by Tony Roberts
Casca checked his musket again and grunted in satisfaction. All was right. He glanced at the others around him and they seemed to have everything in order. Not that it was his place to tell them, he was merely one of the ordinary privates in the column, but his professional eye couldn’t help but pick out deficiencies, and he didn’t want a compatriot failing in a fight through shoddy soldiering. Paradis smiled wanly and shouldered his musket, and Bausset, behind him, sniffed loudly and obscenely.
Begos pulled a face, disgusted with the big man. In fact, Bausset had gone out of his way to annoy the fastidious young man and Casca had had to speak to the bearded Bausset and ask him not to cause friction in the unit. Bausset had laughed and made a reference to children in the ranks. Casca wasn’t sure whether he liked Bausset or not. A battle would sort that out, he decided.
They were marched east and rumors came down the line that General Delzons had been ordered to encircle the Second Russian Army under General Bagration that was marching towards Vilna from the south east. But after a day or so they swung north and a sense of urgency overcame them all. Casca knew a battle was up ahead and they were being rushed towards it. His experience told him this; there were no orders given, yet he knew this was why they had suddenly changed direction and put on an increased pace.
They were well to the east of Vilna now and the countryside was becoming more and more unfamiliar to the French, Croat and Italian soldiers. The terrain was almost completely flat and deserted. Food was scarce and cover poor. The horizon hardly changed from day to day and puzzled looks were slowly replaced by dismay. Casca knew the land hereabouts from times past and he put his head down and concentrated on the march, putting one foot in front of the other, sending up dust from the rutted dried mud track that served as a road.
Their rest periods usually were full of questions about what was waiting for them up ahead. Casca answered as best he could without going too much into detail. His past lives as a Mongol, Cossack and Swede was something he didn’t want to tell anyone, and besides, those lives were no more and anyone who’d known him then were long gone and in the ground decomposing.
Paradis was showing signs of slipping into a depressive mood and Casca recognized the warning signs; the open terrain did that to many. “Hey, Maurice,” Casca broke the silence between the two, “I reckon the Russians have turned to fight up ahead. You been in a battle before?”
“No,” Paradis said shortly. “About time they fought. I’m fed up with marching through this terrible country.”
Casca nodded. “They’ll fight like nobody else you’ve faced. They don’t run, they stand and fight until they either win – or die.”
“That’s stupid,” Begos commented, listening to the two. “They’ll lose too many soldiers that way!”
“Plenty more where they came from,” Casca said. “Russia has huge numbers of men to call to the colors. You kill a hundred, a thousand come at you. Kill a thousand, ten thousand appear.”
“Then where the devil are they?” Paradis asked, looking round at the featureless plains. “I haven’t seen a single one since we crossed the border.”
“They’re out there,” Casca nodded east. “In the forests of the north, the Steppe of the east, and even the mountains of the south. Thousands upon thousands of them. And you’ll meet some of them soon enough. Just keep on shooting when you do.”
“Pah!” Bausset sneered, “they’ll run just like the cowardly Austrians and Prussians. Then we’ll march into Moscow and fuck every Russian woman senseless. A pox on the Russian army, it’s shit and led by shit-heads.”
Casca shook his head. “They’ll fight like devils, just you wait. But you’re right about one thing; their leaders are shit-heads. Apart from one or two.” The others grinned.
Muralt jabbed a half-eaten chunk of bread in Casca’s direction. “So you think they’ll be hard to beat? If we do defeat them ahead, then would that mean the war is won?”
Casca shrugged. “I leave that to the generals, Napoleon and the Russian Tsar to decide. There is more than one Russian army around, so beating this one in front won’t decide things. And they have so much land to retreat into; it’s not like Austria where they’ll give up if you occupy Vienna because they’ve nowhere else to go. In Russia you could conquer thousands of miles and still have most of it to take! Don’t go thinking this is an easy one; we’ll be damned good if we win this one before the winter.”
Muralt grunted. “Just what I believe. We’re in the shit, alright.” He resumed eating his bread.
Bausset picked his nose and scoffed at the two. “You are women! Go home and pick flowers. Leave the fighting to real men. You two would have us defeated before we even fight. You’ll see, one good battle and we’ll be stamping Russian skulls into the mud and I’ll personally piss into the eye socket of their general.”
“You’re no strategist,” Casca said. “You’ve got the brains of a Marseille whore. We’ll see who’s right.”
Bausset eyed Casca, considering whether to beat the man up for being disrespectful, but after catching the look from Casca who held his gaze for a few seconds, decided it would pass – for the moment. He laughed instead. “They are a very intelligent lot; they all agreed I was their best customer!”
Fabvier cackled. “Then even I have a chance with them!” He laughed and sprang out of the way of Bausset’s kick. “You land one on me and you’ll go without the next rabbit I catch.”
“I’ll skin you, you little dog,” Bausset promised, his beard bristling with indignation. “And pop you in the cauldron for pot au fer.”
“Not enough meat on that one, Georges,” Muralt observed and leaned back to catch a few moments of sleep. Bausset pulled a face and began cleaning his bayonet, waving it at the grinning figure of Fabvier once or twice.
Paradis waved his hand in irritation at the winged insects that clouded round each of them. “Damned mosquitoes! Another thing about Russia I hate!”
Casca shrugged. None of these things affected him; insects were repelled by his biological condition. Whatever had made his blood poison during the transformation from mortal to immortal, also sent off a scent that drove biting insects away from him. Casca conceded that at least one good thing had come from the Curse.
The next day they increased their march from pas ordinaire at 76 steps a minute to pas accéléré at 100. They were certainly in a hurry and soon they could hear shooting in the distance, close to where a long wood stood. Puffs of white smoke rose up from the ground ahead of it and the men began to sense that here, at last, they were going into battle.
CHAPTER SIX
Caporal Auvrey ran along the front of the lined-up men, checking they were smartly dressed and all had their muskets present and correct. His face showed the excitement they all felt. Ahead, a strong unit of Russians had turned to give Murat’s cavalry a bloody nose, and the call had gone out for help. Infantry were needed and Delzons’ division were the nearest.
Casca made sure he had enough cartridges and his bayonet was handy. All too often soldiers forgot these in the moments leading up to a fight, and it was embarrassing having to explain that to your NCO. Auvrey didn’t look the tolerant type. Casca stole a quick glance at Paradis and was pleased to see his comrade had all his stuff too. Casca felt as though he was guiding the younger man through the painful learning process of becoming a veteran soldier. Casca had served for years in the forces of revolutionary France, having to change identity and rank a few years back to alley any suspicions about his age and origins. After serving in the halcyon days of Napoleon’s great campaigns he’d felt it necessary to abandon what he’d become and revert to private and assume a new name. So here he was, a mere private of the Army of Italy.
Paradis was one of the new batch of men who’d come to the ranks after Austerlitz. Most of the men who’d been serving in Casca’s first term were either dead or retired, so he reckoned there wasn’t much chance of stumbling across one of his former comrades in arms, but you never co
uld take anything for granted. Casca therefore was happy to be where he was helping the new guys. Paradis and, to that matter, Begos, certainly looked like they would need help. Others like Muralt, Bausset and Fabvier would and probably could look after themselves.
“Look ahead and get ready to advance,” Auvrey’s voice broke through Casca’s musings. “The Voltigeurs will screen our advance, then we will close to 100 paces and volley fire at the enemy. Fix bayonets!”
The line rang out to metallic clicks and scrapes as the regiment affixed the deadly blades to their muskets and readied themselves to advance. Ahead the land rose slightly towards the woods in the distance and in front of the trees stood a long line of green uniformed soldiers. Russians! Casca nudged Paradis. “There you are, your first sight of the Russian army.”
Colonel Pegot rode up and nodded to the sergeant holding the eagle. “Regiment, advance!” the order was snapped out. Slowly at first, the lines of blue and white men advanced, muskets at waist height pointed slightly up. Drums rolled and the men quickly got into step with the beat. In front advanced the irregular skirmishers, the voltigeurs, sharpshooters whose job it was to pick off enemy officers and cause confusion to the opposition before the line infantry closed to do the business part of the battle.
All across the terrain the French infantry were advancing towards the motionless Russian troops, stood behind a hastily arranged barricade of cut down trees and brush. It wasn’t much and they didn’t expect to hold for long, just to delay the French long enough to allow the rest of Tolley’s army to withdraw. They had done the main part of their job, to prevent the cavalry from cutting off the line of retreat, but now the Russian units were out on their own and exposed.
Cannons opened up from both sides, but there weren’t that many and although they added noise to the contest, this would be where the infantry would slug it out without artillery or cavalry to confuse matters. Casca caught Paradis’ eye and nodded to him. “Stick close, Maurice.”
Paradis nodded nervously. He’d never been in battle before and he felt like wetting himself. The reassuring figure of Casca alongside him calmed some of the butterflies, but the fear of the unknown gripped him. On the other side of Casca was the calm and expressionless Muralt. Casca had no worries about him; he’d do what was necessary. Behind in the second row were Bausset, Begos and Fabvier. The rest of the platoon were all round and many, like Paradis, hadn’t been in battle before.
The panting of men sucking in oxygen as they advanced filled the air along with the clinking of buckles, the tramp of hundreds of feet on the hard ground and muttered prayers as they closed the distance to the enemy. Casca licked dry lips and looked at the defenses ahead. They didn’t look too formidable, and many of the Russians were stood up behind them, exposing them more than they ought. Casca shook his head in disgust. The Americans would have knelt behind the wood and made it damned hard to hit them. He’d been amongst them at Bunker Hill back in ’75 and they’d made a mess of the British army that day. Today it would be different, thank the gods, he added under his breath.
Shots began as the skirmishers traded shots with the enemy, then retreated with a few losses as their paltry numbers was having little effect on the Russians. The line infantry came marching up in three rows, flags fluttering, drums beating, feet tramping. The Russians opened fire and a hail of musket balls rattled past. Casca’s shako was jerked back and the head piece flew off, to be caught in a reflex action by Bausset. He tapped Casca on the shoulder and handed it back. The Eternal Mercenary noted the hole in the upper part where a Russian bullet had passed through, and he grimaced. Close.
Screams of the wounded now drowned out the rest of the noise and the smoke from the discharge drifted towards them. A few bodies littered the ground but many of the shots had gone too high. Raw recruits, Casca thought. They always tended to shoot high. He glanced at Paradis who was staring ahead rigidly.
“Halt!” came the order from the company lieutenant. The men stopped and raised their muskets. The Russians were frantically reloading, the ramrods rattling down gun barrels. Some of the soldiers were dropping their ramrods clumsily, either through fear or unfamiliarity of the process. Casca held his breath and squinted down the barrel as the order to aim came to him. The Russians began to raise their barrels as the order to shoot came.
The musket wasn’t that accurate a weapon and all a soldier could hope for was to aim in the general direction of the enemy and the mass volley of the line would guarantee some hits. He closed his eyes to prevent the smoke from the discharge blinding him and he squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked into his shoulder and the flat crack! of the musket told him he had fired. Good, no misfire.
He opened his eyes and blinked as the smoke of the shot thinned and rose up away from him. The smoke from the other shots drifted across his vision but he reckoned they had hit a few of the enemy. More shots came through the smoke at them and a couple of men to his left fell back with cries. Automatically Casca had a cartridge in his hand and was biting off the end. “Reload!” he snapped to Paradis. What it came out as was something like ‘mmphhhooophh!’ but the message was clear. Paradis fumbled for a cartridge hastily.
The gun was sent butt first onto the ground and Casca poured most of the black powder down the smoking barrel, then spat the ball down after it. Pulling out the ramrod he slammed the ball and powder against the bottom and withdrew it, sliding it back into its place beneath the barrel. Pulling the musket up to his waist, he opened the pan and poured the rest of the powder into it, then cocked the hammer back fully. It had taken him twenty seconds from firing. Paradis was still struggling with the ramrod so Casca ignored him and raised his musket again.
The Russian barricade was seething with action. Bodies lay across the top but many more soldiers were loading or aiming, no expression visible on many of their faces. “Aim!” Auvrey’s voice came to him. The caporal would have calculated the time necessary to reload and anyone not ready would be spoken to afterwards – if they survived.
Casca concentrated on aiming for a knot of Russians directly ahead. Surely his shot would hit one of them! The next volley rang out and Casca fired. He opened his eyes and saw two of the knot of Russians had vanished but most of them seemed unscathed. Cursing the inaccuracy of the musket he began reloading. A shot spat narrowly past his right ear and he cringed. He looked at Muralt who was continuing efficiently. Paradis now fired on his own and Casca swung round to him. “You idiot,” he said, “you should have waited for the next volley. Now the caporal will have noted you!”
Paradis looked sick. He fumbled for another cartridge. Casca cocked the hammer and waited for the order to fire. The volleys crashing out made eardrums shrink and the smoke they vented made visibility difficult. Maybe Auvrey hadn’t seen who it was who’d fired out of sequence. “Advance and take the enemy position!” came the cry from the company commander.
So now it was the bayonet and muscle. Auvrey waved the men forward and the French advanced, faces grim and bayonets ready. Shots poured out from the barricade and men fell to left and right but Casca and his comrades were unscathed. The French reached the barricade and in places were able to step over it. Casca was faced by three Russian soldiers, one of whom brought up his musket to shoot him. Casca remembered he’d reloaded, so without even aiming, squeezed his trigger. The shot, at no more than ten yards, took the young Russian through the ribs and he jerked upright, his teeth clamped together in agony, and he fell backwards.
The second Russian, a bearded short man, jabbed forward with his bayonet but Casca deflected the blow and as he stepped over the log that the barricade formed at this point, rammed his bayonet into the soldier’s guts. The Russian screamed horribly and Casca wrenched the blade free. The Russian sank to his knees right in front of the Eternal Mercenary. Behind him, someone was vomiting loudly. Probably Begos. Casca now faced the third man who grimly attacked, blade scything through the air. Casca blocked this and shoved hard, sending the Russian backwards in su
rprise.
Alongside Casca both Paradis and Muralt were thrusting forward with their bayonets, Muralt very aggressively and professionally, and Casca had to acknowledge the way the man was going about his business. Paradis in contrast was clumsy and panic-stricken. “Stay by my side, Maurice,” Casca snapped and heaved once more at the man facing him. The Russian was shoved back again and the enemy soldier looked impressed. He now stepped back two paces and brought his weapon round to face Casca, obviously with an intention to skewer him. “Screw this,” Casca growled and swung his own weapon sideways hard, knocking the Russian’s gun aside. Casca swung the butt up and it connected with the opponent’s jaw, knocking him clean over. Before the dazed man could move, Casca ran him through as he lay there, pinning the victim to the ground where he thrashed and yelled in agony for a moment, then fell silent.
Paradis looked horrified and gazed at the corpse. Casca grabbed him by the collar and pulled him past the body. “Watch out for the next man!”
Behind, Bausset and Fabvier stepped up, the former dragging an ashen-faced Begos with him. The big man threw the youngster to the ground on top of a dead Russian. “Fool was busy puking over the man you disemboweled back there.”
“Get your gun loaded and ready for the next lot, Etienne,” Casca ordered, then turned back to watch for the expected counter-attack. The French assault had carried the barricade and the Russian survivors had stumbled back in disarray. Now a second unit was hurrying forward to try to regain the position. Auvrey waved the men into lines. “Front rank kneel!” he snapped. Casca shoved hard on Paradis’ head, forcing him to kneel in front. “Load!” Casca urged.
Paradis half sobbed and began loading as fast as he could. Begos, vomit drying down the front of his tunic, did likewise. Muralt stole a quick glance at the raw recruit and pulled a face, then raised his musket. Casca did likewise. The Russian company advancing on them was just about a hundred paces away. Time for three volleys before they were upon them. The first discharge came from the front rank and men in the front of the attacking unit fell like wheat before the scythe, but more stepped past them and began cheering as they advanced.