by Tony Roberts
They marched through the next day and arrived outside the small town of Maloyaroslavets, and cheered when they saw no Russian army opposing them. The bridge was seized and General Delzons threw his men up onto a long curving ridge to the south, protecting the crossing point. Now if they held the rest of the French army could arrive, cross the bridge and carry on their way west.
But then Dokhturov turned up with a large force, and Casca and his comrades knew they were in for one hell of a battle.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The French line formed up hurriedly, for there wasn’t much time. The Russians were in a hurry and were determined to block the river crossing before the main part of Napoleon’s army turned up. Dokhturov’s orders were clear; block the escape route and then Kutusov could arrive at leisure and batter the French into submission.
Casca was right at the front along with the rest of the 84th line Regiment. Captain LeBois shouted frantically for the men to load and make sure their bayonets were fixed. The first Russian assault was already beginning, before their cannon had been unhitched.
“Hell, they’re in a hurry,” Bausset exclaimed, ramming a ball down his muzzle.
“It’s going to be a tough one, this,” Casca commented and raised his gun, waiting for the order to shoot. Paradis to his right and Muralt to his left raised theirs in unison. Behind stood Sergeant Cannard, holding the eagle up in one hand, and gripping a hand axe with the other. They’d seen the British use such weapons to devastating effect in the Spanish peninsula, and some of the French soldiers had taken it up themselves. Casca sighted along the barrel and focused on one Russian running forward, yelling like the devil. It seemed the entire horizon was alive with Russians pouring forward, more confident now they had a retreating enemy to deal with.
LeBois threw his arm down. “Tirez!”
A harsh crackling rent the air and smoke billowed up from hundreds of barrels as the French sent a volley of lead at the oncoming soldiers. Men staggered, toppled and span, falling in slow motion or crashing headlong to lie prone on the earth, to be swallowed up in seconds by those running behind. Casca saw his shot impact on the Russian’s chest and he threw both arms up and fell into the man behind him, bringing him down too.
There was no time to reload and the wickedly thrusting points of the bayonets were at him in seconds. He bashed aside the first attack at him, and rammed the butt of his musket up into the Russian’s jaw. The man grunted and fell sideways, blood splattering from a broken face. Two more came at him. Casca stepped back and turned sideways so that he had weight on his back leg. He raised his musket and blocked the two men as they jabbed at him. One bayonet grazed past his chest, the other was knocked aside by the musket. Without giving them a second chance, Casca swung his gun and struck the left hand soldier across the temple, knocking his hat off. The Russian cried out and staggered back, giving Casca room to turn on the other. Grunting in effort, he brought the bayonet up and the point sank into the Russian’s unprotected gut.
The soldier gasped and doubled up, in agony from the deep wound. Casca planted his front foot on the Russian’s chest and yanked the bayonet out. The man sank to the ground at Casca’s feet, his blood seeping out through his fingers.
The other man regained his balance and gritted his teeth in hatred. He leveled his musket and aimed to skewer the Eternal Mercenary but Casca was already turning and slammed the thrust aside and shoulder-charged the man. The Russian was sent backwards, then fell over a prone figure of one of the fallen. Casca stepped back into the line but it was no longer a coherent body. The fight had broken up into hundreds of small fights, and bodies were beginning to litter the ground. “Maurice, Louis, back with me now!” he snapped.
Paradis and Muralt stepped back, under pressure from a knot of Russian soldiers who’d overcome those to left and right and now were closing in on the three men who were blocking the path to the eagle, the prize they all eagerly wanted. As the battle writhed to left and right, the three stood firm, daring the enemy to take them on. Casca had two to deal with. The first came at him and Casca blocked the thrust of the bayonet and grabbed the Russian’s gun, pulling it towards him. The surprised Russian came forward and ran straight into a head-butt, crushing his nose and lips. The Russian screamed in agony and sank to his knees, his face a bloody mask. The other roared in rage and sprang at Casca who only just deflected the blow. He took hold of the man’s throat and closed his fingers around his larynx. Fingers that had rowed for years on a Roman galley and had held more sword hilts than he cared to remember, now used their strength to crush the life out of the soldier who was writhing in agony, beating ineffectually at the iron-hard grip. Casca bared his teeth with effort, grimacing at the man he was throttling at a distance of a foot away.
The Russian’s face turned dark and his eyes bulged, and his gaze became unfocussed. Casca let him go and turned round. Paradis was standing over another corpse and Muralt was just pulling his bayonet out of another’s gut. Another Russian lay groaning to one side. The French line though was conceding ground, superior weight of numbers was driving them back down the ridge towards the town.
“The eagle!” Cannard yelled. Casca swung round to look behind him. A group of Russians had avoided the struggles of the others and cut in behind to attack the standard bearer. The sergeant had sunk his axe into the head of the first who’s approached him but three more were now closing in. Casca roared and sprang at them, his butt slamming into the head of the first, sending him staggering back and then over onto his back. The second turned to meet the new attack but Casca had swung his gun round and now sent the point of his bayonet deep into his chest. The Russian screwed his face up with pain and Casca jerked the blade free and stepped past him.
The last attacker had got at Cannard and was wrestling with him, hand to hand. The eagle was waving around and Casca got to the Russian and pulled him off the grunting sergeant. He sent a fist into the Russian’s face, then another into his gut. The man sank to the ground, winded. “Come on, let’s go!” Casca shouted, seeing the front ranks of the French line disintegrate.
Fabvier came running past, wild-eyed and panic-stricken, pursed by a huge green-clad guardsman. Casca tripped him up and slammed his butt into the man’s head as he passed him. Sergeant Cannard had the eagle and led the group in a headlong flight back towards the town, where a second line of men was forming, made up of the Croats in the division. Beyond them Captain LeBois was reforming the company, pulling men roughly into formation. Fabvier tried to scuttle past but the captain caught him, cuffed him round the head and shoved him into line. “Stand and fight, you mangy dog! No Frenchman runs from battle!”
Sergeant Cannard led the small group Casca was part of up to the group and the captain was pleased the eagle had been saved, and congratulated Casca, Paradis and Muralt in helping. Bausset pulled a face as they got back into line. “Oh, well done!” he mimicked the captain. Casca stamped on his foot and Bausset’s mouth opened in pain and he leaned over, unable to stand the pain for a few moments. Begos produced a white kerchief and wiped his face. “Its hot work, isn’t it?” he said.
Casca grinned and eyed the red-faced Bausset. “Something wrong, Georges? Gout?”
Bausset mouthed a sexual obscenity. Casca nodded at Begos. “Think Georges needs one of your kerchiefs. Got one spare?”
“Keep your damned kerchief!” Bausset snarled, standing up, hopping. “I don’t want that perfumed rubbish on my face!”
“Quite refreshing,” Begos said, disappointed. “It’ll attract the ladies.”
“I’d rather not smell like one!” Bausset barked. “I don’t need to smell like a courtesan to attract women!”
“Shut up in the ranks!” Sergeant Cannard bellowed. “Form up, reload and prepare to drive the enemy back up the hill!”
“Here we go,” Casca said, grabbing a paper cartridge from his leather pouch. “This will be a swine.” The Russians were advancing towards the waiting French and Croat troops. Behind the reformi
ng soldiers were a few rude wooden houses, then the bridge that they had to keep open at all costs if Napoleon and the main body of the Grande Armee were to cross to safety. The Croats, to the left, raised their muskets. Captain LeBois turned to his soldiers. “Wait till they fire, then advance ten paces, stop and wait for my order to fire.”
Casca grinned. They were going to give the enemy two volleys. That should give them something to chew on. The leading elements of the Russians were approaching, yelling wildly as they came down the last of the open ground before the town. The houses would funnel them and cram them in a narrow space. Casca watched as the Croats paused, then opened up with an ear-splitting volley. Russians toppled like corn before the scythe, falling in heaps in the roadway.
“84th, advance!” LeBois snapped. They advanced into the rising smoke from the volley, stinging the eyes and coating the back of the mouths with the rotten egg odor. Casca spat in disgust. He counted ten, then stopped. His comrades did likewise and they raised their firearms at the stumbling Russians, clambering over the heaps of their own dead. LeBois came to a halt behind the third rank and raised his saber. “Aim!”
The Russians had got over the carpet of corpses and were now a matter of thirty yards away, their long bayonets seeking throats to open. LeBois’ blade cut down through the air and he screamed the order to fire. Another blistering roar rent the air and more white smoke poured forth from pans and muzzles. Casca saw the ranks of Russians cut down in swathes, but more came on through the carnage.
“Tough sons-of-bitches,” Casca commented.
“Stupid peasants!” Bausset snapped.
“At them! With the bayonet!” LeBois screamed.
Caporal Auvrey screamed the attack and led the front rank at the confused Russians. Two close-range volleys had caused terrible casualties and the front men were waiting for someone to order them either on or to retreat. The problem for them was that most of their officers and sergeants lay dead in piles behind them.
Casca ran headlong screaming and sank his bayonet into the guts of the first enemy soldier who came across his path, driving the man backwards with the force of his charge. The man’s legs gave way and Casca stopped, twisting the blade free as the dead man fell backwards into a comrade. Casca stepped aside one pace and thrust his bayonet at the second man who deflected it up in a panic. A group of Russians had formed up under a junior officer and were reloading, just in front of the dead men that had been killed by the Croats. The street at this point was at its narrowest and turned slightly, the fronts of the houses opening directly onto the mud road with no garden.
Paradis clubbed one man aside and came to Casca’s assistance who now had two men to deal with, a third man having cut down one of Casca’s platoon and turned to take on the Eternal Mercenary who was having a devil of a time trying to stick his enemy. Paradis thrust at the third Russian but the thick-coated soldier blocked it and swung his butt up and it connected with Paradis’ head. The Frenchman cried out and fell heavily to the ground.
Casca now had a problem but suddenly Muralt appeared from the side and ran the third enemy soldier through the kidneys and the soldier screamed and arced his back before falling to his knees. Casca grinned a thanks and now began to beat his opponent back with butt strikes and bayonet slashes alternatively. The Russian, faced with such rapid strikes, could only retreat and he came up against the wall of a house. With nowhere to go he was stuck and Casca sent his bayonet up into his rib cage and the Russian screwed his face up in agony before sliding down the wall lifelessly.
Caporal Auvrey saw the Russian squad loading up and led a group of men to the attack. The Russians aimed their muskets and even as Casca, Muralt and Fabvier began running to help, saw a volley crash out and five Frenchmen were sent falling in a heap. Caporal Auvrey staggered, clutched his chest and fell to his knees. Casca yelled in anger. “Caporal!” He ran to the stricken man and grabbed his shoulder. Auvrey stared at him for a moment, coughed, then fell face down into the mud.
Casca looked up at the Russian squad that was trying to reload. “You bastards!” he screamed and went running at them. The officer, a junior lieutenant, saw the danger and raised his sword, but Casca flung up his musket, blocked the blow and went shoulder-first into the officer, knocking him clean off his feet. As the Russian struck the ground, Casca sent his bayonet into the man’s throat. The officer stared at him, blood spurting up from the wound, and he shook violently for a few seconds, then lay still.
Casca swung round to his left and saw one of the soldiers swinging round to take him on. Casca sprang at him, teeth bared, and his butt smashed down onto an unprotected face, splintering bone, cartilage and teeth. The man screamed in a bubbling ululation and fell back, his hands to his ruined face. To his left Muralt and Fabvier were forcing the rest of the squad back to the pile of corpses, and more Frenchmen were arriving, driving the survivors of the Russian attack into a smaller area. But beyond them Casca could see yet more Russian soldiers advancing, in a more orderly formation.
“Back!” he yelled to his friends. Muralt pulled Fabvier back and the French retreated. Casca picked up the body of Auvrey and carried him back to their lines, alongside the Croats who were preparing to make the next attack. Paradis was sitting dazed on the ground, being tended by one of the orderlies, and Captain LeBois came over to Casca, dismay on his face as well as blood running down his face from a cut in his scalp. “Oh no, not Auvrey!”
“I’m afraid so, sir,” Casca said sadly and deposited the dead corporal on the ground.
“We’ll take care of him, Longue. Go rest. We’re reforming by the bridge.”
Casca nodded and went up to Paradis. “Are you okay, Maurice?”
As the noise of the battle increased behind him, Casca led the still dazed Paradis towards the bridge. There was a bloody mark on the side of his face, but Casca reckoned he’d be okay, if a little stunned for a while. The orderly clucked and fussed but Casca waved him away. “I’m taking you to Marianka; she’ll tend your injury better than that fool.”
Paradis grunted, not really knowing where he was. It took him ten minutes, but he got the unsteady man to the wagon and Marianka took him in, tutting and hissing when she saw the wound. “He’ll be okay, Marianka,” Casca said reassuringly, “but he’ll be out of it for a day or two. I know you’ll take good care of him.”
“What am I, a hospital as well as a shop?”
Casca kissed her, grinned and returned to the tired soldiers waiting by the bridge. Begos was relieved to see him. “Thought you had been killed!”
“No chance of that, Etienne. You heard about poor Caporal Auvrey?”
Begos nodded sadly. “What about Maurice?”
“Dazed but in good hands. What about you?”
Begos said he was fine, and Casca got round to reloading and resting. The battle was raging hard in and around the houses a matter of a hundred yards or two away, and an occasional bullet came their way. Men came streaming back from the battle, wounds of all descriptions on them; some had to be carried by comrades. Casualties were heavy but the French and Croats were not going to let the bridge fall into enemy hands. Italian troops now added their weight to the defense and the Russians were driven out of the town, but the Croat and Italian troops were exhausted.
More Russians arrived on the crest of the ridge as the day came towards its end, and it was clear a final attack was due. General Delzons came up to LeBois. “I need one final effort from you, Captain,” the General said, a worried look on his face. “You are the last formation I have here in reserve able to stop the enemy. I will lead the attack. I trust your men are up to it?”
LeBois nodded, dried blood on his face. “My men are always ready to attack, General.” Colonel Pegot came up and stood alongside the general, Captain Wolinski accompanying him. “The 84th will defend the bridge until the last man, General.”
Delzons smiled and walked slowly to the front and faced the enemy, now walking down the hill in three long lines. “Men of t
he Army of Italy, the Prince himself is watching us,” he gestured to the distant figure of Prince Eugène, sat on his horse on the other side of the river alongside his accompanying retinue. “Let us show him how courageous his army can be!”
Casca grunted, flexing his shoulders. The battle had been a bastard already, the Russians having pushed them four times to the limit, and four times they had been thrown back. Thousands lay dead and the corpses had been pushed roughly to one side so that the roadways to the center of the town were free for the attackers to reach the stubborn defense. At a signal from Delzons the men advanced slowly, silently. They all knew it was the last gasp of a bloody day. “Stick with me,” he muttered to Begos, Fabvier, Bausset and Muralt.
They pushed through the churned up mud of the streets and approached the edge of town. In front of them the land rose up a long grassy slope to where they’d met the first attack that morning. Now it was full of Russians. Colonel Pegot ordered a halt and the men lined up in two ranks. There weren’t enough for three anymore.
The Russians came down and began running, eager to drive the hated French out of their land. Pegot cleared his throat. He had to perform well right in front of the General’s eyes. “Front rank, aim!”
Casca and his colleagues aimed, driving all thoughts from their minds. The order to shoot came and once more the rolling series of sharp cracks came, sending death at the onrushing men. Bodies fell, some to stagger back in pain, other to never rise again. The second rank thrust their muskets beyond the front row and fired, cutting down more. But then the Russians were at them. Delzons cried out encouragements, slashing with his sword, urging the tired men to greater efforts.
Casca pushed and grunted against a strong enemy, his blackened teeth and flattened nose reminding him of some Asiatic nomads he’d encountered in the centuries gone by. It was dog eat dog and no quarter was given. With his musket locked on the Russian’s, and no room available to swing his arms, he resorted to other means. He stamped on the enemy’s foot, then thrust his musket up hard, catching the Russian on the jaw. As another clawed at him to reach his throat, Casca somehow managed to slide the blade of his bayonet up into his ribs. The Russian groaned and slowly sank to the ground.