by Tony Roberts
Casca ran on, counting down the seconds in his head. He had eight before the next one would reach him. The trees beckoned to him, leering at him just out of reach. Six…..five…..four….. Casca bounded up and down, his feet vanishing repeatedly into the white death of the snow. He bent low and grabbed a handful of snow, crushing it into a ball. Two…one…. He swung round and hurled the snow hard at the Cossack who closed in on him, lance pointing at his torso. The snow disintegrated in mid-air, falling apart, but some of it flew at the rider’s head and he ducked, spoiling his aim.
Casca was inside the lance, thus making it useless. His blow went up and entered the Russian’s throat, opening it to the frigid air. The man stiffened and fell back, his throat a mere red opening, and he landed on his back, his eyes staring up into the sky unblinking and unseeing.
Two were now bearing down on him, sabers high. They’d seen how easily he’d defeated the two lance carriers and had thrown theirs away. They’d make sure of this pig. Casca though, was after the horse of the man he’d just killed, and he reached it, launching himself into the saddle and whacking its rump with the flat of his blade. The horse took off like a started deer, Casca low in the saddle, his head close to the horse’s neck. The trees were now close and Casca plunged towards them, the two Cossacks closing on from two sides.
Iuganov was almost alongside his leading men when Casca vanished into the forest. He screamed in fury and dived in after him, five of his men following. Casca found the closely packed trees too much of a hazard and he got off after nearly being struck by a low-lying branch.
He landed on his feet and turned. Two Cossacks were close but separated. The trees wouldn’t allow them to ride alongside each other. The dead leaves crunched under Casca’s feet as he sprang across the path of the nearest one and grabbed a low branch. As the rider came close Casca released it and it sprang back, spooking the horse and slapping hard into the face of the rider, sending him flying from the saddle. The man struck a tree root as he fell and cried out, something giving way in his shoulder.
Casca dived off the path and plunged into a thick growth, out of sight of the milling Cossacks. Iuganov arrived and looked round. “Where did he go?”
“I think he went in there,” one of the others pointed at the thickly packed undergrowth.
“We can’t ride in there after him,” Iuganov snarled. “Spread out and surround the area. Call out if you see him.” He looked at the groaning Cossack, clutching his shoulder. “Shut up! Get your horse and ride.”
“I think it’s broken, Hetman,” he wailed.
“I’ll break your neck if you don’t do as I tell you! What are you, a child? Now ride!”
Casca heard the exchange and grinned. The advantage was with him and he crept onwards, through a group of thick trees to a small clearing that dipped down into a gully, then up again. He swiftly crossed this and slipped round another trunk, staring back the way he’d come. Nothing. He loped on, keeping his ears pricked for any noise. Horses made a lot of noise in forests and he was one while they were many.
He carried on, keeping close to the edge of the forest so that he knew which direction he was going in. Behind him the horses blundered on, their riders chopping down bushes and branches, but generally going round in circles. Laughing, Casca bounded on, heading further and further away until he judged it was safe to break out and make for the road. He burst out of the trees and headed across the white blanket of the fields towards the twisting, winding road. Ahead were a group of French soldiers, plodding westwards wearily. Casca hailed them and was greeted with some astonishment by the tired men, but they were pleased when they heard of his escape from the Cossacks. One of them darkly mentioned seeing a group of French soldiers hanging naked from some trees back along the road. They had had their genitals removed before they’d been strung up. Casca grimaced. He was doubly glad to have escaped.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
He was welcomed back as though returned from the dead – which is what everyone had believed he was. Begos grinned widely and embraced him, and then Marianka flung herself at him thanking him and crying at the same time. Bausset scowled and turned away, muttering about being lucky, while Fabvier shrugged and produced a chicken out of nowhere and announced they were going to have a celebratory chicken broth that night.
Not all news was good though. Minsk was in Russian hands and that changed things. That meant they would now have to change direction to the north-west and make for the town of Borisov across the Berezina river, the last natural obstacle before Vilna. If they could get past the Berezina then they were saved.
The night was bitterly cold and they devoured the broth Fabvier cooked up. It wasn’t looking good and there were fewer and fewer men to march with the colors. It didn’t take long for Casca to get the situation from talking to a few men who’d overheard Colonel Pegot talking to his adjutant. Marshal Victor was falling back in the north under pressure from General Wittgenstein towards the Berezina, while the Austrians had come to an agreement with the Russians that had allowed Minsk to be taken. It seemed that the French allies were deserting them.
Pressing hard on the rear of the remnants of the French army was General Chichagov with 31,000 troops and in the background was Kutusov with the main army. The trap was closing and hopes were now pinned on the bridge over the Berezina at Borisov remaining in French hands. It was currently being held, so the word went, by Polish troops. Marianka stated they would hold as they hated the Russians.
“What if they’re Russian supporters like the Ostrowskis?” Casca asked her quietly.
“Pah!” she spat, “these are Polish soldiers! Not some turncoat traitors.”
Casca shrugged and left it at that. He sat facing the camp fire and thought deeply. “So what will you do when we get to Vilna?”
“Make my way home and organize a resistance to the Russians. I can’t do anything else. My family has nothing as long as the Russians run things, and it looks like they will after the winter is over.”
“And the list?”
She looked at him for a long moment. “I’ll hand it over to the Polish forces fighting for the French, if any are left after this mess. They can decide what to do with it.”
Casca thought she had little chance of success. A victorious Russian army would impose their Tsarist rule on Poland and run it how they liked. Poland would have to continue suffering.
The next day they plowed on towards the Berezina. Their hopes now rested on getting over the river ahead of the Russians. The roadside was littered with abandoned equipment and vehicles, and the bodies of those who had given up. It was a sight that many now no longer took notice of, having seen too much of it to be moved anymore. Marianka rode on the Cossack horse, glad to be off her feet, but the wintery conditions made it tough on the beast. Occasionally they saw someone who’d been unlucky to fall into Cossack hands, it was doubly gruesome, but again they took little notice.
The land rose and fell gently and the snow fell slowly, covering everything in a white blanket. Casca walked steadily, head down, shutting his mind to all that went on around him. But that all stopped in mid-afternoon when shooting started, and the men turned with a groan to see a bunch of Cossacks riding down on them. Iuganov was coming to end things once and for all.
Casca swung into action automatically. The irregular horsemen were trying to pick them off one at a time and separate them. He loaded up, his fingers cold and clumsy, but he did so eventually, cursing at the coldness from the metal that seeped through his gloves into his fingers. It was an awkward business. Many of the soldiers found the loading sequence beyond their physical capabilities, ramrods being dropped or even muskets. Some sobbed in frustration at being unable to fight, and sank to their knees, broken in spirit.
Casca aimed at a Cossack who was riding across his line of sight, lance poised to skewer a kneeling soldier. Casca’s shot smashed into the Russian’s chest and catapulted him off his horse and he tumbled to a bloody heap. Three more were s
hot down as they closed in, but then they had reached the infantry and slashed down mercilessly at the fleeing terrified men, all screaming the Cossacks were here.
Iuganov bellowed in triumph as he closed in on Casca, at last able to take the bastard on. Casca swung round, annoyed he’d let the Russian sneak up on him from behind. He had a vision of flaring horse nostrils, yellowed teeth, clouded breath pouring out of the beast’s mouth and nose and, beyond it, a vague dark shape of Iuganov raising his saber to cut down viciously on him. Casca flung up his musket desperately and leaped sideways. The horse crashed into him, spinning him round, sending him tumbling into the snow, sending it spraying up as the burly warrior rolled away from the downstroke of Iuganov’s blade.
The Cossack Hetman swore violently. He’d missed again. This French bastard was as lucky as the Devil! The Russian pulled his mount round hard to have a second go at him. Casca staggered to his feet blindly, shedding snow as he rose. Somewhere a woman was screaming and shots rattled out in a haphazard manner, but he was focused on getting upright and taking on the Hetman who was determined to cut him to pieces. The French column was in chaos, scattering in all directions in panic. Those ahead carried onwards, glad to be away from the attack, while those behind came to a halt and formed a defensive square, ready for any attack. This left the small group under Colonel Pegot to deal with the Cossacks on their own.
A French soldier screamed in pain and fell across Casca’s line of sight, a lance sticking obscenely out of his back. A Cossack rode past in triumph, seeking a new victim, and Casca swung round, his right shoulder and side throbbing in pain from the blow he’d received from the horse. Iuganov was bearing down on him fast, his teeth fixed in a grimace, intent on killing this man once and for all. Unarmed, Casca was a sitting duck. He went to run to the left but checked and ran hard to the right. Iuganov swung his horse hard round and came at him, saber raised.
Casca rolled and the blade scythed inches above his head. The cold numbed his face as he plowed into the snow but he was uncut, which was what he’d hoped for. A hard object pressed into his thigh and Casca swore at himself. The Cossack sword he’d taken a short distance back! He’d forgotten he still had it. Idiot!
He got up, the blade easily fitting into his palm, and faced Iuganov who came at him once more. This time Casca wasn’t going to run. Iuganov came at him, the horse to Casca’s right, Iuganov poised to strike down hard. Casca swung up as the blow came, ducking and swerving to one side. His blade struck home across the horse’s hind leg, causing it to scream in pain. Iuganov tried to catch his balance as the horse slipped, unable to support its weight on the damaged leg, but he had been leaning to the right and he fell off into an untidy heap.
Casca turned round and advanced through the churned up snow and ice. Iuganov climbed painfully to his feet, his face red. “You whoreson, you will pay for wounding my horse.”
“Come on then,” Casca replied, “I’m waiting.”
Iuganov snarled and struck, but Casca parried, deflecting the blade with a backhand sweep, and followed up with a forehand cut that tore through Iuganov’s coat and shirt, and sliced into flesh and bone. Pulling the blow through angrily, Casca raised his blade again, and sent it down on the uncomprehending Cossack who was wondering why he felt so much pain in the chest and shoulder. The second blow slashed through his throat and cartilage, sending arterial blood spraying out to stain the snow. Iuganov stared at Casca, and slowly sank to his knees, then fell face down at his feet.
The Cossacks stopped the slaughter and witnessed the end of their leader with disbelief. Casca wearily turned to face the nearest of them. “Go take him, and begone! Leave us be.”
One Cossack slowly approached and dismounted. Casca stepped back and allowed the body to be picked up. The Cossack held Casca’s look for a moment, then nodded. “So it shall be. We have lost our Hetman, we will need to find another. Our battle is over, you have defeated our leader.” He bowed low to Casca who returned the gesture and watched as another rider came alongside and helped to drape Iuganov across his horse, then the Cossacks were suddenly gone, riding off into the grayness.
Casca breathed out long and hard and turned back to a scene of devastation. Bodies lay everywhere, and the survivors were huddled in a group a few yards away, staring at him in wonder. Colonel Pegot stepped forward and offered his hand. “A magnificent feat, Longue! My admiration and congratulations!” He embraced a surprised Casca, who hesitantly returned the hug. Pegot beamed and stepped back, then his face fell. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but your woman…….”
Casca felt his heart ache, and it was as if it fell onto its back with a thud. He strode rapidly to the group and saw the strained faces of Fabvier and Begos. Lying in the snow, her face just as white, was Marianka. A deep cut disfigured her furs and blood seeped through to the once white snow. Casca knelt by her side and she looked at him, smiling. “I knew you’d save us,” she said, then her face twisted in pain. She touched her coat. “Ruined! Caporal Auvrey would be cross with me!”
“Don’t talk, keep your strength,” Casca said softly, stroking her hair.
Marianka shook her head and her hands fumbled inside her dress. “I’ve not much time, go see Poniatowski. You know why.” Casca felt something press into his hand. A piece of paper. He knew what it was without seeing it. Marianka nodded once, then sighed and her head slowly slid sideways.
Casca closed her eyes and stood up, his face like stone. Begos put a hand to his face and emitted a muffled sob. Fabvier looked as though he’d been punched, and most of the others looked on sorrowfully. Bausset walked away, his expression unreadable. Wolinski stared at Casca for a long moment before walking up to join Colonel Pegot. Casca put the paper into his pocket and looked down at her for a moment, then turned and searched for his musket. It was lying butt down in a snow drift, the barrel poking up, and he retrieved it. The column was slowly coming back together, and Casca walked past Marianka one last time, stopped for a brief moment, then carried on. Another of his loves dead. It always hurt.
Nobody said anything; there wasn’t much to be said. The road stretched on ahead of them and they resumed their journey, heads bowed, shuffling through the deepening snow. Ahead, they knew, was Borisov and the Berezina, and they had to cross it to safety. A sense of urgency now gripped them. They had to get over and get away from the pursuing Russians.
As evening approached the town came into view, and beyond it stretched the wide and flat River Berezina. But the army was stopped short of the town and men were sat on the roadside listlessly. The column came up to the units ahead of them and the word soon came down the line; the Poles hadn’t been able to hold the bridge and a Russian army was on the other side of the Berezina and holding the bridge.
Their last chance of getting out of Russia had gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
They said Napoleon was a genius; that he could do things nobody else could. He could inspire men to follow him into the Gates of Hell and back again. He could conjure up victories from impossible situations. The little Corsican was not going to let his army be taken by the enemy, and he now used his genius to the limit. The weary and dispirited army was ordered to turn north and march along the east bank of the Berezina until ordered to stop.
Casca knew that somewhere up ahead Marshal Victor was retreating towards them, falling back under pressure from General Wittgenstein, and the extra men he brought would help hold off the superior numbers for longer, but without a way across the river it would only be a matter of time before hunger or failing supplies told.
To make things worse the wind was gaining in strength and driving the snow headlong as it shrieked out of the east, born somewhere out on the steppes of High Asia. Casca knew that place well and shivered. Hard, pitiless country that bred hard, pitiless people. He’d fought for and against them many times. They were welcome to their winter. The wind was to their right and even though visibility dropped with the driving snow, they knew as long as they kept it to
their right they were going in the correct direction.
No words were spoken as they trudged north-west; none were possible and no one wanted to say anything anyway. Casca was sunk in black depression. Marianka was gone and nothing could bring her back. Odd, she hadn’t been one of his great loves of the past, like Lida, Metah or even Adil, but he felt her death just as keenly.
A body lay in his path and he stepped round it. Another who’d just given up and dropped to the ice-sheeted road. How many more would fall he didn’t know but with every death they grew weaker while their enemy grew stronger. He supposed the Russians were affected just as badly by the weather but they had no supply problems while the French did. And losses would be made up on the enemy side, whereas none were forthcoming for Napoleon’s army.
The day was one long enduring session of agony; the cold seeped into bones, numbed faces and fingers. When that happened the only course of action was to knead the flesh back into life or the damage would be permanent. Begos walked head down, often rubbing his youthful face, now covered in black powder, grease, two-inch long stubble and ice. He would have been shocked at his appearance a few weeks back, but not now. Survival was his one aim; he would worry about what he looked like later if he survived.
Casca hoped he would. The young man had grown up during the few months they’d been in Russia, and he’d never be the same again. Casca on his part wasn’t concerned about frostbite. The Curse wouldn’t allow his flesh to die, but he would probably carry the marks of it, the same as he carried those damned scars over his body. So he, too, kneaded and rubbed his numb flesh back into painful life.