Officer's Prey (The Napoleonic Murders)

by Armand Cabasson

  ‘French! 84th!’ he yelled.

  Realising his mistake, the marksman shot a Kalmuck for good measure.

  The assailants left as suddenly as they had arrived. As they rode off, they thrust their lances into the backs of bodies, occasionally striking an infantryman who was pretending to be dead. A scream of pain told them when they had been ‘lucky’.

  Fanselin was engaged in a lance duel with a regular Cossack officer. The Russian was swiftly whirling his lance around to parry an attack. When he had deflected his opponent’s weapon sufficiently, he stopped flourishing his own and thrust its point towards the Frenchman’s chest. With surprising agility, Fanselin leapt to the side before counterattacking. Changing tactics, Fanselin pretended to attack with the point of his lance only to suddenly turn it in an arc and strike his opponent with the other end. The Cossack received a violent blow to the chin and fell from his horse. A chorus of explosions stopped the fleeing horse dead in its tracks. They were not going to let such a heap of meat get away. Fanselin kept the prisoner at bay with his lance.

  ‘Long live our Red Cossack!’ exclaimed Margont weakly.

  More shouts greeted the ‘Red Cossack’ and Fanselin smiled at the compliment. The Cossack exclaimed ‘Huzza!’ and to general amazement hurled himself at the lance to impale himself. Fanselin immediately withdrew the point but it was too late.

  Everyone rushed for the carcasses of the horses to eat their fill, gnawing on the bones like dogs, without even taking the time to cook them because the Cossacks were still prowling around.

  Margont opened the Bashkir’s bag. Inside it he found black bread mixed with bits of straw. The loaf had been baked any old how: it had been placed in an overheated oven and the outside was burnt and the middle still doughy. Margont bit right into it. He couldn’t believe that he had almost tortured this Bashkir. Was suffering making him mad? He needed to build up some protection against insanity for himself. Instead of repeating that he was marching to the Duchy of Warsaw – which was still so far away – his thoughts turned to Colonel Pirgnon. Don’t let him out of your sight. Keep your monster on a leash, he thought. He said to himself that he didn’t have the right to let himself die or to lose his sanity, and that managed to put some life back into those aching blocks of wood that were his legs. The march resumed. Yet again.

  *

  Colonel Pirgnon was cursing the fog that was hiding the full scale of the disaster from him. In his opinion it was all up for the Emperor. The Russian armies were going to cut off the retreat and that would sound the death knell. The irony of the situation amused him, because while everything around him was dying, he himself felt reborn. His future at last seemed crystal clear. He went up to the soldiers in his escort who, blue with cold, were shivering near a fire. The frozen branches were bad for burning as they produced a sort of smoke but no fire or heat. However, the colonel felt a surge of contentment well up inside him.

  On 25 November, the Grande Armée found itself opposite the Berezina. It was here that the Russians had planned to crush it. The Berezina, a huge tributary of the Dnieper, had not in fact frozen over. A hundred and fifty paces wide, almost ten feet deep and bordered by marshes and forest, it cut off the retreat. By now the Emperor only had at his disposal twelve thousand soldiers, half of whom made up the Guard. He could also count on reinforcements of twenty thousand men led by Victor, Oudinot and Dombrovski. In addition to these troops there were forty thousand civilians and stragglers, for the most part unarmed. The Russians, who numbered one hundred and twenty thousand men divided into three armies, had also been weakened by the fighting and the winter. Admiral Chichagov held the west bank of the Berezina and was supposed to prevent the French from getting through. To the north was Wittgenstein and to the east and south, Kutuzov. But the latter, still more than sixty miles away from the French, was not urging his army on. It was Napoleon’s unprecedented prestige that had led the Russian generalissimo to commit this blunder, much to the consternation of his general staff. Napoleon had won so many victories that Kutuzov greatly underestimated the disorganised and weakened state of the Grande Armée. So, once more, he sought to avoid direct confrontation and to let the climate and the hardships do their work.

  Napoleon managed a feat that saved a large part of what remained of his army. He sent a battalion followed by thousands of stragglers towards the little town of Borisov. Admiral Chichagov thought that this was where the French would try to cross and moved his troops opposite this position. However, the Emperor ordered General Éblé’s pontoneers to build two bridges opposite the village of Studianka. When Chichagov was informed of this work he thought it was a manoeuvre intended to divert him from Borisov. When he eventually realised his mistake, the two bridges across the Berezina had been built in appalling conditions and the French had begun to consolidate themselves on the west bank. The first construction, which was fragile and with a deck that was sometimes at water level, was used by the infantry, and the second, more sturdy, by the artillery and vehicles. Napoleon had had thirty guns set up to protect them.

  On 27 November, several corps, including that of Prince Eugène, now consisting of only one thousand eight hundred men, crossed the Berezina.

  On 28 November, at seven in the morning, the Russians attacked both banks at the same time.

  CHAPTER 33

  ON all sides the sound of artillery fire, shooting and shouting could be heard. On both banks the French were attempting to contain the Russians, who were far superior in numbers. The remainder of Davout, Eugène and La Tour Maubourg’s corps were continuing their retreat along the road to Vilna. On the east bank a considerable throng of civilians, deserters and stragglers had congregated. This dense mass was crowding together to try to get across the bridges. In the scramble people were trampled or crushed to death by carts; others were pushed into the water, black muddy water that was carrying huge blocks of ice and armies of corpses along with it. The Russian cannonballs smashed into the hordes from all directions. Part of the deck of the bridge collapsed at regular intervals, plunging clusters of people into the river. Then the pontoneers rapidly set about repairing it. Those who attempted to swim across the Berezina rarely reached the other side. On the east bank, General Fournier’s eight hundred Baden and Hessian troopers launched charge after charge. They were supporting IX Corps, which was holding in check Wittgenstein’s forty thousand Russians. On the other bank, Marshal Oudinot, wounded early on and replaced by Marshal Ney, was facing up to Chichagov’s thirty thousand combatants with nine thousand men. Time was on the side of the Russians, who were gradually receiving reinforcements sent by Kutuzov.

  The remnants of Colonel Pirgnon’s regiment had slowed down and had not moved off from the west bank. As a result, Margont and Lefine had also slackened their pace. Saber had stayed with them. An aide-de-camp galloped up and halted his sweating horse in front of Colonel Pirgnon. The rider was exhausted. He was being sent with orders everywhere at once and had to force his way through the pushing and shoving crowds with the aid of his sabre.

  ‘Colonel, you’re marching too slowly. The retreat must speed up, the Emperor’s orders!’

  He immediately wheeled his horse round and set off again, yelling, ‘Out of the way! Out of the way!’

  Pirgnon went up to what remained of the 35th of the Line, who had been joined by some stragglers. Only he had heard the messenger’s words.

  ‘Soldiers, the Emperor is going to launch a counterattack of which we will form the spearhead. We’re going to break through the enemy line. We shall be supported by several regiments and six battalions of the Guard as well as by all the troopers available. The Emperor is going to calm these muzhiks down and ensure the safety of our retreat!’

  The majority of the soldiers obeyed and made up an attacking column. No one imagined for a single instant that Pirgnon could have been lying. All of them thought that the aide-de-camp in a hurry was galloping around passing on the order for this massive counterattack. They had faith in the geni
us of their Emperor, who once more was going to carry all before him. The Guard was going to be in at the kill, the Guard! The Emperor’s favourite child, the élite corps that had never lost a single battle. Pirgnon managed to convince the remnants of other battalions and to rally some stragglers. Placing himself at the head of three hundred motley but fired-up soldiers, he launched his column straight at the thirty thousand Russians.

  ‘What the hell is he playing at?’ Saber exclaimed.

  Pirgnon’s small band of men went past the French line of defence. Those who were confronting the Russians, entrenched behind cut-down trees, snowdrifts or dead bodies, looked on in amazement. Groups of dark figures gesticulated as they went past, either encouraging them or trying desperately to make them change their minds. Margont saw Pirgnon turn round on his mount and wave his sabre above his head as he looked towards him.

  ‘What reinforcements is he motioning to? Who’s going to support him?’ wondered Saber out loud.

  ‘He’s motioning to me,’ replied Margont. ‘He’s a very intelligent man. He knows that I know. So he’s bidding me farewell.’

  ‘But what the hell is he playing at, damn it?’

  ‘He’s committing suicide. He’s committing suicide with his regiment.’

  The Russians reacted immediately. Two squadrons of hussars moved off and charged at the column from the side. In their headlong rush they took out rows of soldiers and broke up the formation into three sections. The troopers began whirling around the infantrymen, slashing away at will. Amidst the confusion the French tried to form square to defend themselves. Why had their cavalry not charged to halt the hussars? Why were the other regiments not coming to their aid?

  ‘Let’s go!’ exclaimed Margont.

  Saber was rendered speechless.

  ‘Let’s go, Irénée! We’re not going to stand and watch. I’ll see to Pirgnon and you get the survivors to pull back. Fernand, you go and find reinforcements.’

  Lefine was no more talkative than Saber.

  ‘Well, Irénée, do you want to end this campaign as a colonel or not?’

  Margont set off towards the slaughter, with Saber following him. As he went past the French line he shouted: ‘Cover us!’

  Along the whole front the French were taking aim at the hussars and whoops of joy greeted each hit. To attempt a sally was unthinkable but at least they could support these reckless comrades with sustained fire. The hussars made easy targets but their commander did not want to let go of his prey until he was sure they were done for. He ordered the withdrawal only when the Russian infantry that was rushing forward made contact. A wave of Russians engulfed the attackers. They outnumbered them ten to one, and the hussars had left them enough time to encircle the French. Pirgnon had dismounted. He was delighting in this pointless butchery. For him these visions of combatants riddled with bayonet thrusts or shot at from all sides was a sublime spectacle, a gory feast. Here one of his lieutenants was being held down by two Russians while a third ran his bayonet through him. Over there a sergeant was being shot simultaneously by four infantrymen. Anxious faces turned towards him but he was smiling. The trapped French soldiers were fighting like lions to get back to their lines. Margont, Saber and fifteen or so volunteers fought their way through to them. But as the seconds ticked by, the Russians were tightening the noose. The French had formed a circle with their backs to a wood, halfway between the Russian line and Marshal Ney’s. A third of them had already been wiped out and bodies were dropping constantly. A shower of bullets rained on to them, mowing them down or hitting the tree trunks with the sound of hailstones.

  Margont rushed towards Pirgnon, at the centre of his position. The colonel greeted him gleefully.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to come, Captain. You are not short of courage. That will make a few more corpses.’

  Margont took off his heavy cloak and unsheathed his sword. Pirgnon had grasped his sabre. His smile was disturbing, loathsome.

  ‘To begin with, I tried everything to fight against my bloodlust. I prayed to God, but in my imagination I tied women up and then tortured them. Then I began to work ceaselessly until I could no longer keep my eyes open. I thus reached a state of such exhaustion that I cleansed my mind of these images. But they resurfaced in my dreams, which mingled pleasure and pain, love and death. I was desperate. I exposed myself to danger in the Great Redoubt and waited there. The Russian bullets whistled around my ears and I came away with only a scratch. However, I have never stopped beseeching the Russians to do what I was unable to accomplish myself.’

  Pirgnon seemed at ease amidst the chaos surrounding him. He spread his arms. ‘Is it my fault if I am still alive?’

  ‘In addition to Maria Dorlovna and Countess Sperzof, it was you who killed Élisa Lasquenet, the young actress, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes! Do you have any other crimes you wish to question me about? No? What a pity, your list will remain incomplete. Now my desires have won. No more remorse. I am a monster but that pleases me. And I dream of thrusting my sword into your body. Then, either I shall be killed in a final bloodbath or the Russians will spare me. Captivity will then be only an interlude before a whole series of “pleasant encounters”.’

  Pirgnon lunged at Margont but the captain swiftly pulled back. The colonel swung his sabre to behead him. Margont crouched down and thrust the point of his sword towards Pirgnon’s stomach. The colonel, an excellent dueller, had anticipated this attack. The two blades met. There was a snapping sound as Margont’s sword broke, struck on the flat by the thicker metal of the sabre. Margont immediately leapt at his opponent and stabbed him with the remains of his sword. Pirgnon fell to his knees, surprised at being defeated. He put his hand to his stomach and looked at the blood on his palm. He was amazed to discover that it was of the same colour and the same consistency as that of his victims. So, the blood of others also coursed through his veins … He collapsed.

  Margont put his cloak back on. He felt neither triumph nor relief. He did not even have the bitter, cruel taste in his mouth of the ‘justice’ he himself had administered. His mind was blank. Fear quickly began to fill the vacuum until it occupied not only his mind but his whole body: he was surrounded by Russians, Russians eager to make the French pay for this campaign, Russians whose appetite for killing appeared insatiable.

  His stomach churning with anguish and his reflexes sharpened by the instinct of self-preservation, he caught up with Saber. His friend had gathered a group of about thirty élite soldiers, grenadiers, voltigeurs or men of resolve. These Frenchmen thought they were condemned to die and were preparing to charge in a frenzy. They wanted to kill. To kill out of hatred, out of desperation, to avoid thinking of their own deaths. To kill, kill, kill and in the end, alas, to die.

  ‘This way! We’re going to try to break out!’ exclaimed Saber, pointing to the left with his sabre.

  ‘But, sir, we need to try to get back to our lines,’ a sergeant-major protested.

  ‘That’s obvious to anyone, so the Russians have positioned a company of grenadiers between our troops and us. But over there, look: you can see militiamen.’

  To the left, behind the regular troops, there were indeed combatants with grey or brown cloaks. Some were wearing hats instead of their regimental helmets and, not having been issued with muskets even, were wielding pikes. Saber launched his attack. The Russians were not expecting it at this point and were caught unawares. Saber’s group quickly dispatched the musketeers in the front line by battering or bayoneting them. Once up against the militiamen, who far outnumbered them, they took aim and fired the volley of shots they had held back until then. Given the situation, Saber gave the cruellest order he had ever issued: ‘Aim at their faces.’ When the militiamen, civilians with the sketchiest of training, poorly equipped and lacking experience, saw the faces of their comrades blown to pieces and turned into gaping, bleeding wounds, they threw their weapons to the ground and fled screaming. Then, the French launched themselves into the breach, shouting as
they went. The circle emptied of its defenders like an abscess being drained. The survivors fled back to their lines under heavy fire, covered by Lefine, Fanselin and Piquebois, who had made a line of volunteers step forward a few paces. About a hundred soldiers survived this absurd assault.

  Saber was carried along in triumph.

  ‘That was a fine action by your friend. I’ll refer it to the appropriate authorities,’ Margont heard someone say behind him.

  He turned round to see Colonel Barguelot.

  ‘May I enquire what you are doing here, sir? Isn’t your regiment on its way to Vilna?’

  ‘That is correct. So it has no need of me for the moment. I shall easily catch up with it because one of my mounts has survived. This is where the action is, so that’s why I’m here.’

  With that, Colonel Barguelot went to give out his orders while the bullets struck the tree trunks around him, spitting splinters of wood on to his cloak. He rallied those running away and pointed out a position to be strengthened to the sappers. He had not been able to accept the idea of his cowardice being revealed. He could not bear his image to be tarnished. To salvage it he was prepared to do anything, even to die. Some of his soldiers, who had stayed to escort him, said to one another: ‘There we were thinking our colonel was a coward, and now look at him in one of the most dangerous positions when he has no need to be there!’ Barguelot was radiant. He was surprised, scared even, by his own courage. But he revelled in the admiration he could read on their faces. So he continued to force himself to make superhuman efforts to appear confident and genial. On seeing that Margont was not leaving, he had made up his mind to stay. He believed that the captain wanted to fight and he had not been able to accept the idea of this man acquiring a reputation superior to his own. And he also wanted to scotch the rumours about his conduct during the campaign. So he had seized the last possible opportunity to restore his family name and what he considered to be its incomparable aura.