up, like any other, getting squashed.