by Tony Roberts
He decided to take out the middle one. The Cossacks saw the musket coming up to Casca’s eye and they all spurred their mounts to the attack. Casca’s shot shattered the silence of the scene and the Cossack flung up his arms and pitched back off his horse to lie in the snow. The other two closed in on the French soldier to spear him from two directions, but he was moving, not away from them as they expected, but towards them! They hadn’t come across this before and they had to readjust. The one to the left, whom Casca had picked out as his second victim, realized he was being attacked, and tried to cut across the Frenchman’s path. Swinging his musket hard, Casca cracked it across the horse’s head. The beast shied away and stumbled, stunned. Swinging his musket round Casca ducked under the rider’s spear as it was thrown in a reflex action, deflecting it up past his shoulder. The third Cossack now bore down on him, lance poised, but Casca feinted left then dodged right and the thrust passed him harmlessly.
He grabbed the spear and hauled hard, pulling the shocked Cossack off his horse. As the man crashed into the snow, Casca was on him in an instant and drove his bayonet deep into his back. The Cossack’s scream was muffled by the snow and he thrashed for a few seconds, then went still.
Casca swung round and saw the second Cossack had trouble with his stunned horse. He ran up to it and struck it again. The beast collapsed, trapping the Cossack’s leg. Casca came up to him and loomed over the prone man. “Your unlucky day,” he said in Russian to the helpless man.
“The scarred man!” the Cossack exclaimed.
“You what? Oh, yes the scar. You’re hunting me?”
“Hetman Iuganov wants you for himself!”
“Oh that ugly toad. Well son, you can go back to him and tell him he can hunt me all the way to Paris if he likes. He won’t catch me. And if any of you are stupid enough to try to get me, you’ll die like your two companions here. Now, go and tell this Iuganov he has the brains of a mule and the features of an ox. And that’s insulting an ox.”
He pulled the dazed horse off the man and sent him on his way with a kick up the butt. The Cossack ran as fast as he could, determined to tell the Hetman his quarry was ahead of him. Casca snorted as the Russian fled and turned back to help Begos back to his feet. “Come on Etienne, let’s get us a horse or two to ride back to Smolensk. Two standing around here doing nothing.” He grabbed both horses, led them to Begos who held onto them while Casca finished off with the two dead Cossacks, leaving Iuganov a message. Begos pulled a face and looked away. Then Casca came over, helped Begos onto the saddle of the first horse, mounted the second, then led the uncomfortable man away towards Smolensk.
Iuganov came riding hard when his scout finally got to him, and they galloped into the clearing the fight had occurred and stopped dead, staring at the sight that greeted them.
Two Cossack heads were hanging from the trees, swinging in the wind, blood staining the snow beneath them. Iuganov slowly got off his horse and walked up to the two obscene tree fruit, glassy-eyed and sightless. He swore. “This bastard afterbirth is mocking me! He will have to die! Do you hear me? DIE!”
They rode west hard, determined to catch the killer of the two men, but as Smolensk came into view, saw nobody. Their quarry had once again escaped them. Iuganov thumped the pommel on his saddle and spat at Smolensk. He turned to one of his men. “Go ride north and tell that spawn of a diseased buzzard Platov that the French have gone west to Smolensk, like I said. We will remain in this area to make sure there are no excursions out from the city in this direction – not that there will be.”
As the man rode off, Iuganov and his men slowly walked their horses closer to Smolensk, knowing their day of catching the scar-faced Frenchman would have to wait a little longer.
Smolensk was a mess. The destruction the invading French had wreaked hadn’t been cleared and most of the houses were uninhabitable. People stared out from rubble, upturned items of furniture and holes in walls they had made their homes at the two riders, covered in snow. They slowly made their way through the city, past groups of people huddled around fires and corpses of dogs, horses and people left where they had fallen to die, untended and uncared for.
Here and there groups of soldiers marched, trying to keep order, but this only extended as far as the line of sight. Murder and robbery were commonplace, over the slightest thing. A possession here, a morsel of food there. The rider stopped one group of soldiers and asked them directions. They were pointed in the right direction and about ten minutes later pulled up in front of a group of disbelieving men and a woman.
“You found him!” Marianka gasped, her mouth wide open.
Casca leaped off his horse, grinning. “What did I tell you? If I said I’d do something, I usually end up doing it.”
Begos was helped off and staggered as his feet hit the ground. Muralt and Paradis guided him to their fire and a large pot of stew. Casca eyed that. “Pierre. Where did you find the pot?”
Fabvier cackled, sat on an upturned box, stirring the brew which smelt wonderful even at that distance. Casca nodded, waving a lax hand. “Okay, okay, don’t ask, I know.” He looked at Marianka who looked pale and thin. “How are you doing?”
“Okay. Cold, but the stew will help. We’ve had to chase off a couple of groups already who wanted to take it.”
“Well, they can’t have it. I’ve two horses here. We can use them on the journey back west. You have one, the other can be for our equipment, what’s left of it!”
“Oh,” she beamed, “you’re too kind!”
“Like to show me how grateful you are?” Casca smiled rakishly. Marianka slapped him weakly. “Too cold for that, and no privacy!”
“There’s that,” Casca conceded. “What I need now is a bellyful of nice hot stew.”
They all sat down and feasted, and listened to Begos’ tale of his rescue and the fight against the Cossacks. Casca half-listened, not really interested in the finer points. Begos was getting back to something like his old self though, and that was good to hear. He’d rescued one man. Now he had to get them all out of Russia.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Smolensk wasn’t a place to stay in long. What decent buildings that remained were taken over by Napoleon and the senior members of the army, what was left of it. Casca heard from Colonel Pegot that only 6,000 remained of the IV Corps. They’d lost 2,500 crossing the River Vop. The other corps were only marginally better and slowly over the next few days a few stragglers and deserters entered the city, and immediately formed bands of opportunists, stealing and hunting the weak and unwary.
Casca arranged for a barricade to be thrown up at the entrance of the burned-out house they had appropriated so that nobody could enter, and one of their number was put on guard at all times. The next two days saw some organization come back into the shattered remains of the army. Beef, rice, flour and some spirits were doled out from the reserves of food that had been gathered in the past few months, and passed round to all the units still under command. No deserter or straggler received any. More of the platoon congregated around the house, it being one of the better defended places. None of the French wanted to have their throats slit at night by one of the roving bands of vermin that emerged at dusk.
Casca got hold of a thick blanket and draped it across the gaping doorway of one of the rooms off the hall and Marianka enjoyed some privacy. One of his squad sat on a box in the hallway and made sure nobody invaded that room without permission. Colonel Pegot came round with his few aides including Wolinski the second afternoon and called the men around. “We are going to leave the city in stages over the next few days,” he announced, looking at the expectant faces around him. “Tomorrow the corps of Junot and Poniatowski will depart down the Orsha road, then the next will be The Emperor and the Guard. We will leave in three days and we will be followed by Davout and lastly Ney. It is hoped we will keep one step ahead of the Russians, but the order of march has been ordered so that we won’t all be caught at once and will be able to come to the ass
istance of any other should trouble rear its head.”
The men made no comment. There really wasn’t much to be said. They would do as ordered, and hope their trust in their leaders would save them. There was only the lure of escape to the west left for them; the campaign was dead and lost. If they got out it would be a miracle.
After the Colonel had left Casca joined Marianka in her room. She had arranged her furs as a bed and wrapped herself in them at night. The sky was clear that afternoon and Casca shivered. The night was promising to be a swine. Temperatures would fall terribly low.
“Do we have any hope in getting out of here?” she asked, lying in her furs.
“Yes, as long as the army stays together. Morale has been badly hit and discipline has gone to the dogs, but a few of us remain loyal to the colors and to the army. It won’t take too much to destroy that, though. I’ve been in some bad positions in my time but this is one of the worst.” He thought back to some dicey situations, and accepted it all with a shrug. How do you worry about getting out of Russia with her armies closing in all around you in winter when you’ve had your heart cut out on top of a Teotec pyramid? Or even been buried in a tomb in China for seven years? Or come to that been imprisoned for thirty years by the Inquisition, chained to a wall and tortured? He cared little himself. What worried him were those he was trying to protect. Those scruffy unshaven filthy men out in the hall or even the blonde woman at his feet. As he cleaned his musket, his mind went over the route they would have to take to get back to Vilna.
They were going down the Orsha road, and at that town would cross the Dnieper. That was one barrier less, then they would make for Borisov which stood on the banks of the next river, the Berezina. After that they could carry on the same direction to Minsk or swing north-west and make directly for Vilna. It would still be a week or so of marching until they got to Borisov. Then they’d have to find out there where they were going. Casca thought Minsk was a safer bet, as it was a supply base and untouched by the war, and was closer. The only problem was that the Russians knew it too and would try to take it.
“You’re quiet,” Marianka’s voice broke through his thoughts. “Worried?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” he answered. “Worried for your safety.”
She smiled. “Ever the gentleman. For a rough soldier, you’re a surprising one. Nobody would guess you’re low born, considering your knowledge and education. No offence,” she smiled again.
“None taken,” Casca said. He never really held much by class or caste. He’d been a god in his time, a baron, general, warlord, centurion, slave and anything else possible. It made no difference to who or what he was, so position mattered not a damn to him. If he was called low born it didn’t make a difference to him. If someone else had a problem with that, then it was their problem, not his. “You’re a surprising one too, if you’re from nobility. Screwing a rough low born soldier isn’t exactly what I’d expect from someone of your ‘position’.” Casca stole a quick glance at her, then pretended to concentrate on cleaning his gun.
Marianka moved her body. “I’ve told you before, that is because I had to for my survival. I wouldn’t touch you back in Poland. If we get back and I return to my family, I won’t acknowledge you should we pass in the street.”
“Your gratitude is so very touching, woman. You realize your life is still in my hands? Your survival is still dependant on my skill and strength.” Casca put down his gun and looked at her.
“I’m aware of that, you ugly peasant,” Marianka said, smiling at him again, “and I’m quite prepared to put my superior social position behind me for the moment.”
Casca grinned. “Oh you scheming little….. bitch.”
“You love it,” Marianka thrust her breasts forward. “You want me, don’t you?” she giggled.
“Damn you, yes,” Casca growled, getting worked up. The killing and death around him always got to him and the chance of screwing a pretty woman was never passed up. He untied his breeches and advanced on her. She eyed his physical attributes and wet her lips. “Mmmm, I like getting warmed up against this winter weather,” she said huskily.
Casca threw himself on top of her and loosened her dress. “Now show me how dependant on me you are!”
She giggled and threw her arms around him, pulling him into a long passionate kiss. Casca responded and the next couple of hours went by unknown to them.
In the hallway Fabvier, sat on the box, listened to their noises and laughed silently. He imagined him with the sexy Pole but it wasn’t something he’d ever get, so he shook his head and settled down on guard duty as the darkness fell and the cold seeped in through the rough barricade into the house.
Casca was awoken by shouts and shots. He grabbed his musket, lying on the charred chair he’d put it down on and grabbed his clothes. Marianka grabbed her furs and threw them around her, alarmed at the noise. “What’s going on?” she squealed.
“Dunno,” Casca said dragging on his breeches, sucking in at the frigid air. “Damn, it’s cold!”
He slipped into his uniform and then furs, grimacing at their coldness. No matter, in a few minutes they’d warm up. He looked at the woman, shivering in her furs. “Stay safe, I’ll be back.”
He thrust aside the blanket and hissed as the full impact of the cold night struck him. It was well below freezing and anyone outside would only last a few minutes before needing a fire. It was inhuman, yet four of his platoon were at the barricade aiming out. “What’s going on?” Casca demanded, moving up to the group.
“Damned robbers. Tried to break in,” one of the men said. Muralt was there too and he nodded in agreement. “A group of about ten, armed with clubs and stones and torches. Tried to set fire to the barricade. Claude here shot one.”
Casca clapped Claude on the shoulder. “Well done. Anything stolen or broken?”
“Not that we can see.” Muralt sniffed and withdrew from the barricade. A metal brazier was glowing further down the hall, resting on what was left of the tiled floor. Most of the men had been sleeping around this when the shots had come. Now they were all up and waiting for any developments. “Okay you lot,” Casca waved them back, “excitement’s over. Go back to sleep.” He nodded to Muralt who sat back down on the box in the hall and rubbed his hands together.
“Very cold tonight,” he commented. “Coldest I’ve ever known. You?”
Casca shook his head. He’d once frozen in an ice-bound cave in the Alps and been entombed there for years. “I’ve been colder, but this is pretty bad. Don’t stay away from the fire for very long, Louis. Your blood could freeze.”
Muralt grunted. “Even with these furs I’m perished.” He got up and walked stiffly to the rear of the house where the brazier glowed. Casca looked up at the charred staircase and decided to go up. Some of the platoon were up there, resting on the blackened and charred floorboards and beams. The left hand side of the house was in a very poor condition but most of the floorboards were intact the further to the right and to the back it went. After the first few tentative steps upon getting up the stairs, Casca was confident of his footing and made his way to the back and stared out of the hole that was once a window. The darkness over Smolensk was broken here and there by fires, around which would be people. Nothing could be seen moving though, and after a minute Casca shivered, pulled his furs closer and wandered through the rest of the house. Nothing stirred; the men were trying to sleep and complained about the intrusion. Casca grinned and returned downstairs.
Marianka sleepily told him to get back into bed but he shook his head. “Go to sleep. I’m awake now and too cold for you to cuddle into. I’ll sit here and watch out for things. It’ll be light in a couple of hours.”
She didn’t complain and sank back into a slumber. Casca sat quietly and allowed his thoughts to roll through the ages. He often found sleep hard and had nightmares about his past exploits all too often. There was no pattern to it, he may go some nights without any, then he’d have a bad dream about burni
ng, or drowning, or having his heart ripped out. Sometimes he’d get a really bad one where legions of the dead came back to haunt him. Those were the worst.
But sometimes he’d dream good things. Lida always featured in those. He sighed and looked briefly at Marianka. Blondes always reminded him of Lida. Of all the women he’d known and loved, the sightless Lida always came out as the one he’d loved the most, and she was the one he missed most of all. It’d been fifteen centuries since her death and it still pained him. Sometimes he loved to try to forget her but it never worked; sometimes he hoped to try to find the same love, but again it always ended in failure. It always came back to Lida, the one who’d stayed with him for years until her death of old age, and she’d never known he didn’t age.
Ahhh! He fought back tears. Lida…… I said I’d wait a thousand years, and it’s long gone past that time. Do you still wait for me, my love? How much longer will it be? Why can’t it end now, and I know peace? I so wish I could be with you again. He bowed in his chair and tears flowed down his cheeks to freeze by his mouth.
The next day the French began leaving Smolensk. Out marched the two corps of Junot and Poniatowski, watched by the soldiers yet to go, the rabble who envied them, and the citizens glad to see the back of the cursed invaders.
After another bitterly cold night Napoleon and his guard departed, the numbers of soldiers in the city dwindled further. Casca got the men to burn everything they weren’t going to take with them that night, so that at least they had warmth on yet another cold night. The morning of November 15th they marched out to join Colonel Pegot waiting for them at the west gate along with the rest of the regiment. Prince Eugène sat on his horse watching as the French, Italians and Croats gathered together under their eagles, then led them out of Smolensk down the slippery, icy and snow covered road towards Orsha.
