Casca 30: Napoleon's Soldier

by Tony Roberts

  Casca couldn’t see very far; the darkness of the wood added to the gloom of the night. Snow falling from low cloud added to the poor visibility and they brushed through snow-covered branches, but he pressed on in the wake of the man in front of him. He was aware Marianka was following him; he could hear her breath and a few times she bumped into him. But they made as little noise as they could. One wrong sound could bring the whole of the Russian army down on their necks.

  At the head of the column Wolinski pushed his way through more trees, then suddenly a voice called out to him from ahead and to the left, at the same time as a hammer being cocked on a musket came to him. “Who goes there?”

  The Pole, fluent in Russian, never hesitated. “We are on a special mission by order of His Serene Highness Field Marshal Prince Kutusov. Allow us passage!”

  There came a pause, and all the column’s head held their breath. “Very well, you may pass,” came the sentry’s reply. They carried on, marching past the unsuspecting Russian sentries, each of them not daring to utter a word. Casca couldn’t believe their luck, but no further challenges came their way and they marched on through the night, and shortly before dawn came upon the French outer works. The column broke out into cheers and men wept. They had somehow walked out of a trap and got to safety.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Colonel Pegot held a simple ceremony the following morning. What few men that remained of the 84th were gathered in a small circle. Casca was shocked to see they numbered perhaps thirty men or so, all that remained of the 3,000 they had before setting out from Vilna. “Men, brave soldiers of the 84th,” Pegot said, “we have stayed together despite the terrible conditions thrown at us by God and the godless Russians. We have endured more than any man ought to. We have a long way to go and this morning we set out again for Orsha. But before we do, a simple ceremony.

  “The eagle is the heart of our unit. Without it we are nothing. I will not allow it to fall into enemy hands. Therefore I have decided to personally carry it and our colors. Brave men, you will continue to be with the colors as long as you remain with me.”

  He nodded to the sergeant who began unscrewing the eagle from the pole it rested upon. Helped by two other men, they unscrewed it and threw the pole away. Colonel Pegot turned and presented his back to the men. Slowly, almost reverently, they wrapped the eagle in cloth and tied it to the colonel’s back. Another man folded the flag and gave it to Pegot who placed it inside his jacket, and then buttoned it up. He turned to face the men once more. “So, it is done. I will defend these with my life and honor, and I trust you good and brave men will do the same for me.”

  “Vive la France!” the men cheered, “vive I’empereur, vive Colonel Pegot!”

  They then embraced, promised that they would defend each other to the death, and then walked back to the road where Marianka and the surviving camp followers waited them. With the colonel leading them, they walked out of the town down the road towards Orsha, following similar small groups that had already left. Behind them, Napoleon and his Guard remained, waiting for the arrival of the next corps, Davout’s, that would somehow have to get past the Russians. And then the day after would come Ney and his men. They had the smallest hope of all.

  The road was treacherous and covered in ice; abandoned wagons, guns and carts lay in the ditches to either side where they had come to grief, and there were still plenty of bodies lying amongst them and on the road. The temperature was still bitterly cold and snow flurries came and went, making visibility uncertain. One moment they all could see miles ahead, the long snaking road and the miniscule figures dotted along it, the next only a few feet, and only their immediate neighbors existed.

  The coming of the new day brought a fresh disappointment to Iuganov. He stared at the empty road and couldn’t believe his eyes. “Gone! That blundering incompetent has allowed them to get away! Have all our generals got an asshole for a brain? Why don’t they invite them for supper and give them free passage back to France?”

  He raged and mounted up, leading his men through the snow-covered slopes of the hill towards the camp of Miloradovich. The general sent his aide to greet the incandescent Cossack, knowing that all he’d get was abuse. The general was displeased at the situation himself, and he’d had the sentries who’d let the French through last night shot for stupidity. The last thing he wanted now was a dirty, stinking disrespectful Cossack hurling unhelpful insults at him. Iuganov was just about the worst of Platov’s commanders, and his reputation was widely known. It was a pity he hadn’t been killed in the fighting so far, but there was always time.

  “Where’s that brainless whoreson?” Iuganov demanded of the aide, who was blocking the way into the camp.

  “If you mean the general, he isn’t seeing anybody this morning.”

  “No change there then,” Iuganov roared, “he couldn’t see the fucking French yesterday! The whole damned lot just walked past you and you sat there with your fingers up each others’ asses! Four thousand of them! My blind grandmother could do better, and she’s been dead ten years!”

  “If you have something worth contributing to the campaign, then the general will consider it. Otherwise I suggest you return to your position and await the arrival of the next French corps.”

  “Something worth contributing? Yes I have. I recommend the execution of your stupid donkey-brained general. We’d have a chance of winning then! I’ll be damned if I return to my position, as you put it, you strutting moron.” Iuganov thrust out his jaw into the aide’s face. “I’ve shat more intelligent things than you’ve got in between your ears. I’m going after those Frenchmen, which is something you lot ought to have done the moment you found they’d fooled you. By the sweet Blood of Christ, you couldn’t stop a troop of five year olds!”

  The Russian infantrymen stood, mouths agape at the torrent of abuse pouring from the red-faced Cossack leader. “What retarded cretin dropped you at birth? My horse has more brains in his right testicle than exists in the entire high command of this God-forsaken army! What makes you think you’re more capable at stopping the next group of goat-screwing Frenchmen that comes your way? They’ll take one look at you lot and laugh their testicles off! I’ve more chance of growing tits than you have of winning a fight as long as Miloradovich leads this sorry looking pile of shit!”

  Iuganov sucked in a deep lungful of air, ready to continue venting his spleen at the unfortunate aide. “At least I lead true fighters. We’re off to kill Frenchmen. Stay here and continue to show how pathetic you are. Pah!” he spat into the snow and hauled his horse round.

  The aide stood and watched as the Cossacks rode off, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. If he had his way he’d’ve shot the disrespectful peasant, but orders were orders. Cossacks would have to be tolerated for now, as they were useful in hunting French stragglers and deserters. Iuganov’s group wouldn’t be missed, they would be better off without them. He returned to the general, composing a shortened version of the comments that had been hurled at him.

  Casca and his group slithered on the sheet of ice on the road. Beyond a small village the road dropped down a steep incline and there was no way they’d make it down on two feet. There was nothing to it but to sit down and slide. As one, the entire group slid down the long slope on their asses. At the bottom the wreckage of destroyed wagons told their own story.

  Beyond it the land rose gently. Forests stood to both left and right and the land in between was a solid sheet of white. The men and women walked along the rutted road, their hands inside their clothing, the soldiers with muskets on shoulders. None of them said much, they were too concerned with their own suffering. Frostbite had caught many by surprise, and the sight of a man sitting at rest time staring in surprise as a blackened finger came off in their other hand, or toes coming away from dead white feet had become common place. Most of them now wore improvised face masks to protect them from the cutting wind, a knife-edged cruel beast that stung and numbed skin within seconds. If thos
e battling down the road towards Orsha were to get out with undamaged faces, then a mask was essential.

  Silks were used, woolen scarves, cloths of all kinds and other clothing obtained in Moscow. It wrapped round the face and neck and did a reasonable job. So now only eyes were visible. Deep set eyes staring out with a haunted look. They didn’t as much decide that this was the road they were to use, but to automatically go there, like the instinct that told migrating birds which way to go. The snow carried on falling and it was driving into their backs, from the east, pushing them west, as if even the weather was telling them to go leave Russia.

  Casca’s eyes kept a spark in them; he had to keep alert for the others’ sake. The woman alongside him was gamely keeping up but she was suffering badly and she now walked head down, automatically following the back of the soldier in front of her. He watched Begos too, knowing that he was the weaker of the three remaining men in his squad. Bausset seemed indestructible, his bulk plodding along mile after mile, with no sign of slowing down. Fabvier was a surprise; the little man kept on going, despite popular opinion having been that he’d be the first to fall. He must have unsuspected reserves of energy.

  Casca glanced from time to time ahead, but saw nothing different, except in the thickness of the snow. Sometimes he looked back, and got either snow in his eyes, or saw little other than the next group of soldiers making their way towards Orsha.

  * * *

  Iuganov led his men around Krasnoye, not wanting to tangle with Napoleon and the Guard still there, and rode parallel to the road west of the town. They soon got the hang of the retreating groups of people. Gaps were appearing in between them and an occasional straggler provided easy sport. Iuganov sent in three or four men at a time to pick off those isolated, and their corpses were dragged away and stripped before being left to be covered by the pitiless snow. Sometimes their victims surrendered, knowing they had no choice but to give up, and they were stripped too and forced to walk ahead in the freezing snow and ice, naked, until they fell and remained where they were. The Cossacks thought this great fun, and made bets on how long each one would last.

  As they passed each group Iuganov used his telescope to examine the party, but the face masks that were being worn made it hard for him to guess if it contained the scar-faced one or not. He would wait and see. The next group looked small enough for his men to possibly pick one or two off, a pathetically small group.

  Casca glanced to the left and saw the Cossacks riding in the distance. He prodded the man in front of him and pointed as the man turned, surprised. Within moments the entire group were aware they were being shadowed, and a sense of fear settled over them. The Cossacks wouldn’t spare them if they fell into their hands with no regular infantry units close by. “Think they’ll attack us?” Marianka asked, her voice muffled by the mask she was wearing.

  “Dunno. They’re unpredictable. If we keep our eyes open, they won’t sneak up on us and that’s their usual tactic.” Casca stepped out, his musket in his hands, and he turned a full circle. He saw nothing else threatening except the Cossacks to the left. “Only these here, by the looks of things.” He rejoined the group.

  Iuganov studied his movements and slowly lowered his eyepiece. “That one has the build and attitude of the scar-faced one, but he’s got a mask on too. I want to make sure it’s him.”

  His lieutenant picked up a white cloth and affixed it to his spear. “I’ll go parley with them. I shall find out for sure whether he’s with them.”

  “Good idea. Put in their minds we’re only after scar-face if that’s the case, turn them against him. Tell them we’ll let them go if they sacrifice him to us.” Iuganov rubbed his hands in glee.

  “And if they do?”

  “We kill them anyway, dolt!”

  The lieutenant nodded and galloped over towards the group. Casca called out a warning and the 84th stopped and faced the lone Cossack, Colonel Pegot coming over to see what was being offered. The lieutenant stopped thirty feet away and called out in Russian. “You are to surrender the scar-faced one to us and you can go free, that is a promise by my Hetman Iuganov.”

  “Iuganov!” Casca snapped, “that ugly pig.” He turned to Begos. “The same ones that nearly got you back at Smolensk!”

  Captain Wolinski translated to Colonel Pegot. Pegot looked at Casca. “Caporal, why would they want you?”

  “I killed some of his men in a fight early in the campaign, and two more before Smolensk when I rescued Begos here. He wants to get even.”

  Pegot shook his head. “I will never turn any of my men over to these barbarians. Tell him,” he said to the Polish staff officer, “that the answer is no, and that if any of his men come within musket range again my men have permission to shoot them down like the dogs they are.”

  The Cossack’s face darkened in anger and he swung round and galloped back to Iuganov.

  “Well?” Iuganov was bursting to know.

  “He is there,” the lieutenant said, “and they called us dogs and they would shoot us if we got close to them.”

  “Dogs?” Iuganov’s beard bristled with outrage. “Dogs? Wolves, yes. Dogs, no! We will show them. Every one of those pigs will die here in Russia by our hands!”

  “And they have some women with them, too.”

  “So? You can all take your turns with them before we slit their stupid throats.” Iuganov took up a course parallel to the road, keeping level with the group as they once more made their way to Orsha. “Tonight, tonight we attack.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Night had come and the fires of the group flickered as the wind pulled at the flames. Dead wood had been collected and spaces cleared for the fires to blaze up without being extinguished by the melting snow. Colonel Pegot had been fortunate in spying the next group ahead and had hailed them just as the light began fading. It was another unit in the 13th Division and they agreed to join forces for safety.

  The greater numbers would help to keep the wolves away, at least for another night. Casca stared out into the darkness. Iuganov and his dogs would have to wait just a little longer for their sport. Reports were coming in of savagery on the road and the soldiers made sure they kept a good watch that night, not wanting to be taken by surprise by the Cossacks. The Eternal Mercenary cradled his musket, digging his hands deeper into his gloves, wanting his turn at sentry duty to finish as soon as possible. The cold seeped into every fiber of his body, aching, burning. It was a long agonizing night, and when dawn broke, they found six of their number had frozen to death, their bodies lying serenely where they’d laid down the previous evening.

  They were left where they’d died, there was no point in doing anything about them as they were hard and frozen and the ground was too hard to dig. The snow would cover them in a few hours. They marched west the rest of the day, the Cossacks a distant menace, and towards evening reached Orsha, where French soldiers were much in evidence. Casca was relieved to have made it as the Cossack shadows had become more and more threatening the further they went. They had come to within two hundred yards of the group, taunting them, but the French paid no attention to their insults and carried on the weary trudge through the crunchy snow.

  Orsha wasn’t big enough to billet the entire army, and as Napoleon was coming down the road to take up the prime accommodation, the soldiers of the IV Corps were posted to the north-east of the town in fields. The camp was hastily thrown up and rations doled out which cheered the men. Pots were put on fires and snow thrown in to make water for drinking and cleaning.

  Casca sat on a tree trunk and ate his stew slowly, smacking his lips over the thick broth. Good winter food! Marianka ate her ration next to him, and a few men of the 13th Division sat with them. Bausset was avoiding Casca but Fabvier and Begos sat close by. Marianka shuddered every time the drooling Fabvier came close but she didn’t mind the young Begos. Casca in fact thought she’d taken a fancy to him, but maybe that was just jealousy. He couldn’t see her bedding the boy; it was far too
cold. Maybe when they got out of this Norse Hell the two might strike up a friendship? It would be a perfect excuse for Casca to leave her.

  “How long are we going to stay here?” Marianka asked.

  “Not long. We’ll wait for Davout and Ney to catch up, then we’ll be off.” Casca looked back down the distant road to the east, but the gently falling snow hid much of what might have been seen. “Napoleon’s escorting Davout a little way out, so the rumors go; seems the I Corps got through like us.”

  “And Ney?”

  Casca paused. “Ney will have to do it alone.” There was silence. The abandonment of Krasnoye to the Russians meant Ney was totally trapped with the 8,000 men he had left. They were on their own against the Russian armies and it was highly unlikely they’d ever see any of those men again.

  The night was long, cold and full of tension; they waited for news of the trapped Ney; or waited for an attack from the closing Russians or even a raid by the hated Cossacks, but none came. Casca huddled into Marianka and lay there, his eyes staring into nothing. He saw plenty; the hungry, cold and trapped French and Italian troops, closed in by enemies on all sides. He saw the desperate, staring faces of men hundreds of miles from home and their loved ones. He saw the fear. And what he also saw was that Orsha was just the beginning of the remaining journey for the rest of them. Would they, too, be trapped like Ney? He also caught the distant figure of Wolinski staring his way; the Pole’s attitude unsettled him. It was as though he wanted Marianka, like a man in the desert wanted water. He was becoming insistent Marianka came under his protection. Casca believed he’d soon have to hold the Pole off at gunpoint.

  Some time before dawn he got up, unable to settle. His eyes were sore, the stubble on his face rasped as he put his mask over it, and he stepped away from the slumbering, breath-clouded camp out towards the outer guards, standing alert and cold, shaking and shivering. “How is it?” Casca asked the first man, an Italian, in his own language.