Officer's Prey (The Napoleonic Murders)

by Armand Cabasson

  Someone bent double in front of Margont. A piece of blood-soaked metal was sticking out of his back. Margont fired his pistol at the chest of an attacker. An indistinct figure charged at him, shouting at the top of his voice and wielding a bayonet. Margont dashed towards him, avoided the blade and thrust his sword into his stomach. To his right, someone fired a shot in someone’s face. A hand caught him by the ankle. He leapt back without attempting to ascertain whether it was a Russian who had been knocked down or a wounded soldier asking for help. He was struck from behind on the left shoulder by a musket butt and lost his balance. He turned round sharply to discover an infantryman raising his bayonet to nail him to the ground. Margont had let go of his sword. He sprang forward, grabbed the Russian by the waist and both fell to the ground.

  Margont got back up. The French were pulling back. He noticed General Bonnamy, who was commanding the 30th of the Line and the 2nd Baden of the Line. Bonnamy was bleeding. A mass of Russians surrounding him were about to jab him to death with their bayonets. The fusilier was still laughing. He hadn’t moved an inch. A Russian thrust his bayonet into his stomach. The Frenchman made no effort to defend himself. He collapsed. He had stopped laughing, recovering his senses only to die.

  Margont retrieved his sword. The soldier who had attempted to run him through had picked up his musket. Margont trained his empty pistol at him. The Russian hesitated. Was he going to fight or give up? A stray bullet made the decision for him and went straight through his chest. Everywhere muskets were being thrown to the ground and hands were being raised in the air. The Russians had won. Margont caught up with those who were withdrawing but, since they had been surrounded, they would have to fight their way through the enemy.

  Two-thirds of the 30th had perished in the redoubt and the area around it. But the survivors, added to those of the 13th Light and the other regiments, still made up a powerful force. They had begun to withdraw in good order when they suddenly turned into a surging mass. It was as if their minds had undergone a strange chemical reaction, producing a state of volatility. Paradoxically, their fear increased when the danger was receding since they were going back to their lines. A drummer had speeded up to overtake a grenadier and it was this trivial incident that had sparked off the stampede. The grenadier speeded up to overtake the drummer and soon everyone was running. Fear turned to panic and panic is the most contagious of all diseases. Margont looked back. The Russians were pursuing them.

  ‘Fall in again or they’ll slaughter us!’ he yelled.

  Saber, who was close at hand, shouted: ‘You’re a disgrace to our army! Fight for the honour of France!’

  One was appealing to their reason, the other to their pride, but all the soldiers had turned deaf. The French ranks broke up in complete disarray and they began running faster and faster, hurtling down the slope of the hill in total confusion. Colonel Delarse positioned his magnificent brown horse across their path to bar the way.

  ‘About turn! Stand up to the enemy!’ he shouted. ‘I recognise you! You’re Lucien Malouin! Stop or you’re for the firing squad! And you there, Captain André Dosse!’

  His mount found itself surrounded by men on the run and was swept away by this human tide. Delarse was the only one standing up to the enemy but was going backwards despite himself. He was like a man astride a log being carried along by a raging current. Panic reached the point of madness. Soldiers began changing direction for no reason, accidentally bumping into their comrades. The stampede had turned into a sort of mysterious creature behaving irrationally, ignoring what was important and reacting excessively to the quite insignificant. So, if a foot chasseur ran to the left, the crowd immediately veered off in the same direction.

  On the other side of the Semenovskaya Ravine, a dark blue mass was moving forward, perfectly in line. Its pointed bayonets were glinting in the sun, a brilliant and deadly streak of light. They were General Gérard’s troops coming to the rescue of the routed Morand Division. The crowd could have continued to flee but it stopped and made an about-turn. Saber, who had just shouted, ‘Stop fleeing like cowards!’ had the delightful but false impression that he was the one who had effected this turnaround of events. Some of the soldiers who had kept on running broke their bones in the ravine or vanished behind clumps of bushes. Others did not rally until they reached the reinforcements. The wave of Russians smashed head-on into those daring to stand up to it but it was hit hard in return by the dark blue floodtide of Gérard’s troops. The cannonballs made holes in the mêlée, which were immediately filled in. The shells sent smoke, earth and human remains flying into the air.

  A carabineer next to Margont was reloading his weapon at top speed.

  ‘You know what we are when all’s said and done, comrade? Nothing but bloodstains.’

  On the Russian left, Bagration declared that he would retake the Flèches or die. He launched a large-scale counterattack but the French smashed this action. Then a shell splinter broke Bagration’s shinbone. The general tried desperately to conceal his wound but he eventually had to be evacuated. He had received a mortal blow. The news spread through the Russian army like wildfire. Bagration enjoyed such popularity that by about one in the afternoon the morale of the Russian left wing had fallen considerably. Also on the Russian far left, Kutuzov was beaten, this time by Poniatowski’s Poles. Once more, Ney and Murat estimated that the Russian army could be destroyed if Napoleon sent in the Guard. Belliard, Ney’s chief of staff, galloped off to find the Emperor.

  Napoleon decided to send just the Young Guard into combat. But then he immediately ordered a halt to this manoeuvre. The reason was that on the Russian far right Uvarov’s light cavalry and Platov’s Cossacks had launched a counterattack. They were slaughtering the baggage escort of the Grande Armée, forcing one part of Eugène’s troops and d’Ornano’s cavalry to intervene against them. Napoleon could not afford to part with some of his Guard without first being sure of the stability of his left flank and knowing that they could not be skirted. Kutuzov used this unexpected respite to reinforce his centre by sending in Ostermann’s corps, which was supporting his right and which was under relatively little threat, as well as the Russian Guard. So the Russian centre now had so many troops that it was futile to hope to sweep it aside. Napoleon responded by having a large battery of three hundred guns set up to crush the Russian army with its firepower.

  At two in the afternoon the Russians were still in control of the Great Redoubt. The soldiers of the 13th Light were awaiting orders. The roar of artillery fire was frightening and soldiers had to shout in their neighbours’ ears for any hope of being heard.

  Margont was observing the battlefield through his field glasses. He could see troopers stirring up clouds of dust, coils of white and black smoke, dark patches moving across the hills and running into other dark patches coming up towards them before disappearing into the smoke.

  ‘Are we winning or losing?’ yelled Lefine.

  ‘There’s a lot of moving around. That’s all I can tell you.’

  Lefine took the field glasses and surveyed the scene. His face dropped when he saw the hordes of Russians that had appeared in the middle of the enemy position.

  ‘Good God! Hell has got a bout of Russian indigestion and it’s puking up all the ones we’ve already killed!’

  He’d made a joke of it to save face but it was he who, at the prospect of more butchery to come, wanted to vomit.

  ‘I can’t believe there are so many Russians in the world!’ he exclaimed. ‘We’ve already wiped them all out! It’s just their dead bodies rising up again. They pick up the pieces, gather around the rivers and have a big washday to make themselves more presentable. They bury the ones who are really too messed up: the ones chopped in half or squashed or with a head missing or in too many bits … Then they get back in line and there they are, starting all over again. With the Russians you’ve got to kill them and then kill their corpses, otherwise they come back to life.’

  ‘I’m going to end
up believing your theory of the Russian army’s big washday. They’re bound to send us in again to storm the Great Redoubt,’ prophesied Margont.

  ‘Here we are! More bad news! And this time it’s enough to make you jump off the Pont du Gard.’

  Saber was pacing up and down, his hands behind his back. Why didn’t the Emperor send in his Guard to break through the Russian centre? he asked himself. He had noted the attack by the Russian cavalry on Kutuzov’s far right but he was convinced that the French would hold out on that side and that this manoeuvre was just incidental.

  Delarse galloped past, followed by two aides-de-camp, a captain and his former second-in-command’s black horse.

  ‘That one really gets on my nerves,’ muttered Lefine. He turned towards Margont. ‘He’s earned himself a new nickname since his show of courage at the Great Redoubt: “Death-dealer”. They really meant “Death-dodger” because he defies it so much but “Death-dealer” sounds better.’

  ‘And what was his old nickname?’ yelled Margont at the top of his voice.

  ‘“Breathless.”’

  ‘What’s mine, then?’

  Lefine burst out laughing.

  ‘“Bookworm”, “the bookseller”, and “Captain Freedom”.’

  ‘It’s better than “Lefine the wheeler-dealer”, “Lefine the nosy parker” and “hoodwinker”.’

  Lefine was outraged. ‘That’s an insult, sir. Who said that? It was that bastard Irénée, wasn’t it?’

  Piquebois was weaving in and out of the bodies lying on the ground. He grabbed Saber by the sleeve, rousing him from his daydreams just as the Imperial Guard was smashing the Russian centre to pieces and encircling the enemy wings … in his imagination. Margont and Lefine joined them beside Galouche, who was sitting down leaning against the trunk of a half-shattered birch tree. His hands were joined both for prayer and to try to stanch the flow of blood from his stomach. Saber sped off to look for a surgeon. Galouche motioned to Margont to come close to his ear.

  ‘God’s heard too many prayers at once today. He can’t look after everyone …’ He added with a smile: ‘That’s a very down-to-earth way of putting things. I lived life as a mystic and now I’m dying as an atheist. It’s usually the opposite.’

  ‘You’re going to pull through!’ Margont declared.

  It was a platitude and he was annoyed with himself at not finding anything more convincing to say. Galouche was going to pat him on the arm but stopped. He didn’t want to leave bloodstains on his friend’s sleeve.

  ‘Ask Lefine to give you lessons in how to tell lies.’

  Delarse galloped past again, flourishing his sabre. ‘Everyone to the redoubt! Everyone to the redoubt!’ he shouted.

  ‘Go there yourself, you git!’ someone yelled.

  The insult was lost in the cloud of dust thrown up by the colonel’s horse.

  ‘We might as well lie down where we are!’ someone else chipped in.

  A surgeon came running up. His clothes were dripping with blood, as were his medical bag and his shoes. He was sticky with death. Piquebois, Margont and Lefine shook their friend’s hand for the last time. Saber waved at him from a distance as if expecting to see him again. Then he addressed all those who were willing to listen. The 13th Light had again lost a large number of officers, so they listened to this fired-up lieutenant as they would a general.

  ‘Soldiers! These are the same Russians as those you crushed at Austerlitz, Eylau and Friedland. Let’s charge at them, my friends, and walk over their bodies! They’re used to it. They still bear the marks of our boots on their stomachs!’

  Saber was cheered. A moment later the Morand, Gérard and Broussier Divisions, led by Prince Eugène himself, were moving up to attack the Great Redoubt. It was three in the afternoon.

  The drummers were playing to urge them on, adding further to the commotion. The Great Redoubt was still swathed in the smoke from gunfire and only the flashes of firing pierced the thick white cloud. The shots once more caused havoc in the French line, churning it up and cutting through it.

  ‘Close ranks!’ Margont shouted automatically.

  He forced himself to think of other things. He tried to recall Natalia’s face. She was asking him to bring his book back and her clear voice eased the noise of gunfire and his headache. The ground began to tremble beneath his feet, as if Dante’s Hell, which Brother Medrelli had so often told him about, were slowly opening its jaws to swallow up the world.

  There were shouts of joy. A mass of cuirassiers and carabineers pounded past at the gallop. The cavalrymen were riding thigh to thigh, tight against one another like bricks in a wall. The sun glinted on their breastplates, helmets and sabres. The floodtide engulfed the Russian infantry and cavalry, sweeping them aside, and carrying on past the Great Redoubt. Eugène’s troops started to charge. Suddenly, the Raevsky cannon stopped firing, as if by magic. The smoke cleared and inside the entrenchment metal gleamed in the sunlight. It was the cuirassiers of the 5th and 8th Regiments, led by General Auguste de Caulaincourt, who had just entered the Great Redoubt from the rear via the gorge. The French infantrymen, wild with joy, immediately climbed up the breastworks. The cuirassiers had decimated the defenders but were now being pushed back under fire from the last remaining Russians. However, Eugène’s soldiers were springing up to take over. ‘Long live the cuirassiers!’ the soldiers shouted, while shooting at Russians.

  Margont noticed Colonel Pirgnon at the top of a breastwork. He was urging his men on, and they, uplifted by his courage, were passing him on either side and pouring into the redoubt. His presence, in such an exposed position, was considered an insult by the Russians. They took aim at him, cursing him as they did so. But for the devotion of his soldiers who pounced on them, and the smoke and general confusion, Pirgnon would probably have been hit. It was as if Delarse and he were in competition to see who was the more reckless. He remained there in full view whilst his soldiers stoutly defended what they had just named the ‘Pirgnon breastwork’. At that precise moment, this man who so admired Achilles did indeed resemble the mythical warrior.

  Margont entered the redoubt. The Russians were fighting every inch of the way. Some were sheltering behind heaped-up corpses of men and horses. Even some of the wounded had been thrown on to the piles. He had never seen anything like it. Shouting was coming from all sides. A Pavlov grenadier, recognisable by his mitre-shaped headgear, which this regiment had been allowed to keep because of its bravery at Friedland, charged at him with his bayonet. An infantryman from the 9th fired on the Pavlov. As this was not enough to stop him in his tracks, the fusilier jabbed him with his bayonet. The Pavlov fell to his knees but picked himself up again. It took another blow from the musket butt to knock him unconscious. The Frenchman was preparing to finish him off. Margont stopped him. He stared at the Pavlov. His arm and forehead were bandaged. He also had a deep gash to the shoulder.

  ‘What next? Even the wounded are having a go!’ Margont yelled.

  The fusiliers continued to pour into the redoubt. Some infantrymen made a detour to avoid Margont. This poor captain seemed to be speaking to a dead person and they were more afraid of madness than of death. Next to him a boy of ten was crying. He was a Russian drummer. He had ‘bird’s nest’ decorations on his shoulders and his sleeves were scattered with white braiding in the shape of an inverted ‘v’. Squatting on the ground with his elbows on his knees, he was sobbing over his broken drum.

  At last, the Great Redoubt was taken. Pirgnon, arms folded, was still on his breastwork. Margont set off in search of his friends. Lefine sprang up from behind a heap of corpses, his face smeared with gunpowder.

  ‘So, you’re still alive, Captain?’ His blackened face was beaming with pleasure. ‘He doesn’t reply but he’s still alive! Look at that swine Irénée!’

  Margont turned his head. Saber was surrounded by two colonels and an infantry general. There were also numerous officers from the cuirassiers.

  ‘I’m told that you were the one who
cleared away the remains of the stockade blocking the gorge through which we entered the redoubt,’ declared a colonel from the cuirassiers.

  ‘That is correct, Colonel,’ replied Saber, standing firmly to attention.

  ‘What is your name?’

  ‘Lieutenant Irénée Saber, Colonel.’

  ‘Well, from now on you will be called Captain Saber. I shall see to it personally.’

  The infantrymen again cheered the cuirassiers, who returned the compliment. But no one was happier than Saber.

  Russian troops were still massed behind the Great Redoubt. Margont noticed Piquebois. He was standing on a pile of Russian bodies because there was nowhere else to put your feet. The bodies were a horrible sight, slashed and spiked all over. They were the bloody trail left by the cuirassiers of the 5th and 8th, the heroes of the Great Redoubt.

  ‘Are you all right? You’re not wounded, are you?’ enquired Margont.

  Piquebois made no answer. Motionless, he was staring at the Russian line.

  ‘They’re there. It’s them …’ he declared.

  ‘Who?’

  Margont looked in the same direction as Piquebois. He could see the Russian ranks further away, on the heights; he could make out the green lines of the infantrymen and black and white troopers in serried ranks.

  ‘It’s them, the Imperial Horse Guard,’ Piquebois said, speaking the words with difficulty. He started to charge, shouting: ‘To the death! Up and at the brats! Let’s kill the lot of them!’