by Tony Roberts
Casca thrust forward, the point of his bayonet sinking into the rider’s chest, just under the armpit. The Russian shrieked and writhed like a landed fish. Casca pulled the blade out and the rider fell off onto the ground on top of a French corpse. Without hesitating Casca drove the blade into the man’s throat, pinning him hard while his lifeblood splashed out. Fabvier drew out a knife and slit the man’s throat, then proceeded to rifle through his clothing. Casca jerked the bayonet free and swung round to the right. A second Cossack was hammering down on a Frenchman’s raised musket, splintering the wood. Casca pulled the man off his horse and stamped on his head twice. After the second one, and after hearing a faint crack, the man lay still.
Iuganov saw that and roared in rage. “You whoreson French dog! That’s my cousin!”
“Oh shit, you!” Casca responded in Russian. “Well shut up and come here to die like your precious cousin!”
“Dog!” Iuganov spat, foaming at the mouth, and spurred his mount on. The French line was wavering, having been hit hard by so many, but most of the Cossacks were either down or had withdrawn, finding it too tough to crack. Casca stood in front of Fabvier, still looting his victim, and Paradis who was sat down holding his head, having been struck by a passing horse.
The Cossack leader bore down on Casca, screaming in rage, his saber raised high. The Eternal Mercenary moved forward and slammed the butt of his gun into the horse’s head, stunning it. Casca staggered from the force of the blow, and Iuganov tried to cut his head off, but the stumbling horse threw him and he landed in a heap amongst the fallen. Casca saw the Cossack climb to his feet, murder in his eyes, and the rest of the battle became irrelevant. Now this was all that mattered. One man against another.
Throwing his musket aside, he picked up a Cossack sword. He smiled, once more a familiar weapon in his hand. Guns were all very well, but only the blade judged if a man was a true warrior. Anyone could kill at fifty yards, but could a man kill someone face to face with a sword?
“Prepare to die, you French pig,” Iuganov snarled.
“You talk tough but can you fight tough?” Casca retorted, standing in front of a dazed Paradis. Fabvier had scuttled behind Casca and watched, on his knees, in fascination.
“Just watch – and learn!” Iuganov ended with a scream as he attacked. His scything blow was deflected aside and Casca transferred his weight from one foot to the other and began swinging his blade in a counter blow. Iuganov leaped aside in shock as the tip of the sword tugged at his baggy jerkin. He’d never faced such an attack before. He stood, legs planted wide and a cautious look on his face. Maybe this wasn’t going to be easy.
Casca feinted with a stab to the head and then withdrew and struck upwards from the waist intending to cleave the Cossack’s jaw in two. Iuganov snapped his head back and stepped back three paces. Now he was on the outside of the square which was reforming.
“A curse on you!” he snarled.
“Already done, you ugly lump of horseshit.”
Iuganov growled deep in his stomach and channeled it into a scream of anger, thrusting forward and slicing sideways, hoping to disembowel the stout Frenchman, but his blow was blocked and he was pushed backwards. “You’re going to die,” Casca stated and advanced. Just at that moment a Russian came galloping forward and interceded, picking Iuganov up and onto the back of his horse.
“Damn you, stay and fight,” Casca said.
“Another time, dog lover,” Iuganov said, “this is not finished!”
The Russians galloped off, leaving the field to the French, who all relaxed and stared about in wonder, grateful to have survived the attack. Casca cursed and threw the sword down and picked his gun back up. He checked on Paradis. “You okay?”
Paradis nodded, getting shakily to his feet. Casca looked round and saw bodies on both sides, but most of the infantry had survived. The Russian cavalry attack had failed, and now the battlefield belonged to the French. It was just a matter of how many more would die in the center as Davout pressed his attack against stubborn resistance. Cannons roared, cutting down scores of men but both sides refused to back down and the butcher’s bill mounted.
Captain LeBois came round and checked on the men. Casca assured the officer he was okay, despite the dried blood on his ripped uniform. He’d almost forgotten the wound he’d got early that morning as they’d charged the village. Now the action had died down a dull ache reminded him of yet another wound. He’d lost count of the hundreds he’d received over the centuries. Lucky it wasn’t a bad one. How would he explain away surviving one that’d kill anyone else? He put it to the back of his mind. No point in worrying about it.
LeBois had some bad news. “I’m afraid to say, men, that Brigadier Huard was killed today. He will be buried with full honors. In the meantime Brigadier Nagel is assuming temporary command of the regiment. We are to rest now and move off tomorrow. It is clear the Russians are retreating, and our advance on Moscow will continue. Vive l’empereur!”
Some of the men cheered but Casca didn’t feel like joining in. It hadn’t been a well fought battle, and he’d expected Napoleon to do better. As it was, 30,000 French and 44,000 Russians would eventually be counted as casualties of the battle. Napoleon and his officers would call it the Battle of Moscow, but the world would later remember it as Borodino.
Evening came and Casca made his way slowly back to the wagons. He was tired and ached from head to foot. He wanted sleep badly, but would see Marianka and let her know he was fine. Besides, he had had enough of Bausset’s coarseness and Fabvier’s cackling, and wanted the softness of a woman after such carnage.
He knew something was wrong when Marianka came running to meet him as he approached. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh God! Thank God you’re here,” she breathed, throwing herself into his arms. She then told him about Chantel. “Nothing was stolen from the wagon; it’s as if she was the target of some madman! Poor girl. Wojciech and I buried her in the woods over there.”
“She’s blond like yourself,” Casca commented, “and roughly the same height. Alright, she’s a little thinner but from behind you could be mistaken for each other.”
“What are you saying?” Marianka put her hand to her mouth.
What I’m saying, Marianka, is that maybe you were the target, not poor Chantel. Maybe she died by mistake. Maybe your hunter has caught up with you.”
The Polish woman looked at him with fear. “I-I hoped that it was a robbery gone wrong, but-but you may be right.”
Casca led her to the wagon. “So now perhaps, Marianka, is the time you told me just what the hell is going on. Who is pursuing you, and why?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Moscow. The spiritual capital of the Russian Empire. One of the largest cities of the world, a prize any invading army would be delighted to take, dominated by the magnificent onion-domed Kremlin with its multi-colored spires. And the Russians had left it for the French to take it unopposed.
“Why didn’t they fight for it?” Begos wondered aloud to the others as they marched through the silent streets. Most of the houses were of wood, but the closer they got to the center, the more the buildings turned to huge stone edifaced constructions; the mansions of the rich, the municipal buildings and the like. Casca didn’t reply; his mind was more on the conversation he’d had with Marianka the previous week, just after the battle at Borodino, when Chantel had been murdered. His thoughts turned back to the conversation and the revelation about Marianka.
“What do you know about the political situation in Poland?” she’d begun, sitting down on the back of the wagon. Casca joined her and propped his musket against the wheel.
“Well,” he shrugged, “just that you used to be a nation and now are shared between Russia, Prussia, Austria and France.” He knew a bit more, but wasn’t going to let on. He wanted Marianka to tell him, and hopefully unearth why she was being chased across Russia by a madman wanting to kill her.
The Polish woman smiled sadly an
d brushed her blond hair back away from her face. “Simply put, and much too simple for today’s Poland. We used to own huge areas of Russia and Prussia, but over the centuries we lost land and so when the ambitions of Russia’s empire building met Prussia’s and Austria’s territorial hunger, we found ourselves in the middle and without friends. Oh, France supported us, but then they fell into revolution and we were left with nobody to stand up for us. So we were partitioned.”
“Partitioned?” Casca echoed, and then nodded. “I read about that somewhere. Russia and Prussia and sometimes the Austrians agreed on slicing Poland up and swallowing it.”
“In three separate treaties over the space of twenty years or so. Simply put, we were erased from the map of Europe. Then came Napoleon and he defeated the Austrians and Prussians, and forced them to surrender the heartland around Warsaw, and created a ‘protectorate’.” Marianka laughed bitterly. “Protecting whom? We weren’t consulted, and we merely swapped one ruling power for another. The only changes were we were now paying French taxes instead of Prussian, or Russian, or Austrian.”
“Okay,” Casca said, “that’s the background. But why the hell is someone trying to kill you and what had this to do with Poland’s recent past?”
“I’m coming to that, if you’ll let me explain!” she said acidly. “I was born in eastern Poland, ruled by France but formerly ruled by Russia. When I was sixteen I became a stable hand at the big local landlord’s estate, a Count Ostrowski. Now Ostrowski’s family were recent beneficiaries of the political changes, being installed by the Russians in place of the family that had long owned the land under Polish rule, the Bartelskis. Following me so far?”
Casca nodded. Marianka cleared her throat. “Well, I have a confession to make to you; I’m a Bartelska.”
Casca sat up straight. “Ahhhh…. I can see a clash of interests here.”
“That’s not the whole story!” Marianka replied. “The Ostrowskis support Russia. My family supports an independent Poland. If Poland gains self-rule once more our family will regain what is rightfully ours, and kick the Russian-kissing Ostrowskis off and back to the kennels they belong to!”
“So why become a stable hand at their place?”
“To see how they were treating the place, to spy on them. They support Russia, and want a Russian victory. And I needed work, my family is now so poor! So I did it for money, too. I’d rather work for Poles, true Poles, not Russian-lovers! I managed to discover a list of Russian supporting Poles in the region from old man Ostrowski, and he found out, so I had to flee for my life. He sent out an assassin to kill me, which is when you saved me.”
Casca puffed out his cheeks. “And here you are in deepest Russia!”
“I thought it would be safe going to the place they never suspected, but obviously Ostrowski found out and has sent another assassin after me. He knows where I am and my life is in danger.”
“In that case I’ll have to assign a guard to you. Hold on,” he stopped as a thought came to him. “How did you get this list? I would have thought it was a closely guarded secret.”
Marianka shrugged, a half smile on her lips. “I’m fairly good looking and Ostrowski had the eye of a typical man, so….”
Casca laughed. “So you screwed him. Like you needed my protection so you screwed me.”
“Don’t make me sound like a whore,” she protested, “I had to do it for my own life!”
Casca hadn’t said much more on the subject. She was quite prepared to use her body to get what she wanted, and her dreams of regaining her family’s rightful place was first and foremost in importance. A French soldier’s protection while she was in Russia was merely a stage of that. Casca was okay with that attitude; he had no intention of having Marianka in tow once this war was finished. “So where’s the list now?” he’d gone on to ask.
“Safe,” Marianka smiled, wriggling her body.
“Yeah, until your friend turns up, slices your throat open and searches your body.” Any idea who it is?”
Marianka shook her head, once again sober-faced. “You’ll make sure I’m safe, won’t you?”
“There’s only so much I can do,” Casca said. “But I’ll see what I can do when we stop for the nights. I think I’ll be able to persuade one or two to keep a watch out.”
When Fabvier had heard of Chantel’s death he had reacted quite uncharacteristically. He had wept and raged impotently at the killer. Casca wasn’t sure if he really was as upset as he claimed but it did seem the little man was shocked at Chantel’s death. It hadn’t been too difficult to persuade Fabvier to sleep under the wagon every night from then on with the bribe of the possibility that Chantel’s murderer may return.
Casca was then free of the worry about who would guard Marianka on the nights he was on guard duty. He still stayed with the woman on those nights he had off duty, and nobody came visiting, much to Casca’s – and Fabvier’s – disappointment. But Casca had the feeling the murderer was out there still, waiting, watching.
His thoughts returned to the present and the march through Moscow. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been here, but it was many years back and it had grown from being a forest town to the biggest city in all the Russias. He therefore craned his neck at the buildings as much as the others did. Watching them were groups of sullen Muscovites. Casca didn’t fancy walking alone at night through the streets. Something perhaps to mention to Caporal Auvrey.
They turned north and marched smartly up to the district of Petrovskoie, and were directed to set up camp in the grounds of a particularly large mansion house and the parklands next to it. The sutlers and camp followers made their ragged way into the fields beyond and soon a sea of tents and other improvised shelters had sprung up.
Begos nodded towards the mansion house in the near distance. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Casca gave it a cursory glance. “It’s alright, if you like that sort of thing. No point in wishing for that though, the officers have requisitioned it. By now they’re probably helping themselves to the wine and the paintings on the walls.”
“And the maid servants,” Bausset added, making an obscene gesture with his hand. “Wouldn’t mind sampling one of those Russian bitches myself!”
Fabvier cackled. “And give them the pox? Is that your contribution to spreading the great French revolution to the masses?”
“Wait till I get my hands on you, you little turd!” Bausset yelled and pursued the cackling Fabvier out of earshot. Paradis groaned as Caporal Auvrey approached. “He’s going to put me on guard duty tonight, I know it!”
Casca grinned. “About time too. I’ve had three in the last five nights. My time off, I think!”
“You’re thinking too much of that sutler woman,” Muralt observed, checking his uniform and scowling when he realized a button had come off. Damned cheap zinc things!
Caporal Auvrey did pick Paradis, and Begos to do guard duty that night along with six others in the platoon. There were groans and grumbles. “Okay, okay,” Auvrey faced the sullen men. “It’s a new city, the natives are restless and we don’t want uninvited guests. Another thing, Longue here has pointed out the streets may not be safe for any of you alone, so if you do go sightseeing, do it in twos or even better, threes.”
Casca ate his meal with the others but then excused himself and made for Marianka’s wagon as night fell. The nights were closing in quickly now and the air was becoming chill. Casca frowned and looked at the sky. It was mid-September and the cold of the winter wouldn’t be far off. If Napoleon wanted to end things he’d better do so fairly rapidly.
Marianka was relieved to see him and Wojciech left, grinning impishly at Casca. The boy usually slept in amongst the wine barrels, and Marianka had complained he often smelt of alcohol in the morning. Casca laughed at that; the boy was taking full advantage of the opportunity. They were just getting off to sleep when Wojciech thumped on the side of the wagon. “Wake up! Wake up! The city’s on fire! Look!”
Cas
ca dragged on his breeches and tumbled out, grumbling. He stopped and stared south towards the center of Moscow. The sky was red and from east to west aglow with the flames that were spreading.
Moscow was on fire!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The men ran towards the threatened house. People were running this way and that in the streets, screaming and shouting, and the soldiers pushed the panic-stricken townsfolk aside. The word had gone out and it was save as much as you can! It was the signal for a mass looting, and soldiers grouped together to ransack houses. Casca was grouped with his platoon and they assaulted the stout door of the stone building they had singled out for their attention. The flames, fed by the mass of wooden houses, was heading their way so they’d have to work fast to get anything of value out of the place.
Casca led the way, hammering at the door together with Bausset, and the door splintered inwards and then they were in! “Louis, the cellars!” Casca shouted to Muralt. “Pierre, the back of the house!” Fabvier nodded and ran along the central passage to where the kitchens were. “Georges, you and me upstairs” Casca said to Bausset. The other men of the platoon spread out into the downstairs rooms, yelling in delight at the possessions they grabbed hold of.
Casca pointed out a large room to Bausset and plunged into another. This was a bedroom and reasonably decorated. Casca ignored the table, chairs and bedding; he was more interested in the wardrobes. Wrenching a door open he came face to face with a series of clothes. He rapidly pulled aside those he wasn’t interested in and then saw something of interest. “Ah-ha, a fur coat.” He grabbed that and put it on. He looked ludicrous but he didn’t care. Throwing open some drawers he found fur gloves and a fur hat. The rest he threw onto the floor.
