Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  He was certainly revitalized by the Polish girl. She had offered her body to him and it was now just a matter of time before he took that up. Again, patience. Patience. Shiu Lao Tze would have approved of that. Casca grinned to himself. Maybe he would have approved of the girl as well!

  Auvrey called the men to parade and the soldiers grumbled, hauled themselves off their asses and resentfully ambled forward to the clear space Auvrey was standing in. The caporal indicated the line the men were to take and they shuffled obediently into order. Other units came out of the trees and fields and halted. As they stood to attention the sergeants and lieutenants arrived and took up their places. At last, riding into view, came Colonel Pegot and his entourage. Pegot critically examined the lines of men standing smartly to attention. He stopped and faced them.

  “Men of the Empire, you are on the edge of a momentous stage of our history. You will soon be asked to take part in a great campaign against the barbaric people of the north. People who share nothing with us. They must be taught a lesson, a lesson of respect and obedience. I’m sure that you will serve the Emperor and France with honor and bravery, and follow me into glorious battle! Vive l’empereur!”

  The men all shouted in response, raising their hats and muskets in emphasis. Casca did likewise but felt nothing of the others’ excitement. He knew what was facing them over the border, and it chilled him. How many of these eager faces would be still with him at the end, whenever and wherever that would be? Not many, he guessed. Win or lose, for many of them here, the same fate would await them.

  Death. Oh, how Casca envied them!

  CHAPTER THREE

  Evening had fallen over the flat plains of north-east Poland and those rich and privileged enough to afford it settled down for a sumptuous dinner served by be-wigged servants, safe in their stout stone buildings while outside those from the lower echelons of society scraped meager meals from the scraps they had or were permitted to eat by their social betters. The soldiers of Prince Eugène Beauharnais’ Army of Italy settled around camp fires and waited eagerly for the fare the camp cooks were sweating over.

  Fabvier had delivered as promised and the hare he’d caught earlier that day was served up in a broth with vegetables the men had pulled from fields or purchased as per army regulations from the greedy merchants that lined their route of march, selling at exorbitant prices. Mutterings about merchants were rife amongst the disgruntled men. Whenever they stopped the Jewish merchants of the region appeared, as if by magic, and offered food and items at double or triple the normal asking price. Already the provosts had had to intervene in one or two scuffles over prices.

  Casca spooned down his broth eagerly and then excused himself, leaving the camp and strode into the surrounding darkness, heading for the camp followers field in the near distance. The others nudged each other and snickered crudely at Casca’s departing back, but the Eternal Mercenary didn’t hear them. He made his way swiftly over to the camp and sought out the wagon that contained the plump ‘wife’ of one of his platoon, a man who he knew had a wife in Marseilles but had picked up this rosy-cheeked large-boned country woman from the slopes of the Alps in Austria. She had become the camp fabric supplier and was damned good at making clothing, sheets and blankets. She allowed her man and his immediate friends a discount but Casca wasn’t included as he was outside the small circle that counted.

  He didn’t mind; he was adept himself at various practical skills, something he’d had to learn the hard way over the centuries. When he’d been mortal, before his thirtieth birthday, he’d been just like most of his cohort in the Tenth Legion, unable to make their own clothes or cook decent food. Now he counted himself as an expert in survival, and could reasonably hope to make do in most environments. Of course, from time to time he came across those who were so skilled they made him look foolish, but that was just the way of things.

  He climbed up into the wagon and greeted the Austrian girl. Marianka and another woman were there, trying to talk to each other. At seeing Casca Marianka threw herself at him, arms round his neck. “Oh I’m glad to see you,” she said in Polish. “It’s been hard talking to these women as they don’t understand me; they speak either French or German. I know one or two German words but not enough.” She mock sulked. “I don’t know how long I’ll be allowed to stay here. I think they don’t want me to stay long.”

  Casca looked at the Austrian woman. “Meine Frau,” he switched to fluent German, “I thank you for putting this woman up. Can I count on your generosity in allowing her to stay for a few more days?”

  The Austrian hesitated. She had been intending to ask Casca to find another place for the woman, but she’d been beaten to it. “Very well,” she said unsmilingly, “but in three days she must find a place of her own. I have neither space nor the money to feed her!”

  Casca nodded and smiled. “Thank you. Now if you’ll excuse us, I must speak with Marianka.” He led the Polish girl outside and away from the camp. He relayed the Austrian’s words. “You’ll have to find something to do or sell, just like the rest here, or become dependent on the whims of those who work here. You’ve seen some of them; they’re not what I’d call saints.”

  Marianka smiled. “You’re right at that. No matter, I shall find something tomorrow. Being in this camp around so many people is perfect for me. I don’t want to be seen by those who wish me harm. I haven’t thanked you for saving my life today, have I?”

  Casca stopped her and looked around. They were away from both camps and out of earshot. “Well, you can show me here.” He pulled her down onto the ground and she giggled. “So how grateful are you, little Marianka?” Casca asked softly, untying her dress.

  Meanwhile, not far away, in a collection of buildings dominated by an ornately decorated stone manor house, officers and generals dined with local aristocracy and town representatives. It was a meal dedicated in honor of Franco-Polish friendship and to victory in the coming campaign. Away from the brilliantly-lit dining room a man waited seated in a drawing room, a large once-white handkerchief pressed against his ruined face. The material was stained red, almost matching the felt that lined the chairs and settees that lined the edges of the room.

  The stout door opened and in came a well-dressed man, smartly attired and possessing an air of authority. “Well?” he demanded, staring in distaste at the injured man.

  “Your grace,” the man replied standing up awkwardly, “I was prevented in carrying out your instructions. She escaped thanks to the actions of a cursed Frenchman. He did this to me!”

  “You fool,” the rich man hissed, “this woman could do untold damage to me – and others! What Frenchman, where is he?”

  “Alas, I only know he’s camped a league or two from here. When I came round he had gone and I know not where. Forgive me, your grace.” The man cringed in fear, a figure of abject misery. He looked carefully up at his employer who was clearly furious.

  “Bah! You are dismissed! I shall get someone who can do the job properly. Go, you can flee with your miserable life.” He opened the door and the ruffian fled, happy that he still possessed his life. The rich man remained in the drawing room for a moment, thinking hard. He called out to a manservant, hovering just outside the room. “Go fetch Janusz, tell him I have a job for him.” Smiling, the rich man went over to the drinks cabinet and opened it, selecting a decanter of cut glass and a small glass. He poured himself a sherry and tasted it. Smacking his lips on the rich taste of the produce of southern Spain and thanking Napoleon for diverting the wondrous liquid from British ports to the continent, formed the plan in his mind. Janusz would find the Frenchman and the girl, and take care of both. Janusz had never failed any job given him. Sometimes having a psychotic son had its advantages. Blood meant an enhanced loyalty. Saving Janusz from the gallows had reaped its rewards plenty of times already, and it would do so again. He smiled and waited for his son to appear, and to give him his latest mission, one to silence forever two people. The woman, for reasons al
ready known, and the Frenchman for interfering.

  * * *

  The next morning saw the camp coming to life, ready to march eastwards once more. Casca yawned and stretched, pleased with himself. He felt that satisfied glow inside after a rousing night with an energetic woman. He was tired, but it was a good tired. Paradis grunted. “You look like a cat that’s drunk the cream!”

  “Which is what I had last night,” Casca grinned. He stood up and brushed down his uniform, having picked up dead grass and bugs during the night. “Well, let’s see what today brings. Here come the new boys by the look of it.”

  Heads turned to see a few men march along the trampled path that served as a thoroughfare. A sergeant was barking at the new arrivals, stopping them at intervals and directing one or two to their new places. As they approached Casca’s unit, they stopped again and the sergeant pointed at the waiting men. “This is your new unit. Report to the caporal with your names and he’ll make sure you’re on the payroll. Fall out!”

  Two men stood uncertainly as the sergeant marched off, looking at the curious men crowding in on them. One was a burly, big, dark bearded man from a Mediterranean climate, the other a very smart, clean looking and youthful individual. Casca took both of them in one glance and decided the bigger man could take care of himself. He’d seen the type many times before. The younger man was something different. He looked uncomfortable and perhaps a little scared. “Welcome,” Casca said, smiling. “You’re lucky in joining the best in the 84th. We’re the elite.” The others around laughed loudly. The bigger man smiled, revealing brown stained teeth. “Well I’m in good company then, as I’m just about the best there is!”

  The younger man looked confused. Casca stepped up to him. “Don’t be put off by the welcome. I’m Casca Longue, this is Maurice Paradis.” He slapped the young man on the shoulder.

  The newcomer looked alarmed, then brushed his shoulder carefully. “Etienne Begos,” he said formally and stiffly. “From Dijon. Is there somewhere I can wash?”

  Casca gaped, then looked at Paradis who smirked. “Wash?” Casca said incredulous. “Well, there’s a stream not too far away, but I don’t think you’ve got time before we set off on our walk today.”

  Begos looked dismayed. “I’m simply filthy!” he declared. “I’ve marched for weeks getting here and not often found appropriate quarters. Is this how the army does things?”

  “Well my lovely,” Fabvier cackled from the trees, where he was squatting, “if you like I can scrub your back when you do have a wash!” This evoked huge gales of laughter from the onlookers. Begos colored.

  “Okay,” Casca waved at the men, “enough already. The guy’s not been here five seconds and you’re mocking him. Give him a little slack.” He turned to Begos. “Whatever you may think, this is how it is. Get used to it. Now go find Caporal Auvrey and report. I bet you’ll be back here in no time ready for the march.” He turned to look at the big figure of the other man. “And you?”

  “Georges Bausset. From Toulouse but I quit that louse-ridden hole long ago. Now I call no place home. The army is home, I suppose.”

  Casca knew what he meant. He had no place called home any more. It had ceased to be long long ago, and now wasn’t certain he could even find where it had existed. “Well, Bausset, go with Begos there and report your arrival. The caporal will want to know.”

  Bausset gave Casca a long appraising look, before grunting and following the back of the younger man. Fabvier came up, still buttoning up his breeches, not caring that his genitals should still be showing. “Heh, that one is a pretty boy, isn’t he?” he nodded at the back of Begos. “A rival of yours for the ladies, I think, Longue. But too young, too naïve. I bet he’ll be raped by the first squad of Cossacks that find him.”

  Casca eyed the crude Fabvier with distaste. “He may end up saving your life, Pierre. Go easy on the boy. The big man, Bausset, looks like he can take care of himself though.”

  The unkempt Fabvier cackled again. “Too ugly for the Cossacks to bother with. Yes, he’s one to watch. Looks like killing won’t be difficult for him.”

  Casca silently agreed. He’d seen many who were capable of killing without difficulty. Bausset looked that sort, but he’d soon find out. If so, he was just the man to have on your side and not against you.

  Within a few minutes both newcomers returned and fell in when the sergeants and caporal Auvrey appeared, shouting for order. The soldiers lined up smartly and Casca made space for Begos to stand to his left, while Paradis stood as usual to Casca’s right. Bausset pushed himself into a non-existent space two places down, annoying those he’d shoved out of the way, but Bausset snarled and the two men quickly shut up. After a few moments of totally unnecessary statements as to where they were going, the column turned and began marching off, the camp followers noisily getting under way in the next field. The army was off and therefore those who lived off it, or preyed on it, had to follow. Like a lumbering leviathan, the Army of Italy slowly crawled across the plains towards the frontier, the River Nieman, while other columns came from north or south converging on the same place.

  They camped finally close to the western bank of the river and awaited the command from the Emperor himself, Napoleon Bonaparte, to cross the Nieman and into Russian territory, and therefore start a war. The soldiers were all excited, eager to fight for l’empereur, eager to conquer yet another victim, another enemy of the revolution.

  All, that was, except Casca. For he alone knew of the horrors awaiting them on the other side of the border; the implacable hatred they would evoke from the Russians, soldiers and peasantry alike, the long waterless and supply-less distances between villages, the hostile environment. And finally, thing he dreaded most of all, the damned Russian winter.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  They crossed the Nieman on the 24th June. Casca and his colleagues used the wooden bridge the engineers had put up the night before. The men sang the Marsellaise as they tramped over into Russian land, their spirits high. Casca kept quiet, concentrating on getting back into step once they had got over the bridge, his mind already blanking itself out. He’d known men to go mad at the sight of the endless steppe, a flat horizon from day to day, week upon week, that turned minds in on themselves. It was the vast emptiness of it all that did it, he guessed. He’d seen it many times before, on foot and, more often, from horseback. He’d been with Mongols, Poles, Cossacks and Swedes in this part of the world, and one thing he’d learned was to keep his sight away from the horizon. Keep on marching, tramp-tramp-tramp.

  They stopped for a break and the men broke out, answering calls of nature or airing sweating feet. It was hot and the dust was everywhere. The dust cloud was largest behind, where the detritus of every army came, the followers. A horse galloped out of the hazy cloud and came close, the rider scanning the soldiers. Whistles followed as the female rider passed. She stopped opposite a reclining Casca. “Hey, look what I’ve got!”

  Casca sat up in shock. Marianka was proudly sat astride a brown gelding with a white patch on its forehead. “Where the hell did you get that?” he demanded.

  “Oh, its former owner got careless and so I claimed it.” Casca pressed her for more information but Marianka wasn’t telling. She dismounted and the two embraced and kissed, accompanied by whistles and cheers. Casca stepped back and looked at the horse. It wouldn’t break any speed records but it looked sturdy enough. “You’ll have to feed it, of course,” Casca said.

  “I can take care of that,” she said. “What do you boys need? Food, clothes, equipment?”

  Casca stood in front of her, hands on hips. “Are you planning to become our personal sutler?”

  “Why not? You’ll all need looking after, and most of you don’t look as though you’re really prepared for this part of the world. So, let me find you what you’ll need. Of course, it won’t be free, but I won’t charge what the Jews do!”

  Casca laughed and shook his head. The others gathered round and voiced their approval
. Marianka smiled coquettishly and remounted, making Casca think she’d ridden horses before. Her past was beginning to intrigue him; no peasant woman would be used to riding, so she wasn’t low born. Who the hell was she, and what was it that made her a hunted woman? He watched her ride off towards the dust-covered camp followers who were spreading out amongst the rearmost elements, already offering their over-priced wares to the hungry and footsore soldiery.

  “An unusual woman,” Muralt commented as the group broke up. He was still reserved towards her and for some reason it irritated Casca.

  “Useful, don’t you think, Louis?” Casca said, watching her go.

  Muralt shrugged. “We’ll see.” The Frenchman walked off without a further word.

  * * *

  Further ahead at what passed for the regimental headquarters, Colonel Jean-Gaudens-Claude Pegot slapped the dust from his breeches and waved his two-pointed hat in the air to cool his sweating forehead as he walked underneath the hastily-erected awning suspended between three trees and greeted his staff officers. One he didn’t know, a youngish slim, brown-haired man with a sharp nose and piercing blue eyes. His adjutant introduced him. “Mon Colonel, I present our Polish liaison officer, Captain Tadeusz Wolinski.”

  Pegot saluted Wolinski. “Greetings, Captain. I presume you’ve been appointed to help us negotiate the tricky language and cultural differences between our glorious conquering army and the soon-to-be subjugated populace?”

  Wolinski’s eyebrow went up at the sarcasm in Pegot’s voice. “Colonel, I speak French, Polish and Russian. I can translate between all parties so that no misunderstandings will occur, something I’m sure you wish to avoid?”

  “Of course, Wolinski. Now who appointed you here?” Pegot snapped his fingers and a manservant appeared with a drink. The Colonel threw it down his throat in one go and wiped his mouth before facing the uncomfortable Polish officer. “Well?”