Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  The French line gave ground under the weight of the attack. General Delzons saw the line beginning to crack and in desperation made one last appeal to the French soldiers. “Men of France, onto glory! Attack!”

  He ran forward, and a crack from a nearby musket send a bullet straight into his forehead which exploded like a red flower blooming. Delzons fell back, dead, into the arms of his brother. Colonel Pegot screamed in rage and stopped the backward motion of the men around him and pushed them back up the hill. “Kill them, kill them all!”

  Casca roared and swung his musket, finally having room to do so, and felled an unlucky enemy who got too close. Muralt gritted his teeth, standing next to Casca, and thrust forward repeatedly, killing one and giving Casca more room to swing his musket like some terrible club. Swinging left and right the Eternal Mercenary cut down one man after another, braining them, and roared at the Russians to come and have a go at him if they were brave enough, but none had the stomach for it. The French were not going to give in, even when their general had been killed, and the Russians began to drift back up the hill back towards their cannons. “Enough, stop!” Pegot shouted, panting. “84th, halt!”

  Casca stopped and looked round. He’d carved a huge chunk out of the attacking force and had been blindly swinging his musket, caught up in a battle rage. Only when no more had appeared in front of him had he stopped. Now the agony reached his arms and he slumped, exhausted. The adrenaline left him and he felt sick. His musket was running with blood and there were brains stuck to parts of it. He wiped them off and shook his hand violently, pulling a face.

  He turned back and slowly stepped towards his men, all of whom were leaning on their guns or sat down, totally spent. Bodies lay all round and in the growing darkness, he could see that they’d stopped the attack. It had cost them thousands of men, but they’d saved the army.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The next morning the Emperor and the main bulk of his army crossed the River Luzha, a long, straggling line of men, wagons and civilians. The best troops were at the front, marching under their colors, all armed and looking the part. But the further back it went the less they resembled an army and the more they looked like a mob. Some soldiers walked without a weapon, some didn’t even have what looked like a uniform.

  Casca and his comrades sat on the steps of the houses watching them, silent. They were still tired and in mourning at their losses. The French had lost 5,000 to keep the escape route open, the Russians 6,000. Not a word was spoken; they were too exhausted to talk, and their sore and red-rimmed eyes only occasionally flickered at one or two sights that met their dull gaze on the bridge.

  Some men drank from bottles the frightened townsfolk had given them, others smoked. Many sported wounds and splashes of blood on their faces or uniforms. Most didn’t care. They wanted to be away from this campaign and back home in a comfortable place. It had ceased to be an enjoyable experience, and the realization that they were hopelessly out on a limb with enemies closing in on all sides had finally made them want to be out of there yesterday.

  They had buried Caporal Auvrey the evening after the battle, and held a small service for him. Paradis had made an appearance in the morning, still half dazed but at least able to gather where he was. General Delzons had been put on a wagon and would be taken back to France – if it was possible. Casca rested his weary limbs, still aching from the exertions of the battle, and tipped a bottle of country vodka to his lips. It tasted good, creating a fiery ball in his chest and stomach that spread throughout his system. Nothing like vodka to warm the weary soldier.

  What happened now was anyone’s guess, but the remnants of the 84th would gather under Colonel Pegot and march off after midday. They had done their bit, and the Russians wouldn’t be far behind the main retreating force. Why Kutusov hadn’t closed in and trapped the French here on two sides was beyond Casca’s reasoning. Generals had their own way of doing things, and maybe Napoleon’s presence had something to do with it; Kutusov was still afraid of the little genius from Corsica, perhaps? Casca passed the half empty bottle to Muralt and wiped his lips. It would be time soon to follow in the wake of the army and leave this damned place to the Russians. It was theirs anyway, ruined and half smashed. Casca spat in the mud. They could keep it.

  Pegot gathered the regiment and assembled them by the bridge. Only 1,200 remained from the 3,200 that had originally set out from Poland, but they were all under arms and their colors and the eagle were still with them. The colonel decided it was time and gave the signal to move. Refugees were still streaming across the bridge but they weren’t in any order or under any flag, so Pegot decided they weren’t worth shit.

  The front rank marched smartly into the straggling line of unarmed soldiers and civilians, pushing those yet to pass out of the way. Curses flew up, and fists were raised. Pegot turned and glared at a knot of shabby looking soldiers. “You disgrace the uniform you wear! Where are your muskets? What unit are you with? My men have fought the Russians here and have lost many of their comrades. They have earned their place here. What have you done? Lost your guns and your honor. Go fuck yourselves.”

  The leading soldier gaped in shock at a colonel swearing at him, but then he didn’t know Pegot. Finally he regained his composure. “Who do you think you are anyway? You’re all going to die, don’t you know that?”

  Casca happened to be right alongside the shouting deserter at that point. He swung his butt and it slammed into the soldier’s throat. He fell as though pole axed. His companions stepped forward and Casca raised his musket and cocked the hammer. “The first of you pigs who tries anything gets a bullet through the head. Wanna try it, assholes?” Muralt and Fabvier also raised their muskets. The deserters backed away and dragged their fallen leader away from the threatening soldiers. They’d wait. Better that than be shot over an argument over where in the line they walked.

  Casca nodded to his comrades and they walked into place in the column and left the town called Maloyaroslavets to the dead and those as good as. The road forked up ahead and they took the right one. Casca frowned. This was going to take them north-west towards Mozhaisk and back onto the road they’d come along to Moscow. He raised his head and spotted Captain LeBois ahead by the roadside. “Captain!”

  LeBois looked round and paused until Casca reached him, then got into step with him. “Yes, Longue?”

  “Sir, this is the way back to the route we’ve used already! I thought The Emperor was going to use the Medyn road to Smolensk, not the Mozhaisk one!”

  LeBois nodded heavily. “Colonel Pegot tells me l’empereur has decided another battle like the one yesterday would finish the army as a fighting unit. He was impressed by our victory, but the losses are unacceptable. Do you know Kutusov is over that ridge behind us with 90,000 men? We have barely 50,000 to fight ourselves out of this mess with. I’m telling you this because you seem more intelligent than most, and your fighting skills have come to my notice. I need men like you to take command. How would you like to become caporal in place of poor Auvrey?”

  “Sir!” Casca slapped his musket in response. Once again promotion was coming his way, thanks to the Curse keeping him alive, and the fact he was able to call upon centuries of fighting skill. It never lasted, but maybe it’d help his remaining colleagues? He accepted the captain’s offer.

  He gave Marianka the good news that evening as they camped around the village of Borovsk. She shivered and pressed herself against him. “Casca, I don’t have a good feeling about all this. I think we’ve left it too late to get away. The Russians are closing in and so’s the winter. Don’t you notice how cold it’s getting at night? This wagon won’t make it if it starts snowing, and I’ll have to abandon it. I’ve grown attached to it over these past few months,” she laughed briefly, then went serious again. “I have the list of Russian supporting Polish aristocracy here on me,” she produced a slip of paper from a garter round her left leg. “That’s where it is – if anything happens.”


  “It won’t,” he replied. “So don’t go thinking that.” He stopped any further discussion by kissing her, and she responded, partly in a hope that it would make her forget her growing fears. But even as her passion grew, the fear gnawing in her mind wouldn’t go away.

  * * *

  A few miles to the south a line of horsemen gathered. All were wearing thick coats and fur hats, and they carried long spears and wore swords on their backs or against their thighs. They were fierce looking and cruelty showed on the faces of more than one. One of them, a big, elderly grey-bearded man, walked his horse into the center and turned to face each of the others. Iuganov was in his element. He’d finally gotten permission to ride out and scout the retreating French army as the main Russian force waited to see which direction the enemy was going to take. Kutusov was still worried about the quality of his men; most were raw recruits and he was concerned that if he got too close the French would turn and savage them.

  So he’d sent the Cossacks out to harry and shadow them. Released from the suffocating regular army control, he was like a man reborn. “At last we can do what we do best,” he said, pacing his horse up and down, passing his men. “Ride wild and free. Take no prisoners, except that scarred man in the French 84th line Regiment. If any of you kill him I shall kill that man myself. Understand that, each and every one of you. Now, we will ride in their wake and attack the rear of the column; there are no soldiers there. Only stupid civilians and traitors, and cowards who have thrown their weapons away.”

  He bared his teeth in fierce anticipation. “Panic them; spread terror and fear. Turn them into a frightened rabble. Make them understand why their forebears spread tales of Cossacks to frighten their children!”

  The other Cossacks laughed. This was something they excelled in. Fighting against a well-drilled opponent in squares wasn’t to their liking; chasing defenseless people and slaughtering them like cattle was. Hit and run. They were just the latest in a long line of Steppe nomads who had terrorized people down the ages; Huns, Avars, Magyars, Mongols, Cumans, Turks. The list went on and on, but Iuganov had no idea that the man he sought above all else had fought against or fought with all of them at one time or another.

  “Now that senile old fool had finally seen sense and let us hunt, we shall show him and his ass-kissing circle of useless cretins what we are really good at. The French will be picked off one by one. Find those separated from the others, find those lost and alone. Kill them. Take no prisoners. Death to them all!”

  The Cossacks roared and raised their spears aloft fiercely. Iuganov growled. “But leave that scarred Frenchman to me. I shall cut off his genitals and force him to eat them, and wash them down in his own blood! Now, RIDE!”

  The irregular cavalrymen burst out from their close formation and rode in ever expanding groups, scattering across the woodland and forest, and emerging suddenly out onto the plains everywhere. It wasn’t long before the rearmost elements of the long straggling retreating army was spotted, discarding equipment and those that had given up in its wake. The first the rearmost group of hungry civilians knew of the danger was when they were suddenly surrounded and the Cossacks closed in, sabers dancing in the air, and the slaughter began.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The army carried on marching north-west, urged on by their officers. Those that followed would have to keep up the best they could, or fall to the circling Cossacks. Casca knew all too well their tactics, and passed on his knowledge to his colleagues. “Keep together, whatever else happens, keep together. Stay with the colors, the eagle. Stay with them. As long as you’re a fighting unit and in a big enough group, they won’t attack. They’re like hungry wolves. Alone and helpless, you’re dead meat.”

  Paradis, now recovered, nodded. “I’ll stick to you, Casca. You seem to know more than anyone else here.” The fact Casca was now Caporal instead of Auvrey hadn’t made any difference to Paradis. In fact it hadn’t made any difference to most of them; Muralt excepted. Muralt was deferential and correct, saluting and saying the right thing. Bausset sneered and spat but stayed out of Casca’s range. He’d seen the damage the tough, scarred soldier had wreaked and vowed to keep his distance.

  They reached the main road at Mozhaisk and turned west. Here the wreckage of their passing on their way to Moscow remained, and they were appalled. “Good God!” Begos exclaimed, staring at the skeletal figures of dead horses and people, and at the smashed and ruined wagons, furniture and equipment lying scattered to both sides of the road, “did we leave all this?”

  “Yes,” Casca replied grimly, “and we’re still doing it behind us. Just thank the gods we’re not Davout’s Corps.” The others muttered their agreement. Napoleon had strung his army out along the road in corps, so that the civilians had some protection from the Cossacks. Tales of terror had multiplied with every attack, so the order had gone out for each corps to be separated on the road, and in between would come that corps’ camp followers and a proportion of the civilians. Woe betide any who fell by the roadside, as orders had gone out not to stop for anyone. The Emperor himself led the way, followed by the corps of Murat, Junot, Ney, Eugène, Poniatowski and finally Davout.

  Casca worried about Marianka. The wagon was still crammed with all kinds of things, and the two poor horses she’d managed to keep in the retreat were showing signs of illness. If they fell, then the wagon would have to be abandoned. The hope amongst the men of army was to get to Smolensk and then resupply.

  Casca had asked about that to Captain LeBois. “Resupply, from what? Smolensk was a ruin when we left it!”

  “Plans were for the garrison to stock up from supplies forwarded from Vilna. Hopefully that will have been done.”

  “Of course, sir,” Casca had saluted and dropped back into line. Privately he doubted that, given the general appalling organization of the French army. Nothing had been planned properly, and if anything had been done, then the quartermasters generally had taken it for themselves. So Casca worried about his woman, and for that matter, how much longer she would be ‘his’ woman. Once they got back to Poland they’d go their separate ways. He had to admit to himself he’d miss her. But to a man like himself, he couldn’t afford to be sentimental. She had an ordinary life to live – if she got out – whereas he hadn’t.

  They reached the old battlefield at Borodino a day later, and the men stood for a while gazing at the bones of the fallen. Nobody had buried the dead and thousands upon thousands of bodies lay where they had fallen. Birds circled and cackled, enraged at the disturbed feast, but they would settle down again once the men had passed.

  Begos shook his head and wept. “This should never be,” he said in a muffled voice and turned away. Casca shrugged. He’d seen worse, much worse. It had hardened him to such sights. He looked up and on the horizon he saw the unmistakable silhouettes of Cossacks. From their dress he guessed they were from the Don and Kuban regions. Kutusov was calling up all the country from the looks of things. It didn’t bode well, for it meant hordes of irregulars to both sides of their retreat. The only hope was to keep ahead of the main Russian army’s march, for if they got ahead and then closed in on them there, it’d be all over.

  “When do you think we’ll get back?” Paradis asked anxiously as they marched away from Borodino.

  “Weeks yet. Plenty of marching to go.” Casca set his mind to marching once more, concentrating on keeping his mind clear and focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. Russia was a vast place and it didn’t do to think too much about that. The column trudged on, a vast line of people, soldiers and civilians, wagons and horses. The noise they all made filled the air and could be heard from a long way off, the sound of tramping feet, jingling metal, creaking leather and the coughing, sneezing and groaning of the people walking along the rutted mud road.

  The sky was a leaden iron gray and a cold wind was blowing across the plains, chilling the skin and numbing the fingers. Casca reckoned it was almost time to get the furs out of the wagon. Not q
uite yet, but nearly. The smell of fear was almost palpable, as the anxiety to get west as fast as possible spread. None of them had washed since Moscow and dirt was beginning to cake everything. Those who’d fought at Maloyaroslavets still had traces of discharged powder on their faces, blackening them. Even though it was getting colder and colder, the smell of sweat still filled the air.

  A town could be seen in the distance. Paradis lifted his head, looked at it for a moment, then turned to Casca. “What is that place up ahead? Is it Smolensk?”

  “No,” Casca said shortly. “Probably Vyazma. Smolensk is the next big place after this.”

  It was early morning and they’d had a poor night sleeping due to the cold. The blankets they had just weren’t keeping it at bay, and Marianka had pointed to the pile of furs lying in the back of the wagon. “Do you think you ought to pass them out?”

  He had looked at the coats and hats made by Auvrey. “No. Wait till the first snows come. It won’t be long. If we put them on too soon they may be tempted to discard them during the day when the temperature rises. They’ll keep them once the snows come.”

  Now they were making their way to the distant town. Napoleon had probably slept there, the head of the column being miles ahead of the Army of Italy, fifth in line of the order of march. The cold made fingers red and clumsy, and Casca pulled out a pair of fingerless gloves Marianka had made him from his pocket and put them on. It made a big difference and Casca felt better. Even one cursed to immortality felt the cold like anyone else. The difference was he kept on feeling it when mortals gave in and lay down to die. Casca set his mouth in a firm line. He’d see that again before long, he had no doubt of that.