The Officer's Prey

by Armand Cabasson

  ‘Typhus? Well, yes, of course.’

  His uniform had very little dust on it because he brushed it off with his hand frequently and carefully. In the same way he stroked his gold epaulettes and his Officer of the Légion d’Honneur cross. When he gave the document back he had a sardonic look on his face.

  ‘So what is Medical Officer Brémond planning to do?’

  ‘He wants to get a clearer idea of the situation, Colonel. He also thinks there are ways of improving prevention—’

  The colonel interrupted him with a weary gesture. ‘Well, get on with it: improve it, improve it.’

  ‘Could you tell me how many—’

  ‘Consult the regimental physician about that.’

  The discussion was evidently about to come to an end.

  ‘Colonel, you must be wondering why I’ve been given the task of gathering this information when I don’t belong to the army medical service.’

  ‘No, I haven’t asked myself that question.’

  Margont’s explanation that he had survived typhus thanks to Medical Officer Brémond remained buried at the bottom of the pile of lies he had built up since the beginning of this investigation. The colonel had turned towards one of the majors. Margont no longer existed so far as he was concerned.

  Contemplating the small circle of officers that surrounded Barguelot, laughing at the slightest of his jokes, the captain declared: ‘I did not realise that you too had been promoted to Officer of the Légion d’Honneur, Colonel.’

  Barguelot looked at Margont again, this time piercingly.

  ‘I was a captain in the 16th Light during the battle of Jena. It was my regiment and the 14th of the Line that in the morning restored the situation on the left flank. Then Jouardet, my major, after taking over the command of the regiment when Colonel Harispe was wounded, handed his battalion over to me. My men and I were at the head of the 16th Light and we were even in front of the 105th, which launched the assault along with us. We swept aside the Hahn and Sack Battalions and took the whole of the Glasenapp Battery – fourteen fine guns that we turned against the enemy.’

  Colonel Barguelot continued his account, going into unnecessary detail, describing the devastating effects of the guns taken from the Prussians or telling how he had saved the life of Colonel Habert from the 105th. He revelled in the telling of his own tale. The officers who accompanied him seemed to be drinking in his every word, though they must have heard this story many times. Eventually, the last Prussians surrendered, Barguelot received his decoration and the tirade came to an end.

  ‘But you said “you too” concerning my decoration. Who were you referring to?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Myself, Colonel. I was promoted to the rank of Officer of the Légion d’Honneur in Spain.’

  The brevity of this announcement disconcerted Barguelot somewhat. How could anyone resist the pleasure of recounting military prowess?

  Margont realised that the colonel’s eau de Cologne – which he used liberally – was familiar to him. Saber spent a fortune getting hold of it because the Emperor occasionally used it.

  Barguelot nodded his head like a horse-trader spotting a good animal. ‘Well, I congratulate you, Captain. It’s always an honour to meet a man of real worth.’

  For Barguelot this sentence had the merit of being a compliment received as much as given. The colonel held out his hand to Margont who, rather taken by surprise, belatedly held out his own.

  ‘Captain Margont, I’ve invited some officers from my regiment to dine with me tomorrow. Please join us.’

  CHAPTER 1 1

  THE afternoon was drawing to a close. In order to spare Nocturne, his horse, Margont had wanted to take a short cut through the woods to rejoin his regiment. Once again he had overestimated his sense of direction and had lost his way. After cursing the Russian forests he reassured himself that even the most inept of people was bound to be able to find an army of several thousand men. The smell of soil and rotting leaves filled the air, and for company he had only the soft sound of hoofs on a carpet of fir needles and moss, and the sharp snap of branches.

  After a short time Margont reached a clearing. It was quite wide, forming a triangle with sides measuring more than a hundred yards. He had emerged close to three sentries, who immediately levelled their muskets at him. Realising their mistake, the soldiers lowered their weapons before saluting him with an obvious lack of military discipline. The open space dipped in the middle and along the bottom of this hollow ran a river that in the summer drought was now no more than a stream. Five grenadiers were filling their gourds and leather water bottles. A little further upstream five chasseurs were watering their horses. One sergeant did not take kindly to drinking water flavoured with horse spittle and straightened up to hurl abuse at the chasseurs. Noticing that one of the horsemen was a lieutenant, he had to content himself with ordering his men to stop what they were doing until the ‘animals had finished splashing around’. Nocturne pulled up sharp when it caught sight of the stream and began to trot down the slope. Margont gave it a friendly pat on the neck.

  ‘Yes, it’s all right, we’re going to have a drink. And, luckily, it’s the 19th Chasseurs. We’re back with our corps.’

  The silence was shattered by confused shouting. Margont saw one of the three sentries go charging down the slope without his weapon. A galloping horseman caught up with him and sliced his head off with a swipe of his sword. Two shots rang out. The grenadiers let go of their gourds and swiftly levelled their muskets. Margont unsheathed his sword and turned round. Fifteen or so Cossacks had sprung out of the forest. Their blue trousers, jackets and caps showed they were regular troops. They yelled as they charged, levelling their lances. The shock tactic was a total success. More shouting compounded the French soldiers’ confusion: other Cossacks had appeared to catch them in a pincer movement.

  The officer leading the assault bore down on Margont. The captain attacked him without mercy, convinced he was about to die. He did not attempt to run his sword through him in case it remained stuck in his opponent’s body, but struck him a fearsome blow to the shoulder. The blade sliced right through to the bone. A young Cossack, armed with a lance, immediately set upon Margont. The lance – which in Western Europe was considered a weapon of the Middle Ages – was longer than the sabre and gave the charging horseman the advantage because it allowed him to strike first. Conversely, in hand-to-hand fighting it reduced the chances of success because it was unwieldy and took away the initiative. Margont faced him and suddenly landed on his back before he could even attempt to parry the blow. Fortunately, the point had only pierced his coat and the thin layer of flesh covering his ribs. Before he had fully recovered his wits, he instinctively rolled over to narrowly avoid being trampled by another Cossack. This one let out a ‘Huzza!’ full of burning anger, and tried to pin him to the ground. His lance grazed Margont’s arm. The Frenchman picked up his sword and rushed towards his mount to grab his horse pistols, vowing to blow the brains out of the next Cossack who tried to spear him. One of the horsemen guessed his intention and galloped towards Nocturne, yelling as he did so. Seeing how reluctant the horse was to give up on its master, he flung the lance in its direction. Nocturne fled at a gallop.

  Margont faced up to the Russian who was charging towards him. This time it would be sword against sabre and, as his adversary was at least ten years younger than he, Margont could reasonably bet on his own superior technique. The Cossack followed the same reasoning and turned tail.

  The Cossacks now scattered in all directions, like a flock of pigeons flying off when a child rushes into their midst. The forest soaked them up immediately, like blotting paper. Three of them were strewn across the clearing. Four infantrymen and one chasseur had also perished. In the stream a grenadier on all fours was spitting blood. The sergeant was supporting another who had the point of a lance still embedded in his thigh. The lieutenant from the chasseurs was pressing a hand to his forehead to stanch the blood that was running int
o his eyes.

  Margont was surprised by the tactics of the Cossacks, who had no sooner come than gone. They had the advantage in numbers, the speed of their horses and their wretched lances. Why did they not continue? Why did they break off a fight that would probably have ended with the death of all the Frenchmen? It was obvious that their aim was to harry. The element of surprise had reduced their losses: if they had persisted they would have paid heavily. They preferred sudden raids to drawn-out action. Margont attempted to lift his spirits with the thought that in a Cossack raid, time was on the side of those under attack.

  The lieutenant came galloping up to him. The poor fellow held his sleeve to his forehead and his face was spattered with blood, making him look like an écorché.

  ‘Captain, would you care to join us in pursuing these bastards?’

  ‘There were fifteen or so on my side. How many were there altogether?’

  ‘Two groups of about fifteen sons of bitches.’

  ‘Do you expect just the five of us to chase after them?’

  ‘They’ve spread out. I’m hoping to surprise a small isolated group who—’

  Margont shook his head. ‘If you set off on their trail and they decide to face up to us, they will regroup immediately. If they prefer to flee, they will scatter in all directions.’

  The lieutenant took his sleeve away from his wound but had to put it back again immediately.

  ‘With your permission, Captain, I shall leave you.’

  Margont gave an impatient wave. ‘Off you go. Go and charge at them if you haven’t had your face smashed in enough.’

  The chasseur went back to his men and led them off towards the woods, sabres drawn.

  Margont was still cursing as he rejoined his regiment. His life might have come to an abrupt end in some godforsaken clearing in the middle of nowhere in the vast empty spaces of Russia.

  Despite his fright, his mind was racing. Four suspects! Why had night fallen already? Why should he have to waste time sleeping when there was so much to be done? The 84th had set up camp on a muddy plain. Some soldiers were already asleep, wrapped in poor-quality blankets and huddled against one another out in the open. Here and there men were pitching tents or collecting deadwood to make fires for warmth and to cook up a miserably meagre broth.

  Margont tied Nocturne to a stake. The animal’s ribs were sticking out from under its skin and its scrawny look was in sharp contrast to its stomach, which was bloated with gas. He stroked its neck a long while. Then he took it by the bridle and led it to a wood where he set it free. Margont wanted to give it a last chance of survival, or at least allow it to die peacefully. Nocturne gazed at him for a long time without moving before disappearing into the darkness.

  By the time Margont caught up with Lefine, Saber and Piquebois, his comrades were roasting a chicken and it took all their combined authority and rank to keep the famished spectres clustering around them at bay.

  ‘A good catch! Who do we have to thank for this?’ Margont exclaimed gleefully.

  Lefine bowed his head. Margont tore a leg off the bird.

  ‘Just now a soldier asked me how many days we were from Moscow. “Four? Five? More? Are you sure?” he said to me. If the infantrymen had maps there’d be three times as many deserters and you’d need to fire a shot to protect this meal. I can’t stay because I’ve still got things to do.’

  He motioned to Lefine to step aside for a quiet word.

  ‘I’ve had a brief talk with Colonel Barguelot. I’ll tell you the whole story later. One thing struck me: this pseudonym “Acosavan” is odd. It doesn’t sound French or Italian. Why not choose a simpler or more believable name?’

  ‘Yes, it surprised me a bit as well. I’d hoped the murderer would have chosen a pseudonym resembling his real name, one with the same initial or a shared syllable. But this idea didn’t get me anywhere. There’s an Alméras, but he’s a brigadier-general. There’s also a Colonel Serrant, who’s in command of the 8th Light, and a Bertrand in the 106th of the Line but both of them have alibis. I really thought I’d got it with Colonel Banco! “Banco” and “Acosavan”: one syllable and four letters in common. But this fellow Banco is in command of the 2nd Italian Mounted Chasseurs and spent a good part of the night of 28 June looking after the animals in his regiment. Another of those who get on better with the horses than with their riders. I can quite understand it, though. When you’re at war you end up preferring animals to men.’

  ‘What name would you make up if you wanted to mislead someone? Knowing you as I do, I assume you’re well versed in such matters.’

  Lefine blushed. ‘I’d keep the same initials.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lefine pointed to the hunting knife in his belt. His initials were engraved on an impressive-looking blade. He had spent a fortune purchasing it in Spain, but the quality of the materials and the skill of the craftsmanship justified the cost. What a shame the Spanish had given up the game they traditionally hunted to go after French soldiers instead.

  ‘So that my belongings don’t give me away. Added to that, it’s very difficult to make up a new signature and manage to reproduce it. With the same initials that’s a good start and you just scribble something after. Not to mention that my initials are part of me and I want to keep them.’

  ‘What a lecture! I suppose you’ve cheated like this before.’

  ‘A bit. But it didn’t involve you.’

  ‘Don’t go on about it or I’ll lose my temper again.’

  ‘So I would choose “François Lechu” or “Francis Lacet”, a name that’s easy to remember – it would be idiotic to make a mistake – but not too unusual or too ordinary, like “Dupont”.’

  Margont nodded. ‘We’re in agreement. But the point is that “Acosavan” meets none of these criteria.’

  ‘If all he wanted was a pseudonym for a couple of days, he must have said whatever came into his head without thinking any more about it. In any case, now that we are down to only four suspects it’s clear that no name bears any relation to “Acosavan”. All this is pointless. It was something to chew on when there were no other clues, but that’s no longer the case.’

  ‘Think about it all the same. We’ll talk about it again some time.’

  ‘How stubborn can you get!’

  ‘Good. Now I’m going to try to meet Colonel Delarse.’

  As Margont was walking away, Piquebois strode after him and caught him up.

  ‘Is everything all right, Quentin?’

  ‘Of course it is. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It’s the expression on your face. You look excited and worried at the same time. My comrades in the hussars and I were like that just before a charge.’

  ‘I got lost in the woods and was attacked by some Cossacks. The devils well and truly sent me to the ground. But all’s well.’

  ‘If that’s all it was …’ concluded Piquebois, looking unconvinced.

  In spite of its losses, the Grande Armée – which IV Corps had met up with at Glubokoe – was still very impressive. There were troops stretching as far as the eye could see. From one end of the plain to the other you could see campfires and tents. The woods overlooking the nearby hills also seemed alive with fires, and the same was true of the crests of the hills further away. This immense expanse of lights seemed to reflect a distorted image of the starry sky. Margont felt reassured. In the face of adversity, the feeling of being part of a group was a source of comfort. He gnawed at his bone, snapped it to suck out the marrow and could only bring himself to throw it away when he reached Colonel Delarse’s tent. The sentry pointed his bayonet at the intruder.

  ‘Halt. Who goes there?’

  ‘Captain Margont, 84th of the Line, 2nd Battalion. I wish to meet Colonel Delarse.’

  The sentry disappeared into the tent and reappeared a moment later accompanied by Colonel Delarse himself.

  ‘Captain Margont. I’ve heard so much about you. Do me the honour of coming inside.’

  Taken ra
ther by surprise, Margont obeyed without a word. Tall but frail-looking, Colonel Delarse was approaching fifty. His energetic, determined movements seemed ill suited to his slight frame. His bony, emaciated face gave an unpleasant preview of what his head would look like once he had been reduced to a skeleton. Delarse looked sickly, weakened and debilitated. He inevitably made one think of his doctor and the medicines he must have been taking. One wanted to express one’s sympathy before suggesting to him that he should lie down to conserve his strength. In fact, the feeling most of all engendered was the desire to get away from him as soon as possible, because he reminded one of death, and one’s own last moments were time enough to be thinking of that. But there was a life force struggling against this generally deathly appearance. His light blue eyes stared out with interest and liveliness. Margont wondered whether such an individual was physically capable of leaping from roof to roof and killing a sentry with a single knife stab. His conclusion was no, and he held back a sudden feeling of anger. What sort of work was this? Shouldn’t this suspect have been ruled out?

  Colonel Delarse sat down on a chair and invited Margont to do likewise. The tent had been carefully laid out. The bed was heaped with numerous blankets and an eiderdown. There were no fewer than three chests. A small desk, placed just next to a brazier, was barely visible beneath a pile of papers: notebooks, reports, drafts and letters. The washroom was hidden by a screen. It was decorated with a classical fresco depicting athletes whose magnificent bodies were in sad contrast to the colonel’s.