by Tony Roberts
They trudged on, each now coming to terms with the fact they had escaped the Russian armies and were now just a few days from reaching the haven of friendly-held Vilna. The cold was as intense as ever, and snow was falling thicker. As they continued along the road it increased and the wind picked up, so that within a couple of hours a full blizzard was howling out of the east. Men staggered as they tried to keep their balance but eventually they had to stop and take cover, in the lee of a copse of trees by the roadside.
The wind howled and the men sat with their backs to the wind, heads hunched as low as possible. Casca sat, his musket gripped in both hands, trying not to think too much. He would make any decision as to what to do next with his life in Vilna. Once there and out of this mess he would be able to decide much more clearly. For now he was gripped with grief, anger, frustration and tiredness. His thinking wasn’t up to much so he just sat there, flexing fingers and toes, making sure none of them felt dead.
One of the men suddenly got up with a sob and staggered off into the trees. A moment later they heard a shot and each man sighed and stared into the place where he’d gone. It had proven too much for him. Colonel Pegot got up and decided it wasn’t good to keep the men there and got them up and onto the road once more. Stumbling blindly in the wake of the man in front, they continued on the road and made what progress they could.
They got to a village, abandoned by the locals, and made what shelter they could out of the shrieking wind and snow. Casca tapped Fabvier on the shoulder. “Get your pot out and let’s get something cooked.”
“Get your own pot, I’ll make it for me and nobody else!”
Casca grabbed the small man and thrust him against the wall of the hut they were in. “Listen, and listen good. All our survival depends on getting warm food inside us. We all need it, so cook up something warm for all of us. We need to stick together, remember?”
Fabvier glared at Casca, unable to move, pinned against the cold wooden plank wall. “Okay, okay! I’ve got a few potatoes, that’s all.”
“I’ve got a few bits and pieces I’ve picked up on the way. All of you,” Casca swung on the others, “get what you have and pile it on the floor. Pierre, start the fire. Use one of the other huts if you need fuel. Etienne, grab us some snow to melt and use as cooking water.”
Some of the men packed in the hut reluctantly reached inside their coats, others made no move. Casca walked in between them and cuffed one or two round the heads. “No time to be selfish, we’re still not out of danger. We may have left the Russians behind but this storm could kill most of us yet! We need warm food, so get what you have out now! Or do I have to start tearing people apart?”
“You talk tough,” Bausset said in a growl, “but you won’t be able to force all of us if we all refuse to do as you say.” One or two of the others looked at him and nodded.
“Okay wise-ass,” Casca stood over the bearded man, “and how do you propose to eat? You haven’t a cooking pot, so you’ll go hungry. Want to eat something? Frozen solid as it is? Go on, but don’t ask for help if you’re not going to join in with the unit.”
Bausset laughed. “I’ll take what I want.” He stood up and Casca landed a vicious right hander into his mouth. Bausset’s lip split and he was sent crashing against the wall. The big man clutched his mouth and glared in hatred at Casca. Casca stepped forward slowly, intent on his face. “Want me to do it again to you? I’ll smash you to a pulp, you big blubbering mass of cowardice, so God help me.”
Bausset stepped away, frightened of the looming mass of warrior in front of him. Casca swung round. “Anyone else want to argue with me? Well?”
Men began producing items of food and Fabvier got the fire going. Finally, they all had some broth to eat and the food warmed their guts and cheered them up. Bausset sulked at the rear but didn’t refuse his share when it came his way. His lips were swollen and ached, and he plotted dark thoughts of revenge against the big scarred man.
The following day the wind died down but the snow continued, and the temperature fell and fell. The snow took on a hardness, a gravel-like consistency which made men slip and fall if they stood on it where it hadn’t been compacted. Guns locked solid, eyes stuck if they watered, frozen. The air hurt as it was breathed in, and everyone’s world shrunk to a small area around them; their misery and suffering was so complete that nothing mattered outside this. They knew they had to carry on but some of them had forgotten why. All they knew was to follow the man in front, and if he fell, then the man beyond him.
Men froze to death if they stopped to urinate. The wind died away but the cold was as extreme as ever. Casca couldn’t recall a colder time, even when he’d frozen to death in the Alpine cave. He did remember Marianka’s last wish and when they stopped at the next village that evening went to find Poniatowski. A dark shape detached itself from a nearby hut and stepped across his path. Wolinski. The Pole had his sword in his hand. “No explanations,” he said, gesturing to the edge of the village. Nobody was outside, it was too cold unless someone wanted to answer the call of nature. Casca found he was prodded forward at sword point to the darkest corner of the village, where the trees met the broken down animal pens, now abandoned for the winter.
“What’s this all about?” Casca demanded, turning round.
Wolinski smiled humorlessly, his sword a few inches from Casca’s throat. “You know why. Give me the paper that slut passed to you.”
“You. It was you all along,” Casca stated. He could see Wolinski’s eyes in the faint light, and they were wide and staring, full of madness.
“Me all along? Who cares. I want that list and if you won’t give it to me I’ll kill you and get it off your corpse. Give it to me!”
“You killed that poor girl Chantel at Borodino, didn’t you? Thought it was Marianka, didn’t you?”
Wolinski chuckled. “Stupid bitch was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it’d been Maria – not Marianka, by the way – then I’d’ve gone back home and avoided all this shit. As it is, I’ve had to endure your stupid army’s struggles. You never had a hope in winning, you know that?”
“Yeah, but we had to try.” Casca looked at the twitching Pole. “I guess Wolinski isn’t your real name.”
“Oh, aren’t you the clever one? Ostrowski. Janusz Ostrowski.” He bowed ironically.
“Old man Ostrowski’s son? He sent you to bring back the list of Russian agents in Poland? I heard you were insane. Now I believe it.”
Wolinski-Ostrowski’s mouth turned down. “I’ll kill you anyway here. It’ll be a pleasure. Watching you rut that whore all the way to Moscow and back wasn’t pleasant. Fancied her myself. If my old man can hump her, then I ought to have a crack. Mine by right. You denied me that pleasure so all I have left is to cut you up and bring the list back. I’ll be rewarded nicely.” He giggled.
“You’re just a sick bastard,” Casca said.
The Pole swore. He was still swearing when Casca slammed his right arm up, knocking the sword arm aside and sending in a blurred left hook that took the Pole under the chin, knocking him up off his feet and down onto the ground, his legs suddenly boneless. Casca pulled out the Cossack sword he had against his thigh and waited. He had no intention of allowing the Pole to live, but he wouldn’t slaughter him in cold blood.
Wolinski-Ostrowski got up, blood seeping from his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand and breathed heavily. “You’ll pay for that,” he said thickly and lunged. Casca slapped the thrust aside contemptuously and stepped aside to the right, before sending a riposte back across the Pole’s chest, opening out his uniform, coat and flesh. The Pole staggered and dropped his sword, staring in bafflement at the slash. He looked up at Casca, watching dispassionately, then fell face down onto the packed snow and remained still.
That matter settled, Casca replaced his sword and stepped back into the center of the village, seeking out Poniatowski. A few questions to sentries guided him to the Polish Corps headquarters, where he was admitt
ed to a room where an officer interrogated him, puzzled as to why a French soldier would want to come see the General Prince.
“I have a private matter to see him about, sir,” Casca said, standing stiffly to attention. His joints ached and he felt half frozen. “A Polish aristocrat gave me something to pass onto the Prince as her last wish.”
“May I see what it is?”
“Sir,” Casca smiled faintly, “it’s an important document for his eyes only. You can be present when the General Prince opens it, but I promised to hand it over to him in person. A promise to a dying Polish woman.”
The Polish officer drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then turned and barked an order in rapid Polish to a guard at the rear of the room. He turned back to Casca. “You are unarmed? Please accept my apologies, but I must insist you are searched.”
Casca put his hands out wide as the guard stepped forward and searched him. The Cossack sword caused some comment, and Casca had to spend some moments explaining how he had come by it. Then he was escorted into the room beyond and Casca saw the stricken General Prince Poniatowski, bedridden and pale. The officer stepped forward and spoke softly to the General. Poniatowski beckoned Casca forward. “Soldier, I understand you have something for me?”
“Sir,” Casca produced the slip of paper and passed it to Poniatowski. The Pole took it and clicked his fingers to his physician, a bespectacled man sat on a bedside chair. The physician brought forward a candle and Poniatowski read the list, frowning. He read it again, then looked up at Casca. “Who was this who gave you this list?”
“Marianka Bartelska. Her family used to own lands in the east of Poland.”
“I know the Bartelskis, or I used to. The daughter, blonde hair, wasn’t it?”
“Yes sir.” Casca felt a wave of sadness.
“Her real name was Maria. Marianka was a nickname the Ostrowskis gave her after they threw her family out of their estate, to emphasize she was now a peasant. Pity she died, she was a beautiful woman, I recall. This list,” he waved the paper at Casca, “I thank you for. It will remain with me. It mustn’t be known outside this room. All of you here,” and he turned to the two other men, “you must swear to God you will say nothing of this to anyone. Anyone, you understand?”
The two others nodded. Poniatowski grunted in satisfaction. “I cannot reward you for this, and you may never know the service you have done to Poland for this. I have little good to say about the French in all this damned campaign, but this goes a long way to correcting that! My gratitude and my nation’s gratitude to you.”
Casca saluted. “Sir. I seek no reward. I merely wish to get to Vilna safely.”
“You will. It’s not far and now we are within two days march of it.”
Casca was escorted out and walked into the freezing air alone. One mission successfully completed, and one more to do. But how and where he had no idea. Perhaps Vilna might provide both. He shrugged and made his way back to his unit.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Vilna was in a panic. People were packing and fleeing the city before the Russian army got there. They had realized the disaster that had befallen the supposed invincible French army now left the city open to the Russians. Bands of hungry soldiers roamed the snow-covered streets seeking food, shelter and a way out. Very few were under any command, and discipline had gone to hell in a handcart. The shambling, red-eyed, frostbitten and starving remnants of Napoleon’s Grande Armee that had emerged from the depths of Russia couldn’t hold back a squad of children, let alone Kutusov’s triumphant ranks. Others stalked the streets too, brigands, thieves and those with a score to settle against the French. They were the more dangerous.
The imperial governor had taken his entourage and most valuable belongings and fled, together with what passed for the ruling elite. The city was lawless, ungoverned and prey to anyone who had the means to do what they wished. To the west of the city rose a long, ice-covered slope, and the road into Poland ran straight up the middle of it. A long slow snaking line of fleeing civilians, evacuees and deserting soldiers was making the difficult climb, some falling and sliding back down as their grip failed them. There was no organized assistance, it was everyone for themselves.
The grand columned façade of the building that had served the governing body of the city now stood silently along one side of the huge snow-covered square in the center of the city, and upon its wide stone steps sat a solitary figure cradling a loaded and bayoneted musket. His once youthful looks now were lined, haggard and contained eyes that had seen far too much for one that young. But he was still in possession of his wits and twice now he’d leveled his firearm at a group of lawless people who’d approached him and stared them down.
Etienne Begos wanted no more of the glory of the Empire. He wanted to return to Dijon and follow his father into the life of a merchant. He’d foolishly been swayed by the tales of glory and conquest and had turned his back on his father and his wishes, and joined up to fight in the wars to spread revolution. So he had fought in the war and found it a dirty, heartless and ruthless business. He’d prefer to do the same without the risk of getting killed, and a life of a merchant promised that. He would return home and beg his father’s forgiveness and work hard at making him proud.
A figure came into view in the square, also carrying a musket. A broad, square and bulky man. The man who’d saved his life in Russia. Casca Longue. Begos smiled and heaved himself up and walked to meet him. “Did you find Pierre?” he asked when he got close enough.
Casca shook his head. “He’s gone. Don’t blame him, though. I had a gut feeling Pierre would cut and run as soon as we got safely out of Russia. Good luck to him.”
Begos shrugged. Fabvier would probably run to some hole in some city in Europe where he could rob and steal to his purse’s content. “What about Georges?”
“He’s drinking his life away in a tavern where most of the regiment is based. Colonel Pegot is going to take the regiment – or what’s left of it – out tomorrow and head for Warsaw. Königsberg isn’t safe – rumors are reaching people here that the Prussians are considering switching sides. You’d better go with them.”
“What about you? Aren’t you coming too?”
Casca shook his head. “I’m through with Napoleon. He’s deserted us. Gone flying back to Paris, so I hear. Left us to rot. Hundreds of thousands of soldiers have died for his grand dreams and what have we got to show for it? Well, damn him and damn his empire!”
Begos blinked at the anger in his friend’s voice. “So what are you going to do? You can’t stay here, surely!”
Casca looked around, his face as cold as the snow gently falling from the slate grey sky. “I don’t know, Etienne. I was trying to find a man called ‘Rose’, probably an Englishman, for something he did last summer, but I’ve failed. No surprise, but he was part of our regiment. Probably lying dead back there in Russia.”
“’Rose’?” Begos frowned. “Why English? Rose is a French word, surely!”
Casca shrugged. The French word ‘Rose’ meant ‘pink’ in English. “So why would a man call himself The something Rose – La something Rose?”
“The Pink….. something?” Begos thought deeply. “Maybe a nickname?”
“Good luck with it, I’ve been trying for months and not been able to work it out.”
“Maybe an identity where he came from? You know, La Cite Rose.”
Casca slowly turned to face Begos. “What did you say?”
“The pink city. Toulouse.”
“Tou…… good God!” Casca stood still, his mouth open, his mind suddenly slamming open and the wheels whirling. “Oh shit, oh holy fucking shit. I know who it is.” He turned and ran towards the direction he’d come. Begos ran after him, pleading for an explanation and to slow down, but Casca was beyond listening. Begos’ words had opened the truth to him and he was cursing his stupidity. All the time the man had been right under his nose, the blinding obvious, and he had been too close to see it
!
Begos panted with the effort of trying to keep up with the man he was chasing, and then he saw him fling away his musket but keep the bayonet in his hand. It was clear Casca was going to do something stupid, and he must be stopped, somehow.
Casca reached the tavern where the regiment was billeted and crashed through the door and came to a halt inside the main room. Heads turned in surprise at his sudden and loud entry, thinking the Cossacks had got there, but when they saw who it was; they lost interest and returned to drinking and discussing how to get back home as fast as possible. Casca saw his target and strode over to him, reaching into his pocket.
“Hello Georges,” he said to Bausset, “you dropped something.” He placed his icon on the table top. Bausset stared at it in shock, then automatically went to search his inside pocket and then stopped halfway there. He looked up at the blazing clear blue eyes of Casca and slowly stood up. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you do,” Casca snarled and picked up the icon. “You know what this is, and what it means. You damned murdering raping pig! You killed that kid back in that village and stole the other one of this pair. I’ve vowed to return both to the village and to kill the heartless bastard who did it. That means you.”
“You stupid bastard,” Bausset threw his arms wide, “what are you talking about? So I’ve something that looks like your trinket there. How do I know – or anyone else for that matter – that you didn’t steal yours and rape and kill that girl?”
“You called yourself La Rose – The Pink. What you meant was La Cite Rose, the Pink City. Toulouse. Where you come from. A dumb alias, and one that’s given you away. Now give me that other icon.”
Bausset’s face slowly turned into a dark mask of hatred. He reached into his pocket and fished out a knife. “You want it, you have to kill me, you hopeless failure. You failed to save your woman, and you failed to save that fool Paradis. You’ll fail in getting this too.”
