Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  The second rank now volleyed, Casca amongst them. The smell of powder was thick in the air. More Russians toppled; it was difficult to miss, so closely packed the enemy were. Ramrods rattled into barrels as the defending French reloaded frantically. “Both ranks fire when ready!” Auvrey screamed, stepping back to the second rank.

  As the Russians closed Casca brought his musket up again and aimed at a yelling man heading right for him, bayonet fixed. Casca’s shot took him through the sternum, shattering the bone and bursting apart the upper rib cage. The ball lodged deep in his chest and the Russian staggered three more steps forward before falling over onto his face. Two of his comrades stepped over his body, mustaches bristling with fury, teeth bared in a grimace of hatred, and they closed the last few feet. Paradis, having only just reloaded, now fired from his kneeling position. The shot smashed into one of the enemy’s groin, turning the penis and testicles into red jelly, and the man screamed and folded over, quite beyond fighting any more.

  Casca thrust forward as the surviving Russian reached them, intending to impale Paradis, and Casca’s bayonet slid into the man’s neck, spearing deep into the body. The Russian gurgled, clutched his wound, then fell backwards, blood spurting up in a fountain. Suddenly a cheer went up from the flank and new French formations swept into the Russians and sent them stumbling back towards the woods. Casca stood watching as the Russians were routed and then turned to see the situation around him. Piles of dead Russians lay there, with a few French bodies. All his comrades were unhurt, but Begos looked white and Paradis was shaking.

  “It’s okay, it’s over,” Casca said above the sound of moaning and crying out of the wounded. Here and there a man moved feebly, trying to attract help or to move away despite their wounds. Paradis gulped and breathed in deeply. Casca looked at Auvrey who stepped out and looked along the lines. “Stand easy,” the caporal ordered and went away for further orders. They had taken the enemy position and now the battle had passed into the woods where more shooting could be heard.

  “I’m exhausted,” Begos said, sitting on one of the cut down trees. He examined his tunic and pulled a face full of dismay. “Sorry about this,” he said, “don’t know what came over me.”

  Fabvier cackled, busy looting a corpse. “You didn’t like seeing his guts spread out over the ground. Plenty more of that to come, you’ll see.” He lost interest in Begos and rummaged through the tunic of a dead Russian. Bausset broke wind and yawned. “Told you they’re shit,” he announced.

  “Try telling that to those poor bastards there,” Casca nodded at the French dead, lying just in front of the barricade. “It cost us enough to take this position, and by the sounds of it the Russians aren’t giving up yet. This wasn’t an easy win. Looks like we lost almost as many as they did.”

  “But we won. Told you we would. We’ll kick their arses all the way to Moscow and back, you’ll see.” Bausset sneered at Casca and looked around for something interesting to loot.

  Muralt shook his head and sat down. “He’ll learn the hard way,” the veteran said softly, and began cleaning his musket. Casca nodded in agreement and waved Paradis over to him. The bearded youngster came over, apprehension on his face. “Look, the best thing you can learn is to keep a clear head and follow my example. Stick close to me and follow my lead. Don’t rush things and follow orders. You think you can do that, Maurice?”

  “Yes, Casca. I’ll do better next time.” Paradis looked crestfallen. His first battle hadn’t gone anything like he’d thought. It was a sobering experience.

  “Okay, good. Come on, lets clean our guns before Caporal Auvrey comes barking at us. And you, Etienne, clean your musket.”

  They rested and took stock where they were for a while, then were ordered to bury the dead. The tally was fairly even once the fighting had stopped in the woods as night approached. The Russians retreated in the darkness, leaving 3,800 behind, while Murat and Delzons between them had lost 3,300.

  That night they camped on the battlefield. Fires sprang up, fuelled by the dismantled barricade, and Casca was surprised to see Marianka pull up on a wagon led by two horses. In the wagon were a number of barrels, crates and boxes, all full of food, ale, water and other equipment. “Where did you get all that?” he demanded.

  “You wouldn’t believe what this army is discarding behind it,” she replied, jumping down and embracing him. “I’m happy to see you survived the fight; I was worried you may have been hurt – or worse.”

  Casca laughed briefly. “No chance of that! So what have you got in that wagon?”

  “Lots – all for sale for the right price.”

  Casca chuckled. “You hoping to make a fortune out of the army? Well I must say you’ve become quite the cantiniére, haven’t you? You’ll be the company café from now on!”

  “Of course,” she smiled and jumped back onto the wagon, throwing off the tarpaulin covering much of the contents. “I trust you’ll make sure nobody takes advantage of me.”

  “Except me, of course,” he grinned.

  Marianka giggled and bowed so he had a view of her cleavage. “Of course.” She began unloading the crates of cheeses and sausages and Casca helped with the heavier casks of ale and eau de vie – the water of life – she had amassed. A thought struck him. “Hey, Fabvier, you weasel; you been helping her collect this stuff?”

  Fabvier cackled from his seated position by one of the fires and he pulled out a small string of sausages from his tunic. Casca laughed and shook his head. “How can you fail with a poacher like Fabvier?” he said to Marianka.

  Once the wagon was unloaded the soldiers came drifting around to see what they could buy. Casca received a free ration and sat on the board of the wagon eating the spicy sausage slowly, savoring its taste, watching the men haggle over buying some of the wares Marianka was selling. Most eyed Casca and behaved, but Bausset tried it on, as Casca expected.

  “So, can I have this on credit?” Bausset boomed out, dangling a string of sausages in his hand.

  “No,” Marianka snapped, intimidated by Bausset’s size and general demeanor, which made a rabid dog seem pleasant in comparison. “You don’t seem to sort to trust with credit.”

  Some of the men gathered round laughed but Bausset scowled. “In that case I shall take them anyway, my little sweetheart.”

  Casca had heard enough. He jumped down and confronted the smiling giant. “Alright Georges, enough. Hand them back.”

  Bausset spat on the ground between Casca’s feet. “You fucking take them if you think you’ve got the guts, which I doubt, you whore’s suckling.”

  Casca laughed briefly before sending a right up under Bausset’s ribs. The big Frenchman grunted and staggered back, amazed at having been hit so hard. Casca wrenched most of the sausages out of his hand, although two were squashed beyond redemption. Casca passed Marianka the saved ones back, just as Bausset roared in rage and charged. He took Casca under the arm and sent him sprawling to the ground, Bausset on top, arms flailing. “I’ll tear you to pieces you whore fucker!” Bausset screamed.

  Casca rolled, sending the Frenchman falling off to one side. He got up and as Bausset gained his feet, sent a right blurring against Bausset’s face. Bausset shook and grunted. That hurt! Both men stepped back, giving each other space. Casca decided on a little psychology. He slowly unbuttoned his tunic and then his shirt, throwing them to the ground, baring his multi-scarred and hugely muscled torso. As the gathered men gaped at the sight, Bausset included, he flexed his frame, exercising his muscles. Marianka, not having seen his body in daylight, ran her tongue over her lips. Oh, what a body!

  “What happened to you to get those scars?” Bausset demanded, fingering the soreness on his face.

  “Bear. It came off worst. You’re a baby compared to that. Want to try me?”

  Bausset considered his future. He’d never been hit so hard before. This man was truly as strong as it had felt, and it looked like he wasn’t afraid to take him on. Bausset wasn’t stupid. It
was probable this scarred madman would humiliate him in front of everyone which wouldn’t do. He laughed. “Not if you wrestle bears for a living, Casca! I’m not that stupid! My apologies to your good woman. I shall repay for the loss of those sausages. I offer my services to help load and unload these supplies for a week! Do you accept?”

  Casca shrugged. It wasn’t he who’d been insulted. He glanced at Marianka who nodded, still enthralled at Casca’s torso. She felt weak. Even though she’d had him already, it made her want him again. Tonight she would have him, and this time know what she was riding! It made her shake slightly.

  Casca nodded and Bausset grinned, pleased he’d wormed out of a sticky situation. He’d help alright, but maybe one day he’d sort Casca out and then rut that bitch good. She deserved it. He’d bide his time. In the meantime, he’d be helpful and appear to be a good friend, until it was time to change to his advantage. Casca grabbed his clothes and began putting them back on.

  The others formed an orderly queue and nobody dared question the prices Marianka asked for. Once the rush had finished the officers ambled over for drinks and they set up chairs and small tables and began playing cards. Marianka saw the money they wagered and soon worked out who was worth credit and those who weren’t. Casca sat with her on the wagon while Bausset loaded up the empties in the back. “What do you think of them?” Casca asked, nodding at the laughing officers, swapping tales or wagering on the next turn of a card.

  “They’re just men like you. They have their weaknesses and strengths, they just move in different circles. They may have greater riches, but in the end they need to buy from me just like Bausset or Fabvier there. Don’t worry, I’ll always keep the best stuff back for you and your friends, and charge them less.”

  “So you should!” Casca teased her. Marianka punched him on the arm and Casca grabbed her and threw her onto her back and began kissing her. She responded and sighed as she brought her arms round his neck.

  Later that evening as the men broke up and began to return to their units, Casca walked back to his tent a short distance away, wondering what the future of Marianka would be. This campaign wouldn’t last for ever and then Napoleon would send the army elsewhere. Would Marianka come with him or remain close to her native Poland? What would become of Poland? Would Napoleon allow it to once more become a kingdom, or would he be content to let it exist as a French protectorate? How would the Poles react if he did that? Would they turn on the French? What would Marianka do if that happened? And what of the man wanting her dead? He shook his head. Too many questions, not enough answers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The heat was bad and the dust kicked up by the thousands of disintegrating shoes and boots found its way into throats, eyes and noses. It was irritating but not as irritating as the swarms of mosquitoes and horseflies that feasted on sweat and flesh and drove man and beast mad with pain and swellings.

  Casca was untouched by the latter and pitied the mortals around him. They would know worse than this, he mused, but for now their misery was concentrated on the blood-drinking insects that attacked them at every opportunity. He worried about the distance they were taking; after the short, sharp fight at Ostrovno hopes were that Barclay de Tolley would engage the main French forces at Vitebsk, a fair sized city sat on the eastern bank of the River Luchesa, a wide, lazily flowing stretch of water, but when the invaders woke on the morning of 28th July, they found the Russians had yet again faded away like wraiths.

  “Why don’t they stand and fight like men?” Bausset growled, his beard matted with dead insects. “Fucking cowards, they don’t deserve to call themselves an army!”

  “They’re sucking us into the heart of Russia,” Casca answered, his attention firmly on the ground. He didn’t want his eyes full of grit. The Curse didn’t stop anything like that! “They did the same to the Swedes a hundred years ago and then smashed them once the winter had decimated the Swedish army.”

  “How do you know that?” Muralt asked suddenly, swinging his capped head round. “Do you study history?”

  “I’ve read a lot,” Casca countered, reasoning that it was the best possible answer. Stuff that had been contemporary news to him at the time was now history to those around him. It was odd trying to separate what to him had been the big news of the day to what then had gone on to become history. He still made that mistake, even after all the years he’d been around.

  “How far will they go?” Paradis asked, his voice muffled by a white mask he’d made out of a rolled-up long sock.

  “Moscow?” Casca shrugged. “The south? Plenty of maneuvering space, even with all the men we have.”

  “At the rate we’re losing men we won’t have an army to fight them by then,” Muralt said gloomily and turned back to look ahead at the back of the man in front of him. Muralt had a point; when the army had occupied the abandoned Vitebsk, a roll-call had revealed about a third of the army had gone, either dead, wounded or deserted.

  Bausset snorted. “Rubbish! All the ones we’ve lost are children and weaklings. We’ve got men with us now, good Frenchmen who’ll whip these cowardly dogs all over Russia. All we need is to catch them up and give them such a hiding they’ll come whimpering to the table begging for peace.”

  “I’m tired of this dust,” Begos said, as dust-covered as the rest. He had become something of a spectacle each evening as he ritually cleaned and made himself smart as a new pin. He ignored the jibes and fastidiously completed his work each time. Even Bausset had gotten fed up with poking fun and merely sneered from a distance. The ferret-like Fabvier on the other hand, seemed to delight in getting filthy and made no attempt to wipe off the dirt. He often cackled to himself as they marched along the road and some of the men wondered if the man was going mad.

  Casca hadn’t known these men for long. Paradis was the one he’d first befriended when joining the unit two years ago and the others had gradually become known. Bausset and Begos were the newest additions of course, and he was only slowly forming an opinion of them. None so far caused him concern but Fabvier was the one who made sure he wasn’t in the firing line in a fight. He may have to check on the cutpurse if and when they got into another battle.

  They stopped, men falling out gratefully to either side of the six foot wide smear of dirt that jokingly was called a road. NCOs came walking up the center barking out orders for individuals to fetch water, go scout to left or right or to perform some other command. Auvrey strode up to the platoon and jabbed a long finger at three men to go find food in the surrounding fields and then stood in front of Casca. “You, Longue. Up!”

  “Caporal?” Casca stood up correctly and subconsciously straightened his uniform and appeared as parade-correct as he could, given the dry, dusty conditions. He had no idea why Auvrey had suddenly picked on him.

  “I have a job for you,” Auvrey smiled in a way Casca didn’t care for. The others in his unit eyed the two warily, wondering what in the name of hell was coming. They all regarded Casca as a good soldier and someone they saw as one to rely on, even if one or two didn’t want to admit it.

  “Caporal,” Casca clicked his heels, musket vertical and still. Auvrey disliked this ‘perfect’ soldier, a man he couldn’t intimidate or find fault with. So, a job nobody would think of volunteering for. “Longue, I need a scout to go out ahead and find us a source of drinking water. The men are thirsty and supplies are getting low. We are going to rest here for the next two hours. I want you back by then with the location of water. Clear?”

  “Yes, Caporal.” Casca wondered where in the hell he could find water in this wilderness. His memory of the area was hazy and sketchy, and desperately he wondered if any rivers were close by. “Two hours.”

  “Get going then, no time to dally here.” Auvrey held Casca’s look for a moment, then frowned. Something bothered him about the clear blue eyes. They were carefully neutral but something in them vaguely warned him to be careful. He stepped back and watched as the soldier crossed the road, stepped thr
ough the lines of resting men into the fields beyond and then walked on ahead, musket cradled loosely in his hands.

  Some of the men resting watched as Casca loped through the grass but lost interest fairly quickly; their own discomforts took precedence. Casca knew somewhere ahead was the River Dnieper, a huge watercourse, but how far off he wasn’t sure. Knowing his luck the entire Russian army would be waiting for him on the other side. He kept on going and soon was far enough away from the army to be out of sight.

  The land was flat and scattered with woods and forests. Mud tracks ran in all directions, proof that here, at least, farmers and peasants used these routes regularly. They would have run for safety ahead of the advancing French, or been ordered away by the Tsar’s officers. The ground was firm but at least he wasn’t subject to the dust clouds on the road, for which he was grateful.

  After half an hour he rested, sitting on a fallen tree, taking a drink from his canteen. Close by was a line of trees and normally this pointed to some sort of watercourse, maybe a stream or brook. He got up, wiping his brow, and walked over towards them. As he got close he heard voices, and so he slowed, crouched lower and checked his musket was loaded and ready to fire. He then crept forward and passed into the wood, the voices just ahead.

  He edged round a thick tree and saw that, indeed, there was a stream. Sat on the bank, tending their horses and drinking themselves, were men Casca hoped he wouldn’t see but knew he would. Men in baggy trousers, open fronted jackets and colorful shirts, armed with a selection of lances, swords and knives. Each of the five men wore beards and wide flamboyant mustaches. They also looked as hard as nails, and Casca knew that they were.

  Cossacks.

  These were a small scouting group by the looks of things, and they appeared to be from the south. Casca grimaced. This would make things tougher now. These irregular horsemen were a nightmare. Savage, pitiless, loyal to their clan and their Hetman, their warlord, they had been made subject to the Russian Empire only after a long drawn-out conflict, and the Tsars readily acknowledged the use these people had in their army. So they let them loose on the frontiers of their realm to the east and south where law and order were subject to local traditions, not the more civilized centers of Europe.