Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  Throughout the day they marched, their camp followers either walking, or if they were lucky, still riding in their carts or on horseback. Only the upper echelons could guarantee a mount, and these were dwindling as the weather and conditions whittled them away. A few times during that day some imagined they could hear gunfire off to the west but it was dismissed as imagination or a trick of the wind.

  Snow fell again and the temperature was steadily falling daily. The men were no longer identifiable as soldiers. They were dressed in a bewildering mixture of clothing, male and female; silks, cotton, linen, wool. It mattered not, as long as they were prevented from freezing. The monotonous tramp-tramp-tramp westwards was one long journey of shooting pain up the legs and pounding agony of feeling being restored to hands, faces and feet when they were massaged back to life after they’d lost feeling.

  Men still fell by the wayside, felled by the cold, hunger or despair, or even a combination of some or all of those. They were left to be covered by the snow as the rest carried on, hope a barely registered flickering far back in the eyes.

  The next day they were on the road approaching a town called Krasnoye when they column came to an abrupt halt. Men jerked their heads up to see what it was that had stopped them.

  Men spread out beyond the roadside to see the problem, and a deep rumble of anger and desperation broke out from them. Casca stood on the rutted road’s edge and peered down the long road to a sight he hoped he’d never see.

  Blocking the road was an entire Russian army, thousands of men and hundreds of cannon. They were trapped.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Prince Eugène de Beauharnais stood impassively as a delegation came riding towards him from the Russian forces. Their numbers seemed to fill the horizon, spreading left and right from the road, an impassable barrier. With just 6,000 men it seemed madness to try to break through. He looked at his surviving advisors and senior officers, and they waited, their faces showing a mixture of determination, obstinacy and fear.

  Ahead were the regular army and artillery, while out on the flanks circled the cavalry and Cossacks, like vultures. The Prince surveyed the ragged lines of his men, those valiant soldiers from his Army of Italy, and his heart swelled with pride. He would not allow these men, these brave souls, be taken captive like animals to a zoo and paraded in front of the ignorant barbaric Russians! No, he, Viceroy of Italy, would not surrender!

  The deputation from the Russian general rode up to him, a white flag fluttering in the wind. They were well dressed, equipped with properly tailored furs, unlike his army. They stood for a moment and surveyed his men and their expressions told of their contempt and disgust at how low their enemy had sunk. But etiquette had to be followed, so they gently moved forward until they were a few feet from the Prince.

  “Salutations, your Highness,” the chief negotiator, a thin, balding captain said in accented French. “I bring greetings from the most generous General Mikhail Andreievich Miloradovich. He has 20,000 men before you, and urges you, in the name of sanity and humanity, to surrender your arms. Your men will be treated honorably.”

  “Miloradovich,” Eugène snorted softly. “I certainly won’t surrender to that Serbian whore’s reject!” His staff officers smiled. He raised his voice. “Please return my cordial greetings to the most generous General,” he said evenly, “but inform him that if he has 20,000 men, then we have 80,000!”

  The Russian negotiator stared at the Prince in bafflement for a moment, then made an extravagant show of counting the waiting French, Italians and Croats. He gave the Prince another look, clearly challenging his statement, then swung his horse round and rode off back to his lines.

  Eugène waved to his commanders and passed his orders round. They were galvanized into a flurry of activity and word was passed down the ranks. Casca returned to the middle of the road and waited to hear what was being said. Colonel Pegot soon appeared and waved his hands inwards. “Form column! All of you. In column!”

  “Hell, he’s putting is into one big damned column!” Bausset exclaimed.

  “It worked at Wagram,” Casca said. “Scared the shit out of the Austrians.”

  “That was the Austrians and we outnumbered them,” Muralt reminded Casca. “It’s not the same here.”

  “You were there, Louis?” Casca was surprised.

  “Yes, as a young man. My first battle,” he smiled briefly.

  Casca nodded. He had no idea Muralt had fought there. He wondered what unit he’d been in. Marianka came up to him and held onto his arm, her face frightened. “What’s going to happen? What do I do?”

  “We’re going to take them on,” Casca said, loading up, “it’s going to be noisy and confusing. I don’t know where would be safe for you. The Cossacks are on the flanks waiting for anyone to run for it, so it’d be best staying amongst us and risk getting shot. I’m afraid there’s nowhere else to go.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said, a tremble in her voice. “I’ll stay by your side; if I’m to die then it might as well be here, you peasant.” She smiled to rob any offense in her words.

  “I’m honored, your ladyship,” Casca said facetiously. “Watch how peasants fight. It might be instructive.”

  Up ahead the last remaining ten cannons in the corps were unhitched and swung round to face the Russians. The outnumbered French now waited, waited for the inevitable onslaught.

  Off to the south, amongst the watching Cossacks, Iuganov was sat staring at the spectacle. He had a telescope and was scanning the motionless ranks of the enemy, as were two of his subordinates. “Why doesn’t that bumbling fool attack?” Iuganov demanded, “it’s clear to even a two year old we have an overwhelming advantage. They’d be crushed in no time! All I want is that whoreson scar-faced Frenchman. Anyone seen him?”

  Mute shakes of the head answered him. Iuganov snorted in frustration. “He’s got to be there somewhere. By the Holy Blood of the Virgin, why is it we have frightened morons for leaders? From that fat senile old fool Kutusov downwards, they’re all pissing their breeches at the sight of the French! Attack! Attack you idiot, kill them all!”

  “Sir, there!” one of the two subordinates suddenly exclaimed, pointing, the telescope still to his eye. “Scar-face!”

  “Where?? Where is that motherless swine?” Iuganov swung his scope and centered where the pointing finger indicated. Suddenly the image jumped into view, it was clearly him. “Ha! Got him. Now, all of you keep him in sight and when the French break, ride him down and bring him to me. I’ll be-jewel him and shove a lance up his ass and hang him by the roadside as an example.”

  The Cossacks nodded, keen to avenge the deaths of their colleagues, just as eager to see the end of the big, scar-faced Frenchman.

  At the front of the column the Russian negotiator had returned under the same white flag. Prince Eugène sighed and waited patiently for his arrival. “Yes? Have you come to offer your surrender?” he asked as the Russian stopped before him.

  “I once more urge you to lay down your arms. It is clear you are outnumbered, and Prince Kutusov is nearby with more men and coming this way.”

  “Prince Kutusov?” Eugène queried, staring at his men. “Prince Kutusov? He thinks he’s equal to me?” Eugène scoffed. “The cheek of it!” He turned to the waiting Russian. “Tell your general that if he wants to defeat me, he’ll have to do it the hard way. No Frenchman surrenders. Ever!”

  Now the two forces prepared to fight, and there would be no quarter given. Casca made sure his men were scattered amongst the rest of the group, then told them to wait. It was all they could do. They could go nowhere else. With a blinding roar the Russian guns opened up and shot and shell crashed into the column, cutting down swathes of men and horses. Screams broke out and the men cringed, hoping they wouldn’t be the unlucky ones. Marianka was sobbing in terror but clutched Casca’s furs, refusing to move from the side of her lover.

  The Russians charged forward, determined to flatten the stupidly
obstinate French. As they closed the order to raise weapons passed down the column. Casca swung his gun to the left, where the overlapping Russian infantry was turning inwards towards the side of the column, giving him a clear view of the floundering men pushing through the field of snow, in some places knee deep. It would slow them down. Guns were firing ahead but Casca waited for the approaching enemy to get in range. “Steady,” he heard Sergeant Cannard say calmly. “Wait.”

  The Russians came closer and Casca could now pick out a target, a soldier with a flapping coat and running with a high knee action. He centered on his chest and waited. “Fire!” Sergeant Cannard barked.

  A rippling throaty volley crashed out. Russians span and fell into the now red-stained snow. Casca’s target staggered, flung out his arms and fell sideways into the snow, twitching. Casca hurriedly fumbled into his case and pulled out a new cartridge. The oncoming Russians were rushing past their fallen comrades and closing in for the kill. Casca reckoned he’d have time for a second shot. His ramrod pounded the ball down the barrel and he withdrew it, slipping it back into place. Cocking his musket, he poured the remaining powder into the open pan and raised his musket, just as the first enemy soldier came at him. Casca’s hurried shot blew the Russian back at a range of ten feet, so that Casca could see the ball’s impact in his ribs, puncturing them and sending the soldier flinging backwards, arms outflung.

  Now the Russians were at them. Marianka squeaked in fright and cowered behind him. Casca jabbed at an opponent, keeping him back, while a myriad of shouts, curses and cries filled the air all around. People shuffled sideways and back and forward in the struggle, neither side willing to concede ground. Snow sprayed as feet slipped, and clouds of discharged powder and expelled breath floated up from the mass struggle. And joining it was a growing cloud of steam from the bodies of the combatants as temperatures rose from men fighting for their lives.

  A Russian attacked from the right, spearing for Casca’s chest but he knocked it aside and head-butted the Russian, crushing the nose. The soldier screamed and staggered back, hands to his face. Another came at him but missed and Casca pulled the Russian forward, knocked him down with a punch to the head and knelt on him, pressing his face into a puddle of mud and slush, teeth gritted. Marianka watched, her eyes wide and horrified, hands to her face, as the Russian’s breath bubbled out through the puddle and his thrashings slowly subsided, then he was still.

  Casca got to his feet and another Russian came at him, bayonet aimed for his throat. Casca dodged it hurriedly and rammed a fist into the man’s gut, then chopped him on the neck with his other hand, using one of Shiu Lao Tze’s old moves. The Russian’s eyes turned up into his head and he sank to the ground. Casca reached for his fallen gun and stood up, just in time to see Muralt take a bayonet in the chest. The Frenchman yelled in pain and staggered back, so Casca lunged, sinking his blade into the triumphant Russian’s side. The enemy soldier arced his back, then fell to the ground, clutching his wound.

  Casca knelt by the side of Muralt, who looked up at him, blood dribbling from his mouth. “Louis,” Casca said helplessly.

  “Adieu, mon brave, vive la….,” Muralt gasped, then his head slipped to the side and his eyes went still.

  Casca groaned, and stood up. He turned and spied one enemy soldier pushing back another Frenchman, and he advanced on him, ducking to get a clearer go at him, and sent his bayonet deep into the enemy’s ribs, angling up into the heart. The Russian fell and suddenly they were backing off, perplexed the French weren’t giving in. Bodies littered the road and the fields next to it, but the French were unbowed.

  Casca panted, blood splashed on his face from one of his victims, and he turned back to the body of Muralt. Paradis and Fabvier were there too, sadly looking down on their friend. Bausset came up, cleaning his bayonet and grunted. “At least he died fighting.”

  “Yeah, that he did,” Casca said.

  Marianka was crying and leaned on Casca’s shoulder. “It’s dreadful. How do you stand this time after time? Poor Louis, he….he was run through so horribly!”

  “This is war,” Casca said. “This is what happens. We peasants follow the wishes of the nobility and their power games. They argue over a piece of land, they go to war and we are their soldiers. That’s what happens.”

  “Stop it!” Marianka snapped.

  Casca stared at her, then bent and picked up Muralt. He carried him off to the other side of the road, and laid him gently by the roadside, his musket along his body and his arms crossed over his bloodied chest. There would be no time for burial, and the ground was far too hard for that anyway.

  He returned to find the men preparing for a second attack. Miloradovich had rallied his troops and now sent them back to crush the enemy, but this time in waves. He’d wear them down bit by bit and then send in his cavalry to finish the job. The one problem he had was the light; it was poor and night would come soon. No matter, if it took until the following day, he’d smash these fools.

  “Here they come again,” someone said and the soldiers prepared themselves.

  “This time fire in ranks,” Sergeant Cannard said. “Keep those vermin at arm’s length.”

  The Russians closed in and the hand to hand fighting broke out ahead. Once more the envelopment meant Casca’s unit got into the action later, and they waited until the first of the attacking soldiers closed, but this time they stopped and aimed for a volley before charging. Both sides fired simultaneously, and Sergeant Cannard jerked upright, a red hole suddenly appearing in his forehead, and he fell backwards, dropping the eagle. In an instant another sergeant grabbed the eagle and raised it once more.

  The Russians came forward and were met by the second rank’s volley, and they melted away, to be replaced by another wave. The men had no time to reload and once again it was hand to hand combat. Casca blocked the charge of a man with no front teeth, and wrestled with him for a second, then pushed him back and swung the butt of his musket up into his throat. The soldier fell heavily, blood running out of his mouth. Two more advanced, and Casca took on one while Paradis took on the other. The two Russians were tough and wiry, and Casca had to use his superior strength to force his enemy backwards. He then used the Russian’s force against him, suddenly backing off and the Russian, off-balance, fell forwards, and received Casca’s boot on the back of his head, twice. There was a dull crack the second time and the man went still.

  Paradis had a problem though, and his opponent turned him round and pushed him away. Before Paradis could get his balance back, the Russian’s bayonet had been thrust into his stomach, and Paradis folded over in agony. Marianka screamed, and Casca stepped forward, fury on his face. The Russian pulled the blade out of the gasping Frenchman and went to impale Casca, but the Eternal Mercenary smashed the attack aside and elbowed him in the throat, hard. The Russian’s eyes went wide and Casca send a fist down onto the man’s head, sending a shock wave through his body. As the Russian’s legs gave way, Casca picked him up by the throat and closed his fingers, squeezing hard until the Russian had stopped struggling and his face had turned black.

  He threw the lifeless rag doll aside and turned to see Marianka cradling Paradis in her lap. The young man was looking up at the sky and mouthing some words but no sound came out. Marianka looked up at Casca, stricken and shook her head. Paradis’ eyes closed and the woman stroked his cheek softly, misery on her face.

  Casca reloaded automatically, all feeling in him gone for the moment. Two of his men had just been killed, and someone was going to pay. A luckless Russian sergeant provided the perfect opportunity, goading his reluctant conscripts into the attack as yet another wave approached. Casca ran the barrel down until it was pointed at his chest, then he squeezed the trigger. The sergeant fell backwards, his gun spinning lazily in the air.

  Iuganov watched as the battle raged back and forth. “They just don’t give up,” he said in puzzlement, “are they insane?”

  “They’re not men,” one of his men said,
awe in his voice, “they are devils.”

  “Devils that can die,” Iuganov said. “and one devil in particular I want dead.” He had watched as Casca had killed man after man, and despite himself, had admired him. “It will be a pleasure to kill such a warrior. To defeat such a man will bring me honor and prestige.”

  The darkness was closing in, and finally the Russians had pulled back, a pile of bodies marking the pitiless fight. Marianka remained close to Casca’s side and they all slumped in exhaustion, grateful to have survived the struggle. But their numbers had shrunk and one third of them lay dead on the road. It was clear they wouldn’t survive another attack. Begos sat on a dead Russian and stared helplessly at the dead Paradis, lying neatly arranged on the road. “How many more will fall?” he asked nobody in particular.

  Bausset looked at the dead man. “He’s just the first of the rest to die,” he said darkly. “You might as well say your prayers.”

  Colonel Pegot arrived, dirty, disheveled and bloodied. He seemed in one piece, however. “Get your men together and get rid of any unwanted and unnecessary equipment. We’re going to sneak around the Russians into Krasnoye.”

  “Sneak? All of us?” Casca asked, surprised. “It’ll be a miracle if we manage it.”

  Colonel Pegot smiled. “What other option do we have? Come on, form in line.”

  Casca shrugged and ushered Bausset, Fabvier and Begos into a line, joining the forming units in front and behind. Marianka took up a place next to Casca silently, her face streaked with tears. On a command from one of Pegot’s staff officers, they set off to the right, off the road in the wake of the men ahead, towards the woods that stood a short distance to the north of the road. Word came back that a Polish colonel attached to the Prince’s staff had suggested the plan and Eugène, having no other plan, had agreed to it. So Captain Wolinski led the survivors into the woods and swung west, in a bold attempt to sneak past the Russian sentries.