Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  Begos and Muralt helped Marianka onto the wagon and they quickly got to the end and jumped into the river, up to their chests. All cried out as the cold hit them, but they began forcing their way through the water towards the far bank. Bausset ran after them and got in, sucking in his breath but plowing on like some warship. Paradis and Fabvier came closely behind and Casca then turned and ran for the wagon, just ahead of the crowd. Voices were shouting and yelling about Cossacks and a safe passage cross the river. To the right of the wagon three cannons lay in the river, one upturned, and it was clear no more vehicles would get across.

  Casca hit the water and his breath was taken away. God! It was freezing! He forged on, keeping his musket high, and his cartridge case out of the water. Shots came to him from ahead and above, and the soldiers on the far bank were now shooting at targets which told of the proximity of the enemy. The river was full of people, all splashing their way to safety. Some bodies came floating past, overcome by the cold, and these were mainly civilians.

  He got to the far bank and hauled himself up, cursing as the cold air combined with the wet to assault his body. They’d need fires and fast. Ahead of him Marianka waited, shivering. Casca reached her and they embraced. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get a fire going.”

  “Won’t they follow us?” she asked.

  “No, they’ll wait till we leave. The river will stop them; it’s cold and the noise it’d make as they cross would alert our guards. Tonight we camp here. The river is a barrier.”

  Prince Eugène watched as his men struggled across, impotently raging. The orders Napoleon had given him had been insane and his Army of Italy was reduced to a soaked, freezing rabble. They would have to dry out and then make for Smolensk as best they could. The only good thing was that the weather was turning for the worse again, and this would help mask their retreat. The Cossacks wouldn’t know which direction they’d be going in. The French, Croats and Italians were now without most of their supplies and guns. They weren’t an army anymore.

  Casca and his men got wood for the fire as fast as they could. A convenient piece of ornate furniture provided this. Its owner was lying dying in the snow, gripped by hypothermia. The chest was smashed to pieces and a fire started thanks to Fabvier’s tinderbox. They crowded around drying their soaking wet clothes, Marianka in front, and more fuel was thrown on from nearby trees. The furs were held up on hastily erected frames made from tree branches, and they shivered in their uniforms and in Marianka’s case her dress, until the furs were dry enough to put back on.

  There was one more issue to sort out. Casca approached Fabvier. “Pierre, can you ‘find’ us gloves like mine for the rest of the squad? The guns are getting too cold to handle.”

  Fabvier nodded, warming his hands, a dew drop on the end of his nose. “Yes, tonight people won’t be careful about their belongings, they’ll be too interested in drying out. And I think there’ll be plenty of dead lying around. Leave it to Pierre, I’ll find them!”

  Casca slapped the little man on the shoulder and shuffled over to Marianka, peering miserably into the fire. “You’ll march with us now. Best protection you can get.”

  “I’d prefer to ride,” she replied. “I’ll miss the wagon and the horses. All those supplies and belongings!”

  “Too bad,” Casca said, warming his hands, squatting next to the woman. “Too many died back there worried about their precious belongings. Can’t take them with you when you die.”

  “So what have they left now to show for all this?”

  “Their lives. They don’t know how precious that is until they’re faced with death.” Casca fixed Marianka with a stare and she looked away. He got up and checked on the others, who all appeared to be drying out well enough. Fires were dotted all around, and from the direction of the river a few shots rang out every so often. The screams had died away and Casca guessed the killing had ended. God alone knew how many had died in the crossing. Some of the civilians hadn’t wanted to cross, too afraid of the cold water, and they were either dead or prisoner of the Cossacks. Casca thought those dead were better off.

  Colonel Pegot came round with Captain Wolinski and Sergeant Cannard, checking on how many men he had left. He had a quiet word with Casca for a moment, then passed on into the darkness. Snow was falling gently and settling on the frozen ground, covering everything in a soft blanket of white. Casca wasn’t fooled by it for a moment, for it represented death.

  Wolinski stayed behind, looking at Marianka intently. She was oblivious of his attention, shivering in front of the flames. Casca stepped into his line of sight and stood there, arms crossed, musket cradled. “You wanted something, Captain?”

  “Remember my offer, Longue,” Wolinski said, an edge to his voice. “Now she has no transport, she’s vulnerable. I can look after her better than any of you here in the ranks.”

  “Goodbye, Captain,” Casca said evenly. Wolinski grinned humorlessly, nodded, and walked off in the wake of Pegot.

  Fabvier appeared grinning, holding up proudly a collection of woolen gloves. Casca didn’t ask where or from whom he’d got them. They were passed round to the squad and they gratefully put them on and now could hold their muskets without fear of leaving strips of skin stuck to the freezing metal.

  In the small hours Sergeant Cannard came round softly and tapped Casca on the shoulder, awakening him from his slumber. It was a miracle he’d managed to snatch any sleep, but he was tired. They were all tired. He went round the group, gently shaking them awake and getting the exhausted men to their feet. Marianka protested when he shook her too. “Come on,” he whispered, “we’re leaving. Sshhhh!”

  Marianka rubbed her eyes and got up, her arms round herself. The fire was stoked and fuelled as were the others close by. Marianka frowned and turned to Casca who was making sure the squad were ready to leave and they hadn’t left anything lying around behind. “What’s going on?”

  “Tricking the Cossacks into thinking we’re still here. We’re making a break for Smolensk. Quiet as we can; hopefully they won’t know we’ve gone until daybreak and then we’ll be far away in the direction they don’t expect. We’ve been heading north to Vitebsk and they’ll chase us in that direction. At least, that’s the Prince’s plan.”

  Marianka stumbled towards the others who were waiting in a huddled group, shivering. It hadn’t been a comfortable night and their clothes were still damp, despite the heat of the fires. All around the camp was slowly making their way west, parallel to the river, leaving behind the blazing fires. Ahead were the scouts and trailblazers, and Wolinski who, as the Polish liaison officer, was there just in case they bumped into an unfriendly party. It was hoped if that happened the Pole, who spoke fluent Russian, could fool the enemy into thinking they were friendly. The snow would hide much until one was right close up to someone else. Casca remembered the story he’d heard of the British attack on Quebec fifty years back when they’d crept up the previously believed unclimbable Heights of Abraham and had been challenged by a French sentry; a French-speaking scout had fooled the sentry into believing the British storming party was friendly, and they’d gotten up and then won the battle, despite it costing the life of their leader, General Wolfe. Casca recalled the words of Sun Tzu, all war is deception. He’d used it many times in the past and no doubt would do so in many times to come too.

  They got to the meeting point at the edge of the camp and Colonel Pegot grunted in satisfaction and led his men off, following the footprints of those who’d gone ahead. Others came behind, heads down to keep the snow out of their eyes, and to keep the footprints in view. If they vanished, then you were lost and in trouble. The snow muffled most of the sound the men and camp followers were making, and the few guns they’d saved were covered in blankets to deaden any noise they made too.

  The march went on and on, each of them striding as fast as they could, putting as much distance between them and the camp as possible. Daybreak would be soon and they didn’t want to risk being discove
red.

  “Casca,” Marianka whispered to him. The Eternal Mercenary trotted up to her. “Yes?”

  “What about our footprints? Surely the Cossacks will see them!”

  “Snowfall. It’ll obliterate it in an hour or so. Look how heavy it’s falling.”

  Marianka nodded and resumed her walk, trampling through the flattened snow. It would be tougher on those going in front, as they were breaking the virgin trail. Casca stopped from time to time to check on the others. Bausset seemed oblivious to the conditions, his beard caked in white. Fabvier walked along, hunched miserably into his furs, his face almost hidden from view. Muralt and Paradis said little and their breaths puffed out in clouds before them. Begos was a little unsteady on his legs and Casca had to encourage him to keep up. The boy was suffering a little with the snow and ice. It was the same with the new recruits; all of them found coping more difficult than the veterans.

  All through the pre-dawn period they trekked in a long shuffling line, their worlds reduced to nothing more than a few feet; the rest of the world didn’t exist. All they felt was the agony of the cold, the wetness of the snow that fell unceasingly and got into any cranny and nook in their clothing, and the hunger in their stomachs.

  Day broke and ahead they could see Smolensk, a dirty stain on the horizon. Casca pointed and slapped Marianka on the back. She nodded and continued. Casca stopped and counted the squad. Two, three, four……. Someone was missing. He ran to the front and checked again. Bausset, Paradis, Fabvier, Muralt. No Begos. “Etienne’s missing. Anyone seen him?”

  The others looked around with dull eyes. They all had no idea, clearly. Casca’s lips were set in a firm line. “Very well, I’ll go find him.”

  “He may be with the other groups,” Paradis said.

  “And he may not.” Casca looked back into the line appearing out of the whiteness. “I’ll check each man and if he’s not with any of them then he’s lost. I’ve got to go find him.”

  Marianka flapped her arms. “It’ll be impossible trying to find him out there! You’ll die yourself!”

  “And what would you say if it was you lost out there? Would you be content for us all to shrug our shoulders and leave you to die? I’m responsible for all of you, and I’m damned well doing to go back there and find that young man and bring him back.” Casca stared her down. “Well?” he spoke to the rest, “would any of you want to be left out there?”

  They all shook their heads. Casca nodded. “Exactly. So. You take care of Marianka here and find a decent place to camp in the city. Pierre, find decent food. Georges, guard them all. Maurice and Louis, stay alert and help the others. Now go!”

  Casca turned back and looked at the long line of men shuffling past. He had some idea of the shape and size of Begos, and what he was wearing, even with a covering of snow. He could discount most of the people passing him, all heads down and silent. The line went on and Casca began walking back towards the rear, and never saw him. Finally a small group of well-armed men passed by. Nobody could be seen beyond them. “Anyone behind you?” Casca demanded of the sergeant with them.

  “Ha, yes! Plenty. But we stop for nobody. Forget them; they’re as good as dead. Probably dead already.”

  “You let them die?” Casca grabbed the sergeant’s arm.

  The man shrugged his grip off roughly. “Leave me be! What do you expect me to do? They’re beyond help. We can only save ourselves. Go back there to your death if you like. If the cold hasn’t got them, the Cossacks will.” With that he followed in the wake of his men towards Smolensk, leaving Casca alone in the whiteness of the land.

  “Very well,” Casca said aloud to the snow and ice. “It’s down to you and me now. You think you can win? Well give it your best shot. Let the battle begin!”

  The Eternal Mercenary stepped forward, searching in the snow for a man he hoped was still alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Iuganov was furious. He kicked over the nearest spluttering camp fire. “Gone! Those motherless swine have run away!”

  The others sat in their saddles looking at their leader. Some of those were representatives of the commander, Platov. Iuganov looked around but could only see a blanket of white. “No sign of which direction they took?” he bawled up at one of his men, the best scout in the group. The Cossack shook his head.

  “Well, that’s fantastic!” Iuganov roared, shaking the snow from nearby trees. “We sit on the other side of the river all night with our fingers up our asses and these shits escape! Brilliant piece of strategy,” he turned and glared at those from Platov’s camp. “Does our all-seeing leader have any idea where the French have gone?”

  “He believes the French have continued north towards Vitebsk. They are under the impression it’s still in their hands,” one of the men said smugly. “It was captured two days ago.”

  “Well, big deal,” Iuganov said heavily, “a blessing on our glorious armies. No help in finding the French we’re been hunting is it? And what guarantee do you have they’ve gone north?”

  “Hetman Platov says so.”

  “So if he says he’s grown tits and a pussy you’d hump him? Just because that alik says so, it doesn’t mean it is! They could have gone west to Smolensk. It’s closer. They’re probably there already, if they went before dawn!”

  “It has been considered, but it’s unlikely,” the Cossack from the Hetman’s entourage said stiffly. “You are to accompany the Hetman north towards Vitebsk.”

  “Go screw yourself,” Iuganov retorted and remounted. He settled into his saddle. “We’re off west. You can go tell tales to your mother about me if you like, or you can play with yourself until you relieve the tension. I go the way I think and to hell with your beloved Hetman. He has the judgment of a Turkish donkey. Be off with you!”

  The Hetman’s group turned and rode away stiffly, outraged at the insults. Alone, Iuganov’s group of Cossacks, numbering some forty men, all followed their leader west along the route the French had taken, now lost under a blanket of snow.

  * * *

  Casca cursed as he slipped for the umpteenth time. The snow continued to fall and he’d come upon a few who’d been left behind. Three were still stumbling blindly along and Casca had pointed them in the right direction and sent them on their way. The last two he’d found were dead; they’d just stopped and lay down and given up.

  The trees mocked him from either side. The trail was becoming fainter and more difficult to follow as the snow continued to fall. His lungs were hurting with the cold and his nose was almost dead. He stopped and rubbed it. Frostbite wasn’t an issue with him as his Curse would regenerate any tissue damaged by the cold but he didn’t want to go through the agony of that, so he kept on checking the dead feeling parts of his face.

  He was now in a large open space. The good thing was that the river to the south just out of sight meant he couldn’t go too far wrong in that direction, and the forest to the north in the distance marked the limit to where he could stray in that direction, but there was a large area in between to look for someone. The snow was thick but not too thick to obscure vision completely. It was easing slightly. Nobody was in view, so he carried on.

  He had no idea how far back he had to go, but it couldn’t be too much further as he’d checked from time to time that all were there, and it was only the last thirty minutes or so of their journey that he hadn’t. He judged he was close to where he’d last seen him, so he began to sweep wider in his search, zigzagging back and forth.

  While he was passing a small clump of trees he spotted a dark shape slumped against the base of the biggest one and he high-stepped through the deep snow to the figure. Pulling back the fur-covered head he saw that, indeed, it was Begos, staring listlessly out from deep-set eyes. His lips were blue. Casca pulled the young man up and rubbed his mouth, nose and ears, then his legs which seemed like rubber, resting him on his shoulder. Ever so slowly the life seemed to come back far back into his eyes and he began whimpering.

 
; Casca pulled him round and massaged his hands. It was vital he got the boy’s blood flowing fast; the pain it’d bring would get him going if nothing else. Suddenly Begos sucked in a deep lungful and began wailing. “Ahhhh! It hurts!”

  Casca grinned through cracked lips. He continued with the merciless rubbing and kneading, and Begos tried to snatch his hands away, but Casca held him fast. “It hurts? Good!”

  “Why are you hurting me?” he asked in a piteous voice, “let me rest!”

  “The hell I will,” Casca replied. “Stay on your feet or I’ll put my foot up your ass. Your musket here?” He looked round and saw it lying on the snow. He picked it up and thrust it into Begos’ hands. “Hold this and keep holding it!”

  Begos dumbly complied, looking at the Eternal Mercenary. “I was tired,” he said lamely.

  “We’re all tired, Etienne. But we must carry on. Smolensk is just an hour away. Come on, the others are preparing a nice stew for us there. Let’s go, you’re okay to walk?”

  Begos nodded and stiffly walked away from the trees, and nearly fell. Casca sighed and supported him. Together they began heading west, following Casca’s footprints, now the only visible mark that anyone had come that way.

  A few hundred yards to the east three horsemen hove into view out of the trees. They were Iuganov’s scouts and had been sent out to try to find the French. The sight of two lone men staggering ahead of them was too much to resist, the chance of an easy picking. They would kill the two fools, rob them of their possessions, then one would report back with the sighting and bring the rest. They lifted their spears and began trotting towards the two, spreading out to cut off any flight to left or right.

  Casca turned, sensing danger. The three horsemen were fifty yards away. He threw Begos off and the young man tottered a few steps then sat down in the snow, perplexed at the inability of his legs to support him. Casca swung his musket round and cocked it. It had been loaded already, something he’d prepared before setting off, just in case. Three to one wasn’t good odds but he’d cut it down by one for certain. The boy at his feet depended on him and so there was no margin for error.