by Tony Roberts
“Hey, where did you get those?” Paradis demanded, seeing the gloves.
“Marianka,” the Eternal Mercenary grinned. “Sleeping with our sutler does have its advantages.”
“Heh heh, I bet!” Fabvier said behind him. “Get anything else besides that?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to wonder at, Pierre,” Casca said.
Fabvier cackled and coughed as the cold got to his lungs. Begos slapped him on the back. “Hey, stop that, it hurts!”
“Sorry, was only trying to help.” Begos was a little disturbed by the cloud of dust and flies that had come up off the little soldier’s back. He wiped his hand quickly on his breeches and stepped away a pace. Bausset laughed. “A real little shit heap, isn’t he? The flies love him.”
“Go find a Cossack, Bausset,” Fabvier snapped.
Bausset laughed, pleased he’d piqued the furtive man for once.
Suddenly from behind came a lot of shouting, shots and screams. The men all turned as one and saw cavalry streaming into the column from the right, the south. Guns came up and the men stepped forward, automatically forming two lines. “God, look at them!” Begos said in awe. It seemed the whole countryside had come alive with horses and men. “Cossacks!” he exclaimed.
“No,” Casca snapped immediately, “those are regulars. It must be the main army. They’ve caught up with us.”
Colonel Pegot came running up to Captains LeBois and Wolinski. “They’ve got in amongst our baggage! Get them out of there or we’ll lose the whole lot!”
“Marianka!” Casca added. If they got to her then she’d have no chance.
“Come on, drive those bastard horseman off!” LeBois led the charge back towards the beleaguered wagons and supplies. Yelling madly, the company was joined by other units, all anxious to rescue their food, equipment and supplies. It became a mad dash to save it, as horses were wheeling in and out, the riders cutting down screaming men and women, swords rising and falling.
Casca screamed in rage and raised his musket. A cavalryman came across his line of vision, pursuing a crying woman, and just as he reached her, Casca blew him off his saddle. The Russian hit the ground hard and lay there, his chest punctured by a musket ball. The rest of the unit poured into the confused scene of overturned wagons and dead and dying civilians. Casca sprinted madly for Marianka’s wagon, some way down, and ignored the cracks of muskets and whinnying of horses. He had to get to Marianka.
Three horsemen were close by, slashing at the canvas sides of a supply wagon, so he quickly reloaded and raised his weapon. His shot took the nearest off his horse, shot through the chest, and he charged the second, yelling madly. The horseman turned, enraged at the death of his comrade. Casca’s bayonet took him in the stomach and lifted him off the saddle; such was the force of the charge. The Russian crashed against the wagon he’d been attacking and he fell into an untidy heap on the ground.
The third man came at Casca, sword raised, so Casca grabbed his musket with both hands in the center and began whirling it, ducking left and right. The cavalryman slashed, confused, and missed, the blade passing close to Casca’s left shoulder. As he passed, Casca swung the musket butt up and into the cavalryman’s back, striking him square on the spine. The Russian cried out and twisted, losing his grip and he fell off onto the ground. He tried to get to his feet but Casca reached him before he could get up and sent his bayonet into his kidneys, pinning him to the ground where he screamed like a stuck pig.
Casca pulled the blade free and turned. Marianka’s wagon was two further down. A horseman galloped up to it and slashed down, cutting open the canvas side. He heard her scream and he quickly loaded as he ran towards it, cursing. The Russian was now beating hard at someone inside and Casca cried out in fear and rage. “Hey, alik!” he called to the cavalryman.
Shocked at being called a male sexual organ, the Russian pulled his horse round to punish the disrespectful Frenchman, and saw too late the leveled musket. “Dosvidania!” The shot smashed into the Russian’s forehead, splintering bone, and splashing brain and blood out over the back of the horse. The Russian slowly slid off the horse and lay in a heap at its feet.
Casca reached the wagon and pulled himself up. Marianka was sat sobbing, a bloodied and dead Wojciech in her lap. “Marianka, it’s me.”
She looked up, tears streaming down her face. “He died saving my life.”
Casca stroked the gashed face of the young Polish boy. “A brave boy,” he said awkwardly. “Come on; don’t let his death be in vain. We’ve got to get you out of here. This place is a mess and the Russians have got in amongst us. There’s a town up ahead and we’ve got to get you there. You up to it?”
She nodded, wiping her face. “Wojciech’s not going to be left here. I’ll bury him in the town.” She got to the front and picked up the reins. Casca sat next to her and reloaded. The Russian cavalry were pouring back across the plains, having been chased off, but they’d done plenty of damage. Other wagons were being dragged back onto the road and once more under command. Boxes, crates and furniture lay across the road and soldiers were throwing it off to the sides. No time to waste, the Russians may return. The others in the squad turned up and took up guard positions around the wagon. “Okay, let’s get going, we’ve got to reach Vyazma.” Casca looked to the left, where the Russians had gone, and the blood drained from his face. “Oh my God.”
Everyone else turned to see what it was. They all stopped and gasped. An entire Russian army was forming up a few hundred yards away, deploying row upon row of cannon, parallel to the road. “Marianka, ride like you’ve never ridden before. Get this damned wagon going or you’re pulp.”
Casca leaped off and slapped the nearest horse’s rump. The men began running, joining the flow of men desperately making their way along the road. They would have to run the gauntlet of death if they were to get to Vyazma.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The first cannonade took the breath away. Solid balls plowed through wagons, horses and men, and shells landed on and beyond the road, sending trees, people and equipment up into fiery ruin. The noise was deafening.
“We’re dead!” Fabvier wailed, looking more and more like a cornered rat.
“Pierre, you’re not dead until I say you are!” Casca snapped, leading the men on a jog-trot close to the rumbling wagon. Ahead, the wreckage of a supply cart littered the road, the contents spilled out to the right and off the road. The former occupants lay broken on the road and Marianka slowed. “Keep going! Ride over them, they’re dead!” Casca shouted, pulling on the nearest horse’s bridle.
Another roar heralded the second volley and shots crashed closer, striking a soldier ahead, cutting him in two. His blood painted the mud ahead and Marianka shuddered, but she kept on going. A shell exploded just behind them, scaring the horses and she then had to pull hard to slow them down as they threatened to overturn the wagon. Screams came from those hit, and an arm went cart wheeling over Casca’s head to land with a soggy thud ahead.
“Go, go!” he urged. It was an obstacle course, and the Russians poured shot and shell onto the road, completely free from any interference. It was a duck shoot. Two men vanished in a fiery ball as a shell landed amongst them, and the hot blast struck Casca’s face, so he had to shield his face with an arm. He kept running though; to stand still was suicidal. He stole a glance at the men running with him. Fabvier was wild-eyed and drooling in fear; Paradis was running, a hand on his shako, teeth fixed in a rictus of terror. Bausset was swearing long and continuously and Muralt’s legs were running like crazy. His face was a mask of horror.
Begos was gibbering and his eyes darting left and right, appalled at what he was witnessing. He was not yet twenty and it was something he’d remember for the rest of his life, if he got through it. Marianka kept concentrating on riding and not looking at what was going on around her, which was probably the right thing to do, Casca mused.
Ahead someone span round, clutching his ribs and sank slowly to
the floor. “Hey, that wasn’t a cannon shot,” Casca yelled. “That was a musket ball!”
“Sharpshooters,” Muralt tugged on his sleeve and pointed to the left.
Casca swore. “As if we hadn’t enough to cope with. Keep on running, it’s your only hope! Damned fools are close enough to be hit by their own guns!”
“We live in hope,” Muralt said and pounded off. Another cannon shot passed close by and a hole appeared in the wagon, sending wooden contents spilling out the back. Marianka screamed as the wagon swerved from side to side.
“Keep going!” Casca yelled. A shell exploded on the road and Bausset staggered, cursing. He clutched his right arm. Casca ran up to him. “You alright?”
“Struck by that shell – only a scratch. Will be fine!” Bausset was in pain, but Casca had to leave him to it. He was big enough and ugly enough to look after himself.
A shot smacked into a tree and then another. The sharpshooters were thicker here. Casca loaded up and ran to the left of the road, Muralt and Begos following him. A third shot came through the grass and Paradis cried out and staggered, a sudden red stain on his left shoulder. Casca knelt by the roadside and drew a bead on the Russian who’d fired. He’d seen the smoke.
The man was reloading and looked up to see the danger, fifty yards away. Casca coolly drilled a shot through the sharpshooter’s chest, and the man folded over and slumped to the ground. Casca got up and ran on in the wake of the others. The roar of shots kept on and on, and he caught sight of three men from the regiment all falling to the same solid ball as it bounced off the road’s edge, leaped up and smashed through all three at chest height.
The wagon rumbled on, Paradis lurching in its wake. Casca grabbed him and pulled him roughly on. The young Frenchman protested but Casca was in no mood to listen. He picked the surprised man up off his feet and almost threw him onto the front running board of the wagon alongside Marianka. “He’s been hurt. Keep going!”
Ahead, Muralt was running and a Russian appeared at the roadside. Without breaking stride the Frenchman blew him backward and ran past the spot the Russian had just been. Casca admired his skill. “I ought to try that.” He loaded again and caught up the wheezing Fabvier. “Come on, Pierre, this isn’t a Sunday stroll.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” Fabvier gasped at Casca’s back as the burly scarred man passed him. “This war’s fucking crazy,” he added, ducking as a shell screamed overhead and exploded into the trees to the right. He laughed aloud. “I’m fucking crazy!”
Casca could see Colonel Pegot up ahead and the officer was having difficulty in making rapid progress. Some of his aides were still with him but most weren’t, a bad sign. “Colonel!” Casca called as he approached, warning him of Marianka’s presence.
Pegot stepped aside, his mouth open in surprise. Casca saluted him as they passed. By now his lungs were on fire and his windpipe raw from the rasping breath as he fought for more oxygen to supply his demanding muscles. Sweat ran down his face. A cure for feeling the Russian winter, he thought.
Another shell exploded in the center of the road and an officer up ahead span round, his uniform shredded, and he fell backwards to lie still. Casca went up to him and looked down on the half burned and wrecked face. “So long, Captain LeBois, adieu.” He resumed his run, now no more than a shambling lurch. The wagon was slowing as they neared the town, and suddenly they were out of the gauntlet and were amazed they’d survived. Up ahead the troops from the corps that had already got to the town watched on with tight faces as the remnants of Eugène’s IV corps emerged from the hell of the road. Now it would be the turn of Poniatowski and Davout to run the gauntlet.
Casca stood, sweat running down his face in rivulets, looking back at the way they’d come. Fabvier leaned on his knees and panted at the ground, eyes closed, while Muralt leaned on a tree stump, his face white. “I don’t….want to …..ever do that…..again!” Begos gasped, drawing in huge lungfuls of air. Bausset came to a halt and sat down, reaching for a cloth to tend to his wound.
Casca nodded to Begos in agreement and walked up to the now stopped wagon, pulled over to the left, allowing those lucky carts, horses and wagons that came after them to pass into Vyazma. Marianka was tending Paradis’ wound. “How is he?” Casca asked, leaning on the wagon.
“He’ll be fine. Once that is, I’ve finished here.” She was silent for a while, then patted Paradis on the arm and turned to Casca. “That was madness! You do this for a living? Are you insane?”
Yeah, eighteen centuries insane, Casca thought. “It’s not always like that. In fact,” he added, “it’s never like that!”
Colonel Pegot and Wolinski came up and stood there, breathing in heavily. One of the watching officers came over to Pegot, saluted, and passed him a piece of paper. Casca sensed trouble and ambled over slowly while Pegot read the paper. “Sir?” Casca saluted and stood to attention.
“Ah, Caporal Longue. Yes. Orders to hold the town until all the column has passed. Expect Miloradovich to attack this afternoon. We are to hold until night, then retreat westwards towards Smolensk.”
“Sir. Captain LeBois didn’t make it.”
“Yes, Longue, I saw, poor man. Very well, I must gather the regiment to the south by the town edge, over there by that church,” he pointed at an onion-domed building in the distance. “Take your men there and wait for further orders.” Pegot nodded and walked off, muttering angrily.
Casca grimly turned back to the wagon. “Marianka, there’s going to be a fight here. Take the wagon to the western edge of town and stay out of range. We’re to hold here until dark. I don’t think we’re going to stop for a sleep tonight until well after midnight.”
“Take care, Casca,” Marianka said, putting a hand on his arm. The experience of being under fire had made her realize just how bad things were for the soldiers. “I’ll bury poor Wojciech at the edge of the city and wait for you there. Look after yourself.”
“And you, sweetheart. Now go.” He kissed her and she rapped the horses’ rumps with the reins, and the beasts reluctantly started up again, vanishing into the town. Casca walked in front of his men. “Right. Let’s go to that church and get ready to stop these swine from taking the town until all the column has passed.”
As they made their way to the south, Paradis and Bausset injured but still able to fight, others were forming up under their banners and eagles and being sent to the town limits, ready to throw back the Russians who were gathering behind their cannons. Some of these guns were now being swung round to face the French in the town, which made the running of the gauntlet easier for the two corps still making the journey.
Prince Eugène, commander of the IV Corps, rode up to Colonel Pegot and his staff. “Colonel, in the absence of a brigadier general here, you are to command this sector. It is the wish of The Emperor that you hold against the enemy until orders come for you to retreat. The road must be kept open for the last two corps to make it through. Is that clear?”
Pegot saluted. “Yes, your majesty. Rest assured, the men of the 3rd battalion will stand and fight.”
Eugène nodded and pulled is horse round. “The eyes of Napoleon are upon you, Colonel. Do not let us down.”
Pegot stood to attention until Eugène and his entourage had gone, then turned around and spat in the mud. “Hold, with what? Half a battalion against an entire damned Russian army? What does he think we are?”
“Colonel, will we fight?” a lieutenant asked, his youthful face scarred with a deep red cut and half hidden by a once-white kerchief wrapped around the worst of the injury.
“Of course we’ll fight. We are men of the French Imperial Army! What else can we do other than die? Go to your men and order them to stand and fight. There will be no retreat until I give the order. If necessary, they are to die where they stand.” Pegot watched as his subordinates went to their respective units and shook his head sadly. “Damned fool orders. Someone’s going to pay for this fuck-up.”
Wolinski grimace
d; it was going to be a hard one here, and even tougher getting back to Poland. He wondered if he would see his native land again.
The 3rd Battalion prepared themselves as best they could. It was now early afternoon, although it was difficult to tell with the lowering clouds and the poor light. The only good thing was that darkness would come earlier as a result. The onion-domed church formed the headquarters and Colonel Pegot set himself up there, with men spreading out to either side, using the wooden houses as cover together with the animal sheds, huts and fencing. It was all wood, except the church. None of the men expected to get much shelter. Casca knelt behind a water butt and loaded up. He had a house to protect his left side and had a clear vision out into the countryside from his position. The rest of his squad were either kneeling or lying down, loaded up with a grim but resigned look on their faces. A cold wind knifed into the town from the direction of the Russians, stinging the skin and turning the flesh red.
“Why don’t they come?” Paradis asked, his voice thick with pain. His shoulder was bandaged but the blood was seeping through.
“They’ll come soon enough,” Casca replied. “You’re keen to get into the fight!”
“I don’t like this waiting, that’s all.” Paradis gave a sickly smile.
Casca nodded slowly. He understood. In the army, the waiting was always the worst. Hurry up and wait. Same ol’ same ol’. He checked the others. Fabvier was crouched behind the house and peering round the other side, making sure he was in the best cover. Bausset was kneeling behind a half broken fence, using a free-standing post as a rest for his musket. The look on his face was that of someone wanting to get even for the wound he’d received. Muralt was kneeling on the far side of Bausset, quietly waiting. Begos was stood up above Casca, so that they had two muskets in the same spot.
