by Tony Roberts
These were a small scouting group by the looks of things, and they appeared to be from the south. Casca grimaced. This would make things tougher now. These irregular horsemen were a nightmare. Savage, pitiless, loyal to their clan and their Hetman, their warlord, they had been made subject to the Russian Empire only after a long drawn-out conflict, and the Tsars readily acknowledged the use these people had in their army. So they let them loose on the frontiers of their realm to the east and south where law and order were subject to local traditions, not the more civilized centers of Europe.
Casca would have to report this back as soon as he could. From now on, sleeping would become a dangerous luxury. Cossacks had been known to sneak up in darkness and slit the throats of anyone unlucky enough to come across their path. Rape, plunder and pillage were the order of the day for these people. He turned to go and a shadow fell across him. A sixth Cossack had sneaked up on him, probably their guard, and he had thought not to warn the others but to ambush Casca and kill him so he could have all his belongings to himself.
The Cossack, armed with a long curved blade, smiled wolfishly as Casca’s eyes widened in shock and recognition. “Bastard whoreson,” the Cossack grunted, “you will taste your own blood before I let you die!”
Casca didn’t even reply. Before the Cossack had even finished he was moving, flinging his musket at the man who stood eight feet away. He dived to the right and pulled out his own knife, a much shorter blade than the Cossack’s, and turned suddenly, his blade swinging up from under waist height. The ambusher had been thrown off-guard by the gun being thrown at him and he’d wasted precious seconds dodging it and going after Casca. The Eternal Mercenary’s blow came up on the far side of his blade and the Russian realized too late this man had bested him. He went to shout but the force of the blow into his gut sent the wind out of him, and the sharp, shocking pain of the knife slicing deep into his body drove all thoughts of calling out from him.
Casca jerked the knife out of the sinking man and grabbed his musket, lying close by. The other men had heard their guard’s voice and the grunt of pain, and came running up from the stream, swords and sabers in hand. Casca had to act quickly or they’d probably skin him alive or remove his family jewels, neither of which appealed to him. He flung himself sideways, his finger curling round the trigger. On the ground he aimed roughly at the middle of the group of Cossacks who had by now spotted the lone Frenchman and their comrade on his knees holding his guts in, blood seeping through his fingers, and fired.
The ball took the second from the right in the shoulder and he cried out, spinning sideways. Casca rolled to his feet and wasted no time. The four remaining Cossacks were now running at him so Casca drew his arm back and flung it forward with all his might. The knife flickered through the air and embedded itself in the chest of the one on the right, and he staggered into a tree and slowly sank down, his face screwed up in agony.
Casca bent low and pulled out the kneeling Cossack’s sword from its sheath, gripping the guard’s head for purchase. The three other Cossacks screamed cries of outrage and attack and came at him from two sides. Casca jumped back as the first slashed at him and the Eternal mercenary’s riposte slashed across the attacker’s chest and down one arm. The man stared at his wound stupidly and dropped his blade, gaping in shock at the sight of his blood welling up from the deep cut.
The two others almost collided in their eagerness to kill this stupid Frenchman, and Casca feinted to the left and then bent low, under the wild swipe of one and up to the right, his blade arcing up in a vicious attack that was barely blocked by the second. Casca stepped back and assessed the two remaining Cossacks. One, the older, was dressed in red and had a tall black fur hat while the second, perhaps ten years younger, was in black and yellow and was sweating a lot.
“Ivan, go right and draw his attention,” the older one growled. “I shall attack from the left and take this pig.”
As Ivan moved Casca went to follow him but then sprang back and turned on the older one, his sword cutting through the air down towards the Cossack’s neck. The surprised Russian staggered back and managed to meet the blow but at the cost of losing balance and having to stumble a few steps to ensure he stayed on his feet. Casca swung round and ducked. Ivan’s attack had been expected and it was predictable. Casca rose up inside Ivan’s reach and his blade speared through the gut, up under the ribs and through the unlucky man’s heart. Ivan gasped and hot blood spurted out onto Casca’s hand. The Eternal Mercenary threw the dying Cossack off his blade and turned to meet the last unhurt Cossack. “Well, molester of mules,” Casca said in fluent Russian, “you sure have screwed up here, haven’t you?”
The Cossack gaped. “You speak Russian?”
“No,” Casca said sarcastically, “you’ve been blessed by Saint Basil to understand French. You stupid peasant. Now take your surviving comrades and get lost. I’m in a charitable mood and will let you live. Go tell your Hetman not to approach the French or we will cut your bodies up into pieces and send them to separate parts of our empire so your bodies will never find each other in the afterlife.”
“I am their Hetman you pig. I should kill you,” the Russian snarled.
“Go try.” Casca looked round at the sprawled group of Cossacks. Ivan was dead, as was the one with the knife in his chest. The guard was well on his way to joining them and the one with the deep slash down his chest and arm was touch and go. The other one, the one who’d been shot, was sat clutching his shoulder watching the scene in morbid fascination. “I’ve downed five of you; think you’ll have any better luck?”
The Cossack thought for a moment. “If I go, then I must return to kill you to save my honor. I cannot rest until you are dead at my feet and I sing your death at my camp!”
“Try it you ugly swine,” Casca replied. “Finding me in an entire army won’t be easy, though.”
The Cossack bared his teeth, showing brown-stained or missing ones. “I will find you, so I, Alexander Iuganov, swear to God. Now leave this place, foreigner!”
Casca shook his head. “It is you who will leave, Iuganov. Take your dead and wounded. Report to your superior that the French are devils with swords who slaughter Cossacks. Go!”
Iuganov pulled the half-dead guard up and dragged him away with him. The man with the shoulder wound got up and staggered after him, leaving Casca with three dead men. He looked at the sword, a curved blade and carved ivory handgrip. Unusual for a Cossack sword to have that; it must have been a gift or a trade from Asia, probably India, or Afghanistan. He stuck it in his belt and retrieved his musket, then his knife. The sound of horses galloping off reached him and he moved through the trees to the brook and filled up his canteen before turning round and leaving the wood to the dead. He had news to bring Caporal Auvrey.
Not too far away Alexander Iuganov turned in his saddle and glared back at the wood. He seethed with shame and indignation. How a lowly French soldier had come to better he and his men was beyond his understanding, but he vowed to get even, and one day would find the scar-faced one and slowly cut him in pieces. But first, he must find out what part of the army he belonged to and then he would plan to get the Frenchman, if it was the last thing he did!
CHAPTER EIGHT
The advance went on and the Russians kept on falling back. Casca’s news about the Cossacks was politely accepted and then, so the immortal soldier believed, ignored. Belief in their own infallibility was giving the French command a dangerous amount of arrogance. Casca’s own doubt about the success of the campaign grew.
He had left the Cossack sword with Marianka, not wishing his colleagues to cast covetous eyes on it. The Polish girl was delighted with it and she felt that not only it was good in hiding her man’s prize from anyone else with her, but it gave her a weapon to defend herself with. She was still worried that her hunters were close and she needed something to give her a little more security. Of late, she’d taken on a couple of assistants, a young French girl called Chantel, an orph
an from Nice who’d lost both parents in the last month – her father at Ostrovno and her mother from dysentery which was sweeping through the army and camp followers – and a boy called Wojciech, a fellow Pole picked up on the road. Wojciech had followed the army from Vilna, enticed by the thought of making himself a fortune. Reality on the road to Vitebsk had punctured his dreams and the thin, sharp-faced youth had been sitting morosely on the roadside when Marianka had picked him up and the boy had been glad of at last belonging to something, even if it was only a mobile shop.
Marianka was fast becoming wealthy; her provisions were growing, thanks to Fabvier’s ability in picking up items, and now Wojciech added his street-wise knowledge from Vilna in obtaining equipment. The French army was still shedding stuff like a dog shaking off water after a swim, and the best items were picked up and put in the wagon. Marianka’s thoughts were to get hold of a second wagon, a bigger one. Food was still the most troublesome thing to get, but the promise of a free meal for Fabvier each day had meant that meat found its way to Marianka’s on a regular basis.
Chantel was an accomplished cook, despite her fourteen years, and she said she’d learned to cook at her mother’s side at home before the call to the army had come for her father, and the family had decided to come with him on the great campaign. French cuisine was much sought after and many Frenchmen missed home cooking, and so they congregated to the café whenever they stopped. Prices were going up and grumblings had started, but Marianka kept her costs down for Casca and his comrades, and as a result she had a squad of champions. Fabvier even slept under the wagon at night, unknown to Casca, and often he cackled to himself as Marianka’s cries of passion came to his ears during Casca’s visits, urging the soldier to greater efforts under his breath. Fabvier’s thoughts turned to the smooth-skinned Chantel and his mouth drooled with the anticipation of touching the girl’s soft skin. His cackles went unheard to those within the wagon.
Desertions continued and the numbers shrank, but most of those who fell by the wayside were the younger and less experienced men, and as a result the army improved in quality. The Dnieper was crossed and suddenly they were marching along a paved road, much to their surprise. It was wide and tree-lined and headed due east.
They were kept back when the army reached Smolensk, the great city that stood between them and Moscow, and watched as the assault went ahead. The city burned and the populace suffered as the two armies grappled for possession of the city, and then suddenly the Russians were retreating again, letting the French have a burned-out shell. It had cost Napoleon 9,000 men to capture it, all at a cost of killing 11,000 defenders. Casca felt it hadn’t been done the best way, but he left that to the commanders; they were supposed to know what they were doing.
The Russian command was fed up with Barclay de Tolly’s continuous retreats and ultimately got the Tsar to demote him to commander of the 1st army while the aged and crusty Kutusov was called out of retirement to take over. Casca listened to the gloomy talk in camp. Dysentery had weakened the resolve of some and talk of returning home was growing.
“We’ve taken Smolensk and the war’s still showing no sign of ending,” Paradis grumbled, spooning a thick broth into his mouth. “I don’t think we’ll ever defeat these people.”
“I don’t think they’ll give up,” Muralt added. “They’ll fight to the death. If Smolensk is any indication, we’ll have a bastard of a time taking Moscow. You think they’ll retreat to Moscow, Casca?”
Casca paused in cleaning his musket and considered things for a moment. The carpenter from Rouen was the most thoughtful of the entire group, but always seemed to need confirmation on what he was saying. “Perhaps. With a new commander things will probably change. We’re losing men all the time and they’re gathering reinforcements. I’ve heard Bagration’s 2nd Army has joined Kutusov up ahead so we’re likely to find they’ll turn and have a go. They won’t want to fight in Moscow – that’s their spiritual capital and they won’t want to have that smashed up like Smolensk.”
“It would be good to see Moscow,” Begos commented, “I’ve heard some very important art treasures are there. I’d like to see them.”
“Maybe you will,” Casca nodded.
Bausset rumbled with humor. “I’ll bring you one or two if you like, my dandy friend. As long as I can keep them, of course!”
Begos gave the big bearded man a look of intolerance and fell silent. Casca was getting tired of Bausset’s baiting and wondered if Begos would bite. He didn’t think the young fop would stand much of a chance. Then that would be the time to intervene and put an end to matters. Caporal Auvrey would have a discipline problem to sort out; he wondered if he had the balls to do it.
They stopped again after crossing the River Vop, a small but steep-sided watercourse, and camped close to a town by the name of Gzhatsk. They had found the countryside more fertile here but the Russians were burning the wheat fields and the sky was scarlet ahead. The day had been a swine; trees and wagons had littered the road as the Russians tried to block the advance of the Grande Armee and dead horses and men littered the road, stinking to high heaven. The flies had been intolerable.
That evening Casca once more made his way to Marianka’s café. It was easy to find, it had the most men gathered around it, and it was so popular that it had raised jealousy from the other cantiniéres. A group of officers stood next to it, purchasing alcohol, and Casca waited until they had sat down at nearby tables to approach the rear entrance. “And what are you doing sneaking up like that?” a voice startled him.
Casca turned to see a dark shape detach itself from the shadows of the awnings and fix him with a less-than-friendly look. He was dressed in the uniform of a Polish cavalry officer and spoke with a thick Polish accent. Casca saluted the captain, for that was what his rank insignia denoted. “Sir, the proprietress is under my protection. I am her man.”
“Name?” the Polish captain barked, stepping closer. A French captain came sauntering over, a wine glass in his hand, curious.
“Private Longue, 3rd Battalion, 84th Regiment.”
“Trouble, Wolinski?” the French captain asked in a slightly slurred and amused tone.
“This man says he’s known to Marianka,” Wolinski said, doubt in his voice.
“Ask her, sir,” Casca replied. “She’ll confirm it.”
The French captain eyed Casca. “If she denies it, I’ll have you punished you insolent wretch.”
Casca grinned. The officer was drunk and probably stupid. He knew the type. “Yes sir.”
The Frenchman hesitated and stared at the smiling private. He wanted to strike the man but it might mean he would spill his drink which he didn’t want to do. Instead he nodded to the Pole who led Casca round to the front, under the eyes of the sitting officers. Light spilled out from the lanterns hanging from the wooden poles stuck in the ground that held up the canvas roof and Casca had a good look at Wolinski. A good looking young man, no doubt popular with the ladies. Dark haired, brown eyed, a long up-curved nose. He looked Polish, Casca had to admit. Wolinski in turn saw Casca’s scar. “Dueling scar, surely not!”
“No sir. Knife wound.”
“I thought so; dueling is a privilege of the upper classes. Marianka, this ugly wretch says you know him!”
Marianka appeared and smiled at Casca. “Yes! He’s welcome here any time.” She smiled and wiggled her chest provocatively. The officers chuckled and made drunken comments about her assets. Wolinski pulled a face. “You could do far better than this uncouth low-born foreigner,” he said to the woman.
Casca looked at the Polish officer and scowled. “She’s made a good choice, Captain. Now if you please, I must speak to her.”
Wolinski stepped back and watched as Casca embraced the woman. His face was like stone. The French captain laughed with good humor. “Come, let us drink to victory with the others. Forget that one, there’s plenty of good noble women waiting for us in Moscow. She’s probably got the pox anyway!”
&
nbsp; The Pole nodded. He’d seen all he needed to anyway.
The army marched on through the gaily painted Gzhatsk, marveling that it hadn’t been torched like the surrounding countryside, and even better, they found supplies of wheat and liquor in the town. They marched on further east, knowing that now the next place of any size was Moscow.
And then the Russians decided that enough was enough and the French scouts came riding in breathlessly with news that the entire Russian army was stood in their path across the road to Moscow, dug in and waiting for them at a place called Borodino.
CHAPTER NINE
The dawn came slowly, a gradual brightening of the sky from the east, over the lines of Russians poised to accept the French attack. Casca and his unit were over to the left of Napoleon’s forces, opposite the village of Borodino. To the right of the houses the land rose up steeply to a ridge which was crowned by earthworks built into a wide redoubt, and sprouting from its lips were dozens of evil cannon muzzles. To the right of this the land slowly sloped away until it was lost to sight. Russian soldiers manned the heights and waited for the inevitable assault.
“How are you feeling, Maurice?” Casca asked Paradis. The last time they’d been in action the man had showed terrible nerves.
“Okay,” Paradis smiled wanly. “I’ll be okay once we get going.”
Casca knew what he meant. There had been many times in the past that Casca had felt tension before a battle. Often he had the impulse to urinate, but that was just the body’s natural defenses trying to get rid of unwanted fluid that could contaminate a wounded body if it was ruptured. Casca tensed, having spent the last couple of hours cleaning his equipment, putting on his best combat uniform and smartening himself up, as had all the men there. Napoleon insisted each man make himself as smart as possible before battle, to impress the enemy and any watching observer from other nations. Heaven forbid any man getting killed untidily.