by Tony Roberts
A scream came to him and he was out of the room in a flash. The voice had come from next door and he plunged into the room to see Bausset pinning a Russian woman to the bed and had ripped her dress in two. “Leave her alone and grab what’s of value!”
“Fuck off, this one’s mine!” Bausset snapped. Casca gritted his teeth and advanced on the struggling duo. With one swing of his fist he snapped Bausset’s head back and the big man slipped off the woman who threw him off the bed and poured a torrent of rapid Russian at him. Casca caught most of it and was hugely impressed. There was no language for swearing quite like Russian. She pushed herself off the bed and tried to cover up her breasts but failed. The dress was destroyed. Casca admired her for a moment. If he had the time and the inclination he wouldn’t say no. She was plump, brown eyed, had long brown hair and a slim, slightly upturned nose.
“You pigs! You bastard thieves! This is my house!”
Shame about the temper, Casca thought. “Apologies madam but the fire’s heading this way and if you want to save anything then grab it and get out. Otherwise cook to death in here. Either way, there isn’t much time.”
“Then give me my coat you’re wearing!”
“Sorry, try another one in the other room. I’ll be needing this in weeks to come.”
The woman made a disgusted noise and ran out of the room, holding her ruined dress. Bausset climbed to his feet and stared at Casca. “You’ll regret doing that, Longue. One day I’ll kill you.”
“Shut up and grab something. You won’t kill me because you’re a coward and a bully. I’ll wipe your ass out if you start anything with me, and you know it. Now get on with it, the fire’s nearly here.”
Bausset sneered and turned away. He’d get even one day. He just needed the opportunity. Casca ran out onto the landing and looked down onto the tiled hallway. It was a mass of confusion with soldiers running this way and that, holding all sorts of trophies. The scene was being repeated all over Moscow as citizens and soldiers helped themselves to whatever they could.
Casca pushed out onto the street and put an arm to his forehead. The fire was nearly upon them. Screaming a warning to all he turned and backed away, watching as the soldiers came pouring out of the house. The others of his squad turned up, some with blackened faces, all carrying armfuls of looted furnishings and clothing, and sometimes struggling along carrying a chair or small table. “Back to camp, we’ve got enough here.”
The flames were left behind by the four men as they made their way back towards the camp. Men were coming and going, those heading into town empty handed, those leaving were laden.
Watching the men arrive from the mansion house were the officers of the regiment. Colonel Pegot stood by one large window and watched impassively as the men of the regiment returned from the city carrying their plunder. With him were Wolinski and his adjutant Captain Foubert. “The city burns,” Pegot observed without emotion, “and the soldiers take. How will history judge us?”
“Sir, how did the fire start?” Foubert, an amply built short man queried.
“Who knows? Criminals, a careless act, arson? ” Pegot shrugged. “And by whom? People will say it’s no coincidence the fire began the very evening we got here. But I care not. Here we are in Moscow; the Emperor thinks the Tsar will come to his senses and surrender, and the damned city burns while we watch.”
“It’s disgraceful, looting like this,” Wolinski said, eyeing the returning men. “It should be stopped.”
“How?” Pegot asked mildly, turning away from the scene so that one half of his face was lit in red, the other in darkness. “If I order them not to I’ll have a mutiny on my hands, and General Delzons querying why I stopped the men saving countless treasures and artifacts from the flames.” Pegot smiled cynically and turned back to gaze over the red-filled night.
Wolinski took another look at the men returning up the road towards the mansion and made a disgusted noise. “Colonel, history will judge you French as thieves, arsonists and brigands, mark my words.”
“History can say what it likes; I won’t be alive to read it. Anyway, who can stop them? I won’t and you sure as hell won’t, either. Anyway, I thought you Poles hate the Russians. Doesn’t this delight you?”
The Polish officer shook his head. “The destruction of such a beautiful city is nothing to be delighted over, even if it’s a Russian City. I shall not watch this any more.” He saluted and left.
Casca and his comrades had deposited their loot in their tents. Begos and Paradis looked in amazement at the loot being brought back. “What about us?” Paradis asked, envy in his voice. “Here we are on guard duty and you’re raking it in!”
“We’ll save some for you, don’t worry,” Casca reassured him. “We’re going back!”
“Try to get a painting for me, or some valuable vase,” Begos shouted. “Something antique!”
Casca waved and ran to catch up the others who had already set off down the road towards Moscow. As he reached the branch in the road where one fork led to the mansion house, a figure stepped out and stopped him. Casca recognized him as the Polish liaison officer, Captain Wolinski. He saluted automatically.
Wolinski returned it and then pointed to the mansion grounds. “A word with you, Longue, isn’t it?”
Casca nodded. “You remember my name, sir?”
“The man who has that sutler woman under his protection, if memory serves,” Wolinski said. He led Casca to the entrance of the mansion house until they were at the gates, guarded by two serious looking guards, members of Napoleon’s Young Guard. He turned once more. “As a Pole I do not approve of a Frenchman striking up a liaison with a woman of my country; I would rather I take her under my protection.”
Casca eyed the sharp-faced young Pole. “Sir, you have rank on me, but not even an order can change my mind. Besides, you are the liaison officer, no more than that. I take orders from Captain LeBois and Colonel Pegot. No offense sir, but you don’t have authority over me. I shall not relinquish my protection over Marianka, and I don’t think she would agree to it either.”
Wolinski nodded humorlessly. “Very well. But I shall not let this rest, Longue. You may carry on for the moment, but there will come a time when you will need me and I shall name my price, and that is to take over that woman’s protection. She will do better under a Polish soldier than a French one. Good night. You may carry on with your…..looting.” He ended it in a sneer and took Casca’s slow salute before turning away and returning to the mansion.
Casca turned back down the road and wondered what the hell that was all about.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The fire burned itself out after five days, but the city was a blackened shell. Miraculously the Kremlin survived but most of the wooden houses had gone. Some of the richer stone houses had gone too but most of what survived was in the center.
Some soldiers had perished. Some had burned in the conflagration, some had died at the hands of enraged Muscovites, and blame was being thrown at each group by the other. It was now clear that staying in Moscow wasn’t an option and the army would have to go somewhere before the winter set in.
Casca sought out Caporal Auvrey. “I’m told you used to be a tailor in Paris,” Casca said.
“Yes, I did. Why do you ask?”
Casca dumped the furs he’d looted from the many houses he’d looted onto the ground. “I would like you to start making jackets and hats for the men of my squad out of these.”
Auvrey began laughing. “And why should I do such a thing?”
“To save our lives when winter comes. Do we have winter clothing? No. We’ve got to go somewhere when the Emperor finally decides to quit Moscow, and my guess is back the way we came.”
“Talk round the camp fires is of India,” Auvrey said. “Not much need for fur jackets in India,” he smiled.
“And how do we get to India from here? Fly? Caporal, believe me, these will save our lives. Please, as a favor for me, and yourself. You want anything
in particular as payment? Then say it and I’ll get it for you.”
Auvrey sat and thought for a moment. “You are really serious, aren’t you, Longue? Well, in that case I shall make jackets for each and every one of the squad, myself included!” he smiled. “And I would like tobacco, wine and a new pair of boots as payment.”
“Consider it done, Caporal,” Casca smiled and the two shook hands.
Casca arranged for the furs to be stored with Marianka. He lay with her that evening, talking about small matters, then switched the conversation to the future. “What now for you? Your reason for coming with the French army here is to stay away from whoever is hunting you, and it looks like we’re as far as we’re going to go, so will you return home when we leave Moscow?”
Marianka had nodded. Casca, lying next to her under the blankets, felt a pang of regret, but crushed it. He had no business with staying with a woman, and she would come to regret it. He would have to leave her and the often recalled pain of those who he’d really loved deeply dying had mostly kept him from making that mistake too often. But there were still exceptions, and he didn’t want it happening all over again. Marianka wasn’t the type to settle down with; she had an agenda of her own and it involved politics in Poland, something he had absolutely no interest in. Marianka had then turned to him. “What of you? Will you stay with the army and return to France?”
“No, I think things will be very different after this campaign. Perhaps its time for me to do something different, go somewhere else. But I have a promise to keep first.” He then told her of the massacre at the village in Poland and the identity of the unknown leader of the rabble and the rape of the child. “I’m no nearer finding the identity of the man I’m supposed to find and take that icon from him. I’ve no idea who he is, or if he’s still alive with the army! All I know he calls himself The – something – Rose and is part of this regiment. He joined the unit just before the campaign and is a big man, a strong man.”
“The Rose….” Marianka had shook her head. “I’ll keep an ear out and let you know if I hear anything. You think he might be English? I’ve not heard of any Englishmen in the army and the accents are only French, Italian or Croat. No English. There’s a few Poles too but they’re easy to spot! But I won’t remain in Moscow too long. If Napoleon stays here longer than a month or so I’ll return to Poland without the army. It’ll be too long here, and I don’t want to be caught here in winter!”
The next couple of weeks went by rapidly. Rumors and counter-rumors flew back and forth, but one thing was becoming clear; the Russians weren’t going to surrender with Moscow under foreign occupation. Napoleon was out on a limb with a shrinking army surrounded by growing Russian forces, and the winter was getting closer and closer. The October weather was unusually fine, though, and helped spread complacency in the French hierarchy.
Finally word came to prepare to leave and the soldiers began collecting their loot and equipment and stuffed it into every available bag and pack. What horses remained were grabbed by officers for their bigger and heavier loot, and the wagons of the camp followers became piled high with plunder and a miscellany of items, some that raised the eyebrows of even the most hardened soldier.
There had been a light sprinkling of snow one night during the past week but now the sun beat down on the soldiers lined up on parade in the manicured grounds of the mansion. General Delzons was making his rounds, checking on all the regiments in his division. Casca stood alongside his fellow squad members, thinking that the officers looked healthy and well. The stay in Moscow had been good for them and maybe they’d not been in a hurry to leave because of the good weather and good food. The men hadn’t had such good living, but all the same hadn’t complained about the stay. It had been better than being on the road and in battle.
Casca though knew that this was all about to change, and if they were to get out and back to Poland, they would have to move fast and hope to hell the weather held off. He recalled the piles of stuff loaded on the wagons and in the tents and knew deep down that they wouldn’t do the first, and his instinct told him the second wouldn’t either.
General Delzons walked slowly down the lines of soldiers, inspecting them critically. Colonel Pegot held his breath as the group of over-dressed officers and general staff got to his battalion and began making comments. Pegot hoped to hell they’d hurry up and move on; he hated the over fascination with parade smartness. A good soldier fought like a bastard and marched through all terrain and weather. He didn’t care a damn whether they looked like an unmade bed or a painting. He had about a third of his men left and had no idea how many he’d have left by the time they returned, but they would be the men, not the boys. Reports from units stationed closer into the center of the city had reached him of daily killings from bands of marauding Muscovites and even deserters. Then the two groups had turned on each other and the killings had gone crazy. He was glad they were leaving this burned out wreck of a city. The Russians could keep it.
Casca watched as the general and his group approached. He thought they looked to be in no hurry, and stopped to make comments to the odd soldier or two. He stood stock still as the tall general reached him and then passed. His gaze was fixed into the distance, then he was aware the group had stopped and were looking at Etienne Begos. “You, Private,” General Delzons said, “are the smartest soldier I’ve seen on the whole parade.”
Casca stole a glance at the scene and smirked at Bausset’s rigid features. He was going red. No doubt jealous of the attention the dandy was getting standing next to him. It got worse. Delzons looked at Bausset and sighed. “Pity your comrades cannot follow your lead. Who is your officer?”
“Captain LeBois, General.”
“Write down the name of Captain LeBois and this man,” Delzons ordered peremptorily to his adjutant. “And mention them favorably.”
Begos smiled proudly. “Thank you, General.”
Delzons nodded curtly. “Maybe your example will now be followed by your fellow soldiers?” he looked around at the silent soldiers standing to attention. “You are representing France. You are the cream of the army. You are to impress these savage barbarians here of your superiority. Remember that!”
With that he walked off. Bausset turned to Begos and mouthed an obscenity at him. Begos ignored him and carried on smiling. Casca half-smiled. Let the young Begos enjoy his moment; he reckoned there wouldn’t be much to smile about on the way back to Poland.
The next day the order came to march out of the grounds they’d made their home for the past five weeks and they tramped down the road towards the city center, past the burned out shells of the houses and the huge Kremlin, unscathed by the weeks of occupation. Napoleon had ordered Prince Eugène south-west out of Moscow and to capture a vital crossing point over the River Luzha at a town called Maloyaroslavets so the rest of the army, marching along a parallel road, could then cross without hindrance from the Russians.
Casca looked around at the burdened soldiers, carrying so much they had taken from the houses, and at the lumbering wagons crammed to bursting point. Behind them came not only the camp followers but civilians fearing for their lives at the hands of the vengeful Muscovites. The French community abandoned what had been their homes before the invasion, and those who’d thrown their lot in with the occupiers decided it was better to go back with the French rather than stay and be lynched. “They’ll slow us down,” he commented to Muralt who nodded in agreement.
“Where’s the Russian army, then?” Paradis asked, grimacing at the weight of his pack.
“Out there,” Casca nodded towards the countryside to the south as they marched into the outlying districts. “Waiting. They’ll follow us and nip and bite at us, weakening us until they think we’re ripe for the taking. And the Cossacks will circle us like vultures. They’re the ones to watch out for. Nasty bastards.”
“We’ll beat them off,” Bausset growled. He was like a black cloud amongst them now, scowling and bad tempered most
of the time. He was pissed at Casca and at Begos, and had little time for the irritating Fabvier. All in all, he’d be glad to get back to a civilized country and be able to sell his loot.
Casca reckoned Bausset was in for a shock. His mind turned to the journey back. It was a long one over hostile territory and food would be scarce. He guessed that was why they were marching further south so as not to use the same route they had getting there; most of the countryside there had been picked clean. Then there was the winter to deal with. None of Casca’s experiences of Russia’s winters had been enjoyable. So he’d arranged for Caporal Auvrey to make the furs. Auvrey had come through, and made some beautiful fur coats and hats. He’d taken the best one for him, of course, but Casca reckoned he’d earned it.
Marianka had been delighted with hers and had stowed all the furs in her wagon and hidden them from view. Now she followed the army south west with Wojciech sat alongside her, watching as stragglers began to drop back, laden with their ill-gotten gains. They’d be the first to fall victim to the wolves following them.
Three days out of Moscow the weather turned against them, lashing down in a downpour that turned the road to mud, and men and wagons struggled to keep going. Some fell by the roadside but nobody stopped for them. It was now vital to get on ahead and reach the crossing of the Luzha before Dokhturov’s army did, which was the rumor going round the marching column. Casca hadn’t heard of Dokhturov, but guessed he was some junior general in charge of one of the corps or whatever the Russians had for that.
The occasional narrow bridge over a watercourse caused trouble. Wagons jammed the road and bayonets had to be used to get a clear route over. Nobody was organizing the passage of the troops and it was beginning to look like a free-for-all. Casca’s mouth turned down. Discipline was beginning to go. Not a good sign.
