by Tony Roberts
“Get into line, Pierre,” Casca said heavily, “you can’t hide behind me like that! Caporal Auvrey will have your hide in any case.”
“Bah, no place to get killed for,” the ferret complained as Casca pulled him into his place. “Nothing here of value.”
“That’s not the point and you know it,” Casca snapped, then lost interest in the unhappy man. Caporal Auvrey was walking along, checking the men. With him was the chief sergeant holding the Eagle, the unit standard that had been handed to it by Napoleon himself, and shame on any regiment that lost its Eagle. The only excuse that would be permitted would be if every single soldier was killed in protecting it. The sergeant wielded a wicked looking sword in one hand and took up his position in front of the line. The flags were unfurled and the drummers began beating their instruments. It was 6am.
Cannons roared to the right and earth erupted on the slope as the 12-pounders warmed their throats. The Russian guns responded and the pounding served as the background noise for the day. Casca had heard it all before and grinned at Paradis. “You’ll get used to it. All the big fights have them hammering away. We’re lucky; we don’t have to attack them.”
“No, just those swine over there!” Paradis nodded to the village, on the other side of the watercourse that divided the two armies. Swarming in between the buildings could be seen hundreds of Russian jaegers, preparing themselves. It wouldn’t be easy; these were tough well-trained infantry, not the untrained rabble or militia in many Russian formations.
“Men,” the company captain, a man called LeBois shouted out to everyone, “our orders are clear. We are to advance and take the village. No enemy soldier must remain alive within it. The eyes of l’empereur will be upon us. Do your duty and fight like true Frenchmen, and victory will be yours!”
Casca wondered how the Croats and Italians amongst them took that. Scuffing his toe in the ground he waited for the order to advance. He didn’t like waiting, he itched to get in amongst them and work off the tension he was feeling.
The village itself was made of wooden huts and houses, with a white church being the only remarkable construction. What made the village important was the fact the Smolensk-Moscow road ran straight through it, so it had to be taken to secure the road. The road then crossed a river to the east of the village, the River Kolocha, by means of a long wooden bridge, and then on the far bank climbed up the slope towards a distant village which Casca learned was called Gorki. Standing all along the slopes on the far bank were Russian soldiers, their green uniforms easily distinguishable from the French blue.
Captain LeBois turned and looked at the village. The Russians defending Borodino were stood or knelt behind hastily arranged barricades, or lying on rooftops. Beyond the village more soldiers stood ready guarding the approach to the bridge. “Men of the 84th Regiment,” he said, “before you are soldiers of the Guard Division, special hand-picked men of Kutusov’s elite. I have faith in you to drive them out of Borodino and across the river. Send them flying with their tails between their legs!”
The men yelled, raising their shako hats or their muskets. LeBois smiled and nodded at the company Eagle Bearer, Sergeant Cannard. The captain drew his saber and pointed at the village. “Vive l’empereur!” he yelled.
The soldiers took up the cry and as the officers stepped forward, snapped into the slow relentless march towards the enemy. Drums rolled and set out the beat, and every few beats paused, and in the silence that came the men roared: “vive l’empereur!”
Three thousand men strode forward, bayonets glinting in the early morning sun as the mist and fog rolled away from their advance. Casca was in the second rank alongside Paradis, Fabvier and Begos, while in front were Muralt and Bausset together with Caporal Auvrey. Behind Casca were other ranks, three paces in between each row of soldiers. The eagle, in the fifth rank, stood high and proud, catching the sun’s rays. The men trampled grass underfoot and came down towards the waiting enemy, who were determined that the French would not take the village.
Casca put all thoughts out of his mind as he advanced. Only one thing mattered now, the fight between warriors. Kill or be killed. Or in his case, kill or be wounded, maimed or incapacitated. None of those appealed to him; he felt pain just like everyone else. The difference was death would never take the pain away from him. Not only would be suffer the pain of an injury or wound, he’d endure it until the wound healed.
Ahead, the Russians raised their muskets and aimed at the approaching French. He could hear their officers barking out orders, they were that close. Fabvier was muttering to himself as they closed the gap. Casca wasn’t sure entirely what he was saying but it sounded like continual cursing. Begos was white-faced and praying to God to keep him safe, while to the other side Paradis was looking resigned to the next few moments. Good, he’d do what was necessary.
“Keep going!” Casca said to his comrades as the Russians tensed and aimed deliberately. He could see that these men didn’t have mustaches or beards, like most of their comrades. He wondered why, then suddenly the air ahead exploded with smoke and the multiple rippling crack of discharged muskets assailed his ears. Bullets tore past as the volley reached out to strike down the blue and white men of the 84th Regiment. A man in front of Casca staggered and fell to his knees, clutching his belly, and a man alongside cried out and clutched his face, his fingers suddenly red.
Other men toppled, some spinning round, some collapsing without taking another step. One grunted merde! and gripped his arm, screwing his face up in pain. Casca shoved him aside and continued forward, his comrades with him. Fabvier knelt by a body and began rifling through it, oblivious of the men striding past to left and right. Casca cursed him and carried on, now one of the front men.
The Russians were reloading fast. Casca swore. “Hell, these are well trained bastards!” He realized they would have to face a second volley before they got to the barricades. Fortunately so did Captain LeBois. “Halt!” the officer yelled.
The French came to an abrupt stop. “Aim!”
The front two ranks raised their muskets, a few seconds before the first of the Russians did likewise. LeBois dramatically threw his arm down through the air. “Fire!”
The volley from the French smashed into the wooden barricade, struck the first few houses, splintering the walls and doors, and hurled some of the jaegers back. But many were unhurt and now they aimed again, grim determination on their faces.
LeBois raised his saber. “For France, and Napoleon! Charge!”
Even as the French burst into a yell and began running for the barricade, the Russians fired. Casca felt a sudden burning along his left shoulder and he was pulled back through the air. He kept his feet, gritting his teeth, and clutched his shoulder. A shot had plowed a furrow along the outside of his arm and scored a bloody line. He drove the pain away and broke into a run, bayonet pointing at the nearest Russian soldier.
“Are you okay?” Paradis asked, concerned. He looked shaken and had been stunned by the sight of at least ten of his unit falling from the second volley.
“Yes, yes!” Casca screamed, pain giving his voice an extra strength. “On, on!”
Men were reaching the Russians, tearing at the barricades, thrusting forward with their bayonets. The defenders stood their ground and pushed back at the attackers, who were being funneled into small groups by the gaps in between the houses. Men on the roofs were shooting down onto the packed attackers, hitting men with every shot. It was impossible to miss, so many being pressed together. Casca pushed the planks of the improvised barrier in front of his aside and two green-uniformed Russian Guardsmen stepped forward, teeth fixed with hatred. Casca bounded up onto the remains of the barricade and jabbed forward, another of his unit alongside him. The unlucky Frenchman received a bayonet through the chest from one of the defenders, but Casca deflected the blow of his opponent aside and pushed forward, coming down onto the other side of the barrier. His lunge passed the desperate defense of the guardsman and he sa
w to his fierce delight his blade sink into the ribs of the enemy.
The Russian’s face folded in agony and Casca angrily shoved the dying man aside and turned to tackle the Russian who’d slain his comrade. The Russian slashed at him but Casca was having none of it. He blocked it with his musket, then pushed and forced the enemy soldier back. Surprise showed in the guardsman’s face as he was sent stumbling by this tough Frenchman, and Casca followed up by swinging the butt of his musket into the face of the Russian. Teeth broke and cartilage shattered as the Russian’s mouth was crushed. With a bubbling scream the wounded man fell to the ground, dropping his gun, and Casca turned to see where Paradis, Begos and the others were.
The French attack had swept the front lines of the defenders aside and bodies littered the ground from both sides as the battle passed back into the village. Caporal Auvrey waved his platoon together by the side of a house and Casca came loping over, his shoulder throbbing. “Are you alright?” Auvrey demanded, seeing the red stain on the soldier’s uniform.
“Yes, Caporal,” Casca said tightly, crouching alongside the NCO. The others were in a group, reloading or ready to shoot. All around there was a confusion of noise, men running or shouting, and shots spitting through the air as both sides tried to gain the advantage. The Russians were slowly giving ground but they were taking a toll on the attackers. Three of the platoon were lying in the dusty soil next to the group, and even as Casca reloaded, another cried out and twisted round, his right upper chest clutched tightly, blood beginning to dribble through his fingers.
“Right,” Auvrey said. “Let’s go, our target is the church. Kill anyone in your way!” Casca sighed. Auvrey wasn’t the most imaginative man in the army. “Maurice, to my left,” Casca said to Paradis, “Etienne, to my right.” Begos jumped at his name being called, but shuffled obediently to his position. Bausset inhaled noisily through his nose, spat a hunk of phlegm on the ground and followed Auvrey along the main road through the village. Fabvier and Muralt scuttled to the left, keeping close to the houses, so Casca led the two others to the right. Most of the platoon were bunched in the center of the road and were being picked off by the Russians on the roofs. Two more toppled as they advanced, both shot through the head. Casca swore; at this rate hardly any of the platoon would make it through to the other side!
A few bodies littered the ground and they leaped over these and made for the church which was directly ahead. Smoke drifted through the air and suddenly a group of Russians burst out from a side street to the right into the path of the French soldiers. An exchange of fire filled the street with smoke. Five attackers and six defenders fell and yet more Russians were pouring out of the street.
“Shit,” Casca said kneeling, “it’s the second regiment of guards!” He aimed deliberately low, and his shot span into the stomach of a Russian corporal. The man folded over, screaming in agony, unnerving a few of his comrades. “Shoot them you stupid idiots!” Casca snapped at his two companions.
Paradis gulped and hastily aimed, his shot slamming high into a house beyond the Russians, but Begos took his time and felled a second Russian. Casca realized they were too close for comfort and pushed Begos into a door which splintered and fell inwards, and pulled Paradis after him. Shots continued to fly in all directions and another of their platoon, trying to follow the three, screamed and fell sideways, clutching his ribs.
The house, an earthen-floored plank-walled single story building, had two rooms. One was a bedroom, through a gap in the opposite wall, and the room the three soldiers found themselves in was a sort of living room-cum-kitchen. Two Russian peasants groveled under the rough-cut wooden table in the center of the room, both a mass of shapeless clothes and smelling of boiled cabbage. “Ignore these two and shoot out of the damned doorway!” Casca snapped.
Outside in the street the French had recoiled from the sudden unexpected attack and Casca watched as one of his platoon was flung back by a bullet and hit the wall of a house on the other side of the street, and slowly sank to the ground. The Russian who’d shot him stepped into view and began reloading. Casca raised his musket and the Russian caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. As he turned, Casca’s bullet smashed into his face, exploding it outwards in a mass of red jelly. The body flopped to the ground, joining friend and foe in a twisted macabre shape.
Begos brought his musket up to eye level and waited. Suddenly the roof, merely a mass of straw, exploded inwards and a shot struck the ground an inch from the young man. He jumped, startled. Casca looked up and caught movement. “Shit! One of those bastards is on the roof!” He seized Paradis’ musket. “Load mine!” he yelled, throwing the confused Frenchman his own unloaded weapon.
Casca aimed upwards, the muzzle weaving slowly as he calculated where the Russian was. The straw moved slightly to one side and the muzzle moved, and Casca squeezed the trigger. The butt jumped into his shoulder and smoke billowed out as the bullet plowed up into the roof. There came a cry and suddenly a large part of the roof shook and bulged inwards, and then were came no more movement.
A cheer out in the street caught his attention and he looked out to see a solid wall of French infantrymen charging, bayonets wickedly pointing forward, and the Russians turned to flee, outnumbered. “Come on!” Casca snapped, thrusting Paradis’ musket back into his colleague’s hands and snatching his own one back. He pushed Begos back out ahead of him and the three charged in the wake of the line of Frenchmen, pursuing the Russians out of the village across a grassy bank towards a wooden bridge where the road crossed the river, which was a slowly moving body of water. Casca and his two buddies ran for the church and halted by the white stone wall next to the dark wooden door, chests heaving. Nearby Caporal Auvrey was pressed against another wall, looking apprehensively upwards. Casca guessed what the trouble was. Lying by the caporal’s feet was yet another Frenchman, shot through the head. On a roof of a hut, about thirty feet away, was a reloading Russian.
Casca knelt and asked Paradis to kneel in front of him, providing a stable rest for his musket. “Put your fingers to your ears.” Paradis did so, squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, knowing what hell of a noise the Charleville made. Casca leaned slightly to the right and squinted up the sights to the Russian sharpshooter, looking at him dispassionately as the man reloaded and slid his ramrod back into the groove. Picking his spot, Casca held his breath and fired.
The gun bucked and smoke obscured the view for a second or two, then thinned and the men could see the Russian slowly leaning over and he slid off the roof out of sight. Auvrey smiled and clapped. “Bravo, Longue!”
Paradis wiggled a finger in his ear and stood up. “That was loud!” he exclaimed.
Casca clapped the man on the shoulder. “We got him, that was the important thing.”
Begos and Muralt applauded Casca who shrugged and began reloading. More men came cautiously into view and formed up next to the church. Captain LeBois came running up and urged the men to form a line and march beyond the church and give the soldiers crossing the bridge covering fire. The French charge had swept the Russians out of the village and over the bridge before it could be destroyed, but now the massed Russian units on the far side of the river were turning their guns on the French force and pinning them down.
Casca saw that the land sloped down to the river, then beyond it climbed steeply and on this slope the Russians were advancing, shooting, advancing, shooting, advancing. The outnumbered French were giving ground and it was clear they were going to be hit fairly soon by superior numbers.
“Kneel” Auvrey said, loading his own musket. “Pick your targets carefully. Don’t hit our own men!”
Smoke made identifying friend from foe hard and Casca’s eyes moved over the figures moving down the slope, before he picked on one holding a sword. An officer. He aimed slowly and deliberately, then fired. The officer stopped, sank to his knees, then fell face forward to lie still. The ear-cringing roar of shots went on and on, and the rotten egg smell of
the discharged powder lay heavy all round. The men with Casca were firing into the advancing numbers of Russian soldiers to no visible effect. They killed or wounded some, but the advance wasn’t to be stopped, and the French came running back over the bridge. “Okay, men,” LeBois said, “back to the edge of the village. Run!”
Casca stood up, hand on hat, and ran back through the village they’d only just taken with so many losses as the counter-attack developed. With him his comrades ran alongside, all wild-eyed and keen to get away from the pounding group behind them, men of their regiment having been put to flight after thinking nobody could stop them.
Finally, breaking out past the last of the houses, Casca turned to face the village and watched as more French reinforcements began marching into the crammed streets, intent on throwing the Russians back. By his side, Fabvier stood, gasping for breath. “Well,” the thin, rat-faced man panted, “at least I got some souvenirs!” He held up a cap full of gold teeth, cackling through his breathlessness.
And while they stood there looking back at the village, the battle raged within the narrow streets for Borodino. Casca looked at the sun, and grunted in surprise. It was only about half an hour since they’d begun that morning! It was going to be a long day, he decided.
CHAPTER TEN
Marianka looked up as the bigger guns, the cannons, belched fire and smoke a few hundred yards to the east. She was standing by a grove of trees with the young Pole, Wojciech. The teenage boy had accompanied her to the edge of the battlefield, curious. Chantel was left with the wagon, tending the horses, back in the rear area well away from the dangers of battle. French provosts patrolled the edge of the area the Emperor had marked out as the battlefield and would stop any trespasser from approaching, although why a trespasser would take it into their heads to do such an insane thing was beyond any reason Marianka could think of.