Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  She lay down flat amongst some long yellow grass, dragging the boy with her, and peered ahead at the billowing clouds from the guns and the red flashes that marked the explosions of shells and the muzzles of muskets and cannons that belched death. The rumble of discharges and crack of firearms came to her across the flat land and she looked to her side at the wide-eyed boy. “Terrible, isn’t it?”

  Wojciech nodded. “It’s different from the dispatches read out in the town square,” he replied. “Its……frightening.”

  “Yes it is.” Marianka wondered where Casca was. She hoped he wasn’t amongst the huge explosions and the ground being thrown up in massive gouts of earth, stone and steel. She’d never seen a battle before and shuddered. She hoped she’d never see another but had a feeling that this would be the first of many on this campaign. How anyone could survive such conditions was seemingly impossible to her, and why men went back into battle after having endured one was surely madness. Once was enough, or so it seemed to her. Maybe young men and boys like Wojciech ought to witness the madness of war to put them off for life.

  Another ripple of shots from the battery ahead made her jump and she’d seen enough. “Come on,” she tugged at Wojciech’s sleeve, “time we went back. There’s nothing more to see other than more of the same. Let’s get back to safety and prepare for tonight’s demands on us; I’ve a feeling there’ll be plenty for us to do.”

  They shuttled backwards into the trees and then made their way silently back towards the wagons, a few hundred yards back. Their wagon was on the edge of the area, having been shunned by the other sutlers, and it suited Marianka as she had no time for the ‘professionals’ and their stuck-up airs and graces. They were nothing but greedy merchants from peasant backgrounds.

  They approached the wagon and saw the horses tethered against the small grove of trees that they’d parked next to, and the wagon seemed untended. Chantel wasn’t there. “Chantel?” Marianka called out. No reply. She frowned and waved to Wojciech to tend the horses and made her way round the wagon. As she got to the other side where barrels had been arranged in a small wall, a white form came into view, lying in the grass amongst the barrels.

  Marianka stopped and put her hands to her mouth. Chantel was lying there, her eyes staring at the sky, a hideous gash across her throat. Someone had murdered her.

  * * *

  The men of the 84th Regiment sat in a rough circle, resting. Brigadier Huard had decided to give the men a break while Borodino was finally cleared by the other regiments in the division, and then Prince Eugène’s artillery brought up to pound away at the Russians on the other side of the river. Some of them had even gone off to fetch water or more supplies of musket balls and powder under orders from the company commanders. One or two had sneaked off without permission and ran the risk of a court martial if it was noticed they had gone.

  Casca rested like the others, glad to be out of the frantic madness that had been Borodino. The French had finally secured it and the Russians had this time destroyed the bridge after retreating over it, thus making it impossible for Eugène’s wing to cross over and attack the Russian right wing. As he sat and watched the battle developing to his right, he saw that the main attack would be right down the center, straight into the biggest concentration of Russian cannon and defenses they had. It was sheer madness yet the massed ranks of Davout’s men were marching forward into the whirlwind of shot, shell and bullet.

  From both flanks the French cannon were belching fire and brimstone, trying to pulverize the defenders before they took out too many of the attackers, but Casca and the other veterans knew it was fruitless. The only practical thing the big guns were doing was to give the attackers heart and hope. It was obvious to Casca that the only things that would succeed driving into the heart of that hell were cran and élan, guts and flair.

  He looked at Muralt who turned his head slightly and caught Casca’s eye. “Poor devils,” he said.

  “Yes,” Casca agreed. “Thank the gods we’re not doing that!” He looked about. “Anyone see where Fabvier went? That little rat was here a short while ago, but I can’t see him anywhere.”

  The others looked about and shook their heads. The little thief was missing. He’d been quiet since they’d come back from the village and while the rest checked their equipment or selves, Fabvier had vanished. “Hope the stupid little fool hasn’t deserted,” Casca said, “I don’t think the provosts will look on that kindly in the middle of a fight!”

  “No,” Muralt nodded. “But I didn’t think he’d do anything like that, he seemed fairly settled with the platoon.”

  Paradis shrugged in a very Gallic manner. “What do we do if Caporal Auvrey takes a roll call?”

  “Cover up for him,” Casca said. “At least until we know where he’s gone.” Casca didn’t want the furtive Fabvier blamed for deserting if he had just sneaked away to filch something off the battlefield. He was well known for things like that. “We stick up for each other, remember?”

  Paradis nodded. Bausset grunted. He scratched his bulging gut and pulled a face. “He’d better come back or I’ll shoot him myself. He owes me tobacco!”

  Casca regarded the big, burly man for a moment, then decided he wasn’t worth replying to. If Bausset had a deal with Fabvier then that was between the two of them. Besides, he was coming to the opinion Bausset talked a lot and didn’t carry out many of his promises or threats. “Maurice, you got enough bullets and powder?”

  Paradis fumbled in his pouches and cases. “Yes, I think so. Do you think we’ll be in action again?”

  “I wouldn’t bet against it,” Casca said, watching as the French battled up the slope suicidally, bodies falling like wheat before the scythe. “If that attack fails I wouldn’t bet against us being called in as a reserve.” He had seen worse but mostly had been dealing it out over the past few years. It was a change seeing the French armies receiving it. But as he watched, the French divisions carried the attack through and reached the waiting Russians, forcing them back at bayonet point.

  Bausset cheered and pumped a fist in the air. “That’s it, you lovely bastards!” he shouted in their direction, “go chase those worthless peasants off the field!”

  “It looks like its cost lots of men, though,” Begos said sadly. He was sat on a blanket, not wanting to get his breeches dirty, and was scrubbing his jacket with a thick clothes brush he’d picked up from somewhere. He resumed rubbing the dirt from his uniform and studied the spot critically.

  “Etienne,” Muralt said with some feeling, “why are you bothering to clean that so much? In a day or so it’ll be just as filthy!”

  Begos looked at Muralt as if he were mad. “I can’t bear the thought of carrying dirt and filth with me,” he said forcefully. “There’s nothing wrong in wanting to remain clean! I cannot do much about you lot here,” he looked at the collection of disheveled and filthy men who were jeering at the young man, “but at least I can try to remain civilized!”

  “Bah, find me some horse shit to roll this child in,” Bausset barked. “I bet he comes out of Russia poxed up and the father of the most Russian bastards!”

  Casca stood up and glared at Bausset. “Georges, shut it. Etienne just has a more fastidious attitude than us. Leave him be.”

  Bausset sneered and turned away, picking lice out of his beard. Begos pulled a face and went back to cleaning his uniform. Casca turned full circle and frowned. “Where is Fabvier?” He looked to the west behind the unit where a wood stood. Beyond it were the camp followers, out of harm’s way. Fabvier could only have gone in that direction; to the east was Borodino, swarming with French soldiers from another division. South was the main battlefield and nobody would go there. To the north was open land and was deserted, and nothing moved there. So that left the woods.

  Paradis caught his look. “Hunting for food?”

  “Yeah, probably,” Casca nodded. “He’d better get back fast or I’ll have something to say about that.” He turned back and
looked over the battlefield. The French had become bogged down at the crest and fierce fighting was going on along the top for possession of the huge redoubt. “Looks like we may be called into action soon if they don’t sort that mess out.”

  Paradis shivered, the thought didn’t appeal to him.

  * * *

  The Russian lines were stretched. General Platov, commanding a vast reserve of cavalry including many Cossacks, was watching impotently and with mounting frustration at the rear of the Russian right flank. He longed to use his men in a grand sweeping attack to cut off the French infantry from their supplies and capture the baggage. It seemed clear to him that one big attack to the north around the French left would achieve this. He lost patience with the stoic-faced army commanders as the foot soldiers battled desperately in the center, and most of the reserves being sent south to hold the left flank which was coming under pressure. His scouts had discovered a ford across the river behind Borodino and his men could cross there and envelop the French left.

  The Cossack horde included Iuganov, still smarting from the fact he’d lost men to one lone stupid Frenchman. He had prayed for revenge, and today it seemed the chance may come. The rest of his men were with him and they chafed at the lack of orders. “Why doesn’t that whoreson wake up and see we can ride round the enemy flank and rout them?” he railed to his subordinates, gesturing dramatically at the distant impassive figure of the large, round and graying Kutusov. “Has age addled his mind?” His beard bristled with rage. “Or is it too much vodka and dreaming of glory?”

  His men stood and waited silently. They had learned long ago to allow Iuganov to rant until he ran out of breath. If anyone spoke out then the Cossack’s rage would turn on the unfortunate speaker. Besides, to see their leader vent with wrath on another was always amusing.

  Iuganov thrust his jaw forward and transfixed Platov with his most intimidating glare. “Well, General? Has Kutusov allowed us out to play with the garlic-breathing French, or is he too busy playing with himself?”

  Platov came up to Iuganov, slapping his gauntlets against his thigh. “The Marshal is too worried about other areas of the battlefield to fully understand our need, but he has given permission for a raid against the French rear.”

  “Well, praise the Lord!” Iuganov threw his arms up dramatically. “At long last! Mount up, you worthless peasants!” he bellowed to his Cossacks who jumped up in one smooth movement and reached for spears, swords and other wickedly pointed weapons. They scented sport. Platov took hold of Iuganov’s reins. “Wait for my order to attack, don’t go off on some stupid glory-hunting attack. These aren’t villagers you can rape, you Kulak,” Platov growled, knowing the Cossacks’ reputation.

  Iuganov laughed aloud, throwing his head back. “Don’t worry, General, my men will leave enough pretty French boys for your dogs to sate their desires on!”

  Platov let go of the rains as Iuganov wheeled away. “That’s what I’m worried about.” Then the General ran to his horse, took it from his servant and mounted up. “Come on, to the ford!” he yelled, leading ten thousand mounted Russians towards the crossing point with the intention of wheeling left and crushing the first French unit his men came across.

  And this happened to be the resting 84th and Casca.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The pickets to the north of the resting division heard the drumming of the hoofs first. The men on guard there stood high and peered to the north-east, straining their eyes. The sound of cavalry on the move was something the veterans knew all too well and those who’d been in the army for some time turned and began dragging the greener troops with them towards the main body of soldiers. Like a retreating tide, the pickets raced back, wild eyed, shouting in fear: “Cossacks!”

  The word reached the infantry and they were galvanized in an instant. Guns were grabbed and officers sprang into the midst of the troops, yelling madly to get their attention.

  “What is it?” Paradis said, a confused look on his face as the tranquil scene exploded into chaos and confusion.

  “Cossacks!” Casca snapped, a grim look on his face. The dust cloud approaching them from the north east told its own story. “We’d better get into a square formation fast,” he snapped, “and fix bayonets!”

  Caporal Auvrey appeared, buttoning up his jacket, musket dangling from his hand. “Platoon, form up in two ranks!”

  Casca groaned; Auvrey had no tactical ability. He hoped to hell an officer ordered them to get into square formation before it was too late or they’d be crow fodder.

  “Where’s Pierre?” Paradis asked with concern. “He’ll be missed for sure!”

  “And killed if the silly devil is caught in the open with Cossacks running round,” Casca continued, his mouth set in a firm line. He noted with relief the sergeants and officers gathering behind the two rows forming up facing the approaching cavalry who could now be seen, sabers flashing in the sun. They would hit the infantry in a matter of seconds.

  “Form square!” Captain LeBois ordered, his sword ready to draw Russian blood. “Front rank kneel, rear rank stand. Load!”

  The men hastily formed the large square formation familiar to those who’d fought in the campaigns of the recent past. Two rows of men, the front rank kneeling, the rear one standing. In the center stood the officers, flag bearers and buglers, plus any friendly cavalry who needed safety. It was the only safe formation for foot soldiers against cavalry, but a sitting target against artillery. Casca, on his part, was damned relieved LeBois had ordered it.

  Casca stood in the second row, facing north-west, so the cavalry were approaching from over his right shoulder. A familiar figure came scuttling up to the square and burrowed through frantically, close to the Eternal Mercenary. Casca reached down and pulled a sweating Fabvier up by the collar and glared at him from a distance of two inches. “Where the hell have you been, you maniac? You were nearly horsemeat there!”

  “Fetching dinner,” the scrawny man said gasping. “Look!” and he pulled out a rabbit from his jacket.

  Casca made a disgusted noise and released the man. “Get loaded up and stand next to me. Lucky for you Caporal Auvrey didn’t notice you’d gone.” He then forgot about the wheezing thief from Amiens and loaded his musket. The noise of the cavalry filled the air and the men tensed all around him. The power and majesty of mounted soldiers always intimidated foot soldiers; only in the square were men safe. If one side collapsed and the cavalry got in, then it was goodnight.

  Dust was being kicked up as the Cossacks and regular Russian cavalry rode in between two squares of infantry. “Here they come!” Sergeant Cannard growled, holding the Eagle up high. “Kill them!”

  “Tirez!” Captain LeBois shrieked, his saber cutting down through the air dramatically. Two rows of muskets spat death at the mass of horses and riders, toppling scores. The charge carried on and the twin ranks set their feet hard and apart as the impact became inevitable.

  Casca saw three horsemen break through the discharged cloud of gunpowder and head right for his section. All were Cossacks, wielding long pike-like spears. Their reach was longer than the bayonets of the infantry and it was quite clear to Casca that he’d be skewered long before he managed to hurt the attacking cavalry. One went to the left, one to the right and the other directly for him. “Aw shit,” Casca muttered and swung his musket round. No point in trying to use the bayonet, he’d never stand a chance.

  The Cossack bore down on him, hate in his face, and swung to the left at the last moment, hurling the spear at him. Casca ducked violently and thrust his musket up at the same time. The spear, intended for his gut, grazed his arm. As he stood back up, cursing the Cossack, he caught sight of a comrade three down the line staggering back, a spear sticking out of his stomach. He hadn’t been good enough to avoid the attack.

  Fabvier spat and loaded quickly, his eyes darting left and right. Casca reached for a new cartridge and checked the line. Three men were down but the square was holding. Piles of horses and rid
ers were lying in front of them, and many more were riding around seeking gaps in which to plunge in and create mayhem. Casca reckoned as long as the squares held, they’d see off the Russians.

  He’d loaded by now and raised his musket to eye level. A Cossack came galloping across from right to left so Casca tracked him with his muzzle. The rider was holding some sort of bladed weapon and even as Casca squeezed the trigger it was thrown. The shot took the rider in the ribs and he threw his arms up and slid off the saddle, falling heavily onto the ground and lay there, his horse galloping off out of sight. A French soldier slumped over to the left, the blade from the Cossack embedded in his chest.

  “This is scary!” Paradis shouted above the din of shouts, neighs, shots and hoofs.

  “Keep shooting!” Casca snapped and reloaded. Fabvier was ducking low every time he reloaded, so Casca hauled him up and roared at him to stand and shoot. Fabvier shot Casca a look of hate but remained standing.

  Iuganov pulled hard on his reins and looked back at the smoke-shrouded squares. The cowards weren’t fighting fair! His men were being butchered and they couldn’t get at the Frenchmen. Damn them! One last charge and then they’d see if it was worth continuing. He yelled and called his men to him. They’d attack the same spot and batter their way through. Surely the enemy would collapse if they concentrated in one spot! The panting men gathered and Iuganov pointed at the face of the square nearest to them. “There! All of you attack that spot! Throw your spears and the second wave will hit the confused pigs at the same time. We will succeed!”

  The wave of Cossacks broke into a charge and Casca saw the danger, heading right for his section. “Watch it!” he yelled and raised his musket. His shot took one rider off his saddle but there was no time to reload. A volley of spears arced through the air and Casca had to move quickly to his left. A soft impact behind him and a groan told him someone had been unlucky. Four French soldiers fell to the spears and suddenly the next wave was upon them, horses teeth and hoofs filling the vision. Casca stepped back as a horse plowed into the line just to his left and the rider sliced down onto a soldier’s neck which fountained blood.